Chapter 41:The Fall of Eden
The frightened kid shuddered under her gaze, his small frame racked with hiccups that echoed like stifled sobs in the heavy air. She could tell he was truly terrified, his wide eyes darting as if expecting the shadows to lunge at him again. On the verge of tears, he clung to composure with a desperate grip . Yet he held on, his little chest heaving with the effort.
Her sight wavered to the silently growling undead impaled by her blade-a dark steel katana that gleamed dully in the fading light, its edge buried deep in the creature's chest. The thing's jaw worked soundlessly, teeth gnashing at nothing, milky eyes fixed on some distant hunger. Then her gaze snapped back to the kid. He was comforting a figure of similar stature but smaller-a little girl, probably his sister. Her auburn hair caught the dim glow from the moonlight and her honey eyes gleamed with an unnatural green hue, like embers flickering under frost. Tiffany... The name rang in her head unbidden, sharp as a blade's whistle, pulling at threads she didn't recognize.
Vivid images flooded in then-of someone else with the same auburn hair, but older, almost her own age, her face etched with a cold indifference that bordered on disdain. It rushed into her mind like a fever dream, insistent and intimate, as if she'd seen her before, as if they knew each other in some buried way. No. She must be going mad. There was an apocalypse unraveling around them, the air thick with the rot of the dark mist that twisted the living into monsters. She had to curb it, shove it down like a blade into a scabbard. Yet deep within, something battled her consciousness, drowning her own memories in a tide of new, chaotic ones that clawed for purchase. She gritted her teeth, the taste of blood faint on her tongue from where she'd bitten her cheek earlier.
Then her eyes flew back to the frightened children. Yes-she had to save them. Mental struggle or not, duty burned hotter than confusion. With her head still spinning, a whirl of half-formed visions and echoes, she reached out to them. She watched the little lad flinch at first, but before that she kicked the body of their dead mother aside, she'd understood his earlier attempt to shield his sister. And that growling undead she'd severed and kicked away-she'd guessed it was their father, twisted beyond recognition by the spreading dark mist that hung like a shroud over the streets. She had to evacuate them before the mist swallowed the entirety of this dead city, turning its veins black and its screams eternal.
Eyes brimming with tears and a fragile elation at the spark of connection, she extended her hand. But the moment their fingers connected, her world swirled into a vortex of color and shadow, a nauseating pull that yanked the ground from under her feet. The next instant, she opened her eyes to stare directly at her own body, still holding hands with... herself. The face mirrored her confusion, brows furrowed under the helmet's shadow, lips parted in silent shock. What is happening? Before she could grasp the thought, her mind was invaded by a foreign set of memories, bright and achingly ordinary, crashing against her own like waves on jagged rock.
She had a dad and a mom-a sister named Ruby. A father who spun bedtime stories of knights and hidden realms, his voice warm as hearthfire on winter nights. A mom who cooked the best porridge in the world, thick with honey and cinnamon, the steam curling up like whispered secrets. No. She never had those memories. Those weren't hers-they couldn't be. They slithered through her thoughts, vivid and insistent, painting a life of quiet domesticity that clashed with the steel and blood she knew. Then came the memory of staring at the night sky, no visible stars pricking the velvet black, a sky she'd wanted to show to Ruby, to point out the faint glow of a comet's tail. This was familiar-she had seen it before, in fragments that teased at the edges of her awareness.
"Alwyn..." A motherly voice beckoned from across a glassy plain, soft and laced with longing, rippling the air like heat over embers. Now she was certain-she'd glimpsed this place before, during one of her training sessions, when exhaustion had blurred the line between waking and trance. Was this boy... Alwyn? She gazed at her own body, armored and unyielding, and realized with a jolt: Alwyn was the one in her body right now. They'd switched, souls tangled in some cruel twist of the mist's curse, or perhaps something older, something woven into the fabric of this unraveling world.
No, no-she had to return to her body. She had to. Panic clawed up her throat, hot and metallic. The glassy plain stretched endless, reflecting distorted versions of herself-fragmented, flickering like candle flames in wind.
Then she felt the cold touch of a kid on her back, small fingers pressing through the unfamiliar armor, grounding her in the chill of reality. Is that Tiffany? No-no, it wasn't. Her mind reeled under assault from memories of an older, indifferent girl-this was Ruby. Yes, she was. The certainty settled like lead, heavy and unshakeable.
From a door that materialized in the haze appeared a man, his hair pasty white as fresh-fallen snow, silver eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light, his pale skin stretched taut over features so finely wrought they seemed carved from marble by divine hands-like some holy saint whose beauty transcended mortal flaws, ethereal and untouchable. Who was that? The question hung, unanswered, as a voice tore through the air, jolting her from the reverie.
"Lady Auria... we have to evacuate. We barely have time left." The voice sounded laced with urgency, a thread of desperation woven through its timbre.
She recognized it instantly-Lysander's, her steadfast companion, the one who'd stood with her through sieges and shadows. But would she return to her body? Wait-she was already in it. She closed her gauntleted hand, the leather creaking under her grip, and relief washed in like cool rain on fevered skin. She gazed back at Lysander; she no longer saw the white-haired, pale-skinned vision from moments before, but the broad, bulky form she knew-dark hair tousled under his helm, shoulders squared against the world's weight. That must have been her brain playing tricks, a hallucination born of the switch's aftershocks. But not the fact that she'd just witnessed the life of a kid-that was real, etched into her now like a scar.
Oh, the lad. She turned to see him trembling, his eyes bloodshot and glassy, the whites veined with burst capillaries from unshed tears. He was shaken to his core; she needed no one to tell her. He must have witnessed her memories too-the clash of swords in moonlit courtyards, the weight of a knight's oath, the isolation of command amid ranks of armored figures murmuring about the Guardian Supreme. It would have been a shock to a kid who'd just seen his mother devoured by his own loving father, the man who'd once chased him through sun-dappled gardens now reduced to a snarling husk.
The idea wrenched at her gut, a twist of empathy sharp as any wound, for she'd relived those memories like they were hers-the metallic tang of blood in her mouth, the wet rip of flesh under teeth.. But they had to scramble for it now, no time for unraveling. She scooped the lad up; he was too shaken to walk, his limbs limp as a rag doll's, weightless in her arms despite the armor she wore. Then she handed over the silent girl to Lysander, who took her gently onto his arms, cradling her like fragile glass amid the chaos. The girl's head lolled against his chest, her green-tinged eyes half-lidded, lost in whatever fog the mist had spun around her mind.
In that suspended moment, the undead growls intensified, a rising chorus from the fog-shrouded alleys beyond the ruined home. It started as a low rumble, like distant thunder rolling in from the sea, but swelled into a guttural symphony-rasping breaths mingled with the wet snap of jaws, echoes bouncing off crumbling walls until the air vibrated with their hunger. Shadows stirred at the edges of the street, silhouettes lurching into view: twisted forms with limbs askew, skin sloughing like wet paper, eyes glowing with the mist's sickly luminescence. They shambled closer, drawn by the scent of the living, their moans weaving into a cacophony that clawed at the nerves. And then their horse neighed-a sharp, piercing cry that cut through the din like a clarion call, ears flattening as it stamped the cobblestones, muscles quivering under its glossy black coat. The sound was a warning, raw and primal, urging them to flee before the pack closed in.
She straddled herself upon her ride, the saddle leather creaking under her weight, the lad placed securely before her, his small body pressed against the curve of her armored torso for stability. With a soft kick to the flanks, the horse swung into motion, hooves striking sparks on the stone, not without another urgent neigh that rippled through the mist. She looked back; Lysander was following close behind, his own mount surging forward, the girl bundled safe in the crook of his arm.
The wind danced through her red hair as they rode, parting the crimson strands with a gentle luster that caught the dying light like threads of flame. The sun shone brightly overhead, a merciless orb mocking the ruin below, casting long shadows that twisted like accusing fingers across the city. Their horses were beacons of hope in the shattered expanse and wreckage, muscles rippling with each powerful stride, manes whipping like banners in the gale of their passage.
They cascaded through the wreckage in a blur of controlled fury, hooves thundering over debris that crunched like brittle bones underfoot. Houses burned with a voracious hunger, flames licking up timber frames that sagged and groaned before collapsing in showers of embers, the heat a blistering wave that singed the air and turned distant screams into fleeting echoes. Fallen structures loomed like the husks of giants, rooftops caved in on themselves, exposing gutted interiors where furniture lay splintered and personal relics-charred books, overturned cradles... Dead, mangled bodies littered the path, some half-buried in rubble, limbs akimbo in poses of final desperation; others sprawled in the gutters, faces frozen in rictus grins or slack-jawed horror, blood congealing in dark pools that reflected the firelight like spilled ink. The mist clung low, tendrils curling around ankles and wheel ruts, carrying the stench of decay-sweet and metallic, like overripe fruit mingled with rust. One corpse, a woman's perhaps, clutched a severed arm that might have been her husband's, fingers intertwined even in death; another, a Knight by his dented breastplate, stared skyward with eyes pecked clean by opportunistic crows that scattered in raucous protest at the horses' approach. The city pulsed with absence, every corner a testament to the mist's relentless creep, turning Eden from a thriving heartland into a ghost of what it was, its pulse stilled under layers of ash and silence.
Their only choice was evacuating west, perhaps to Avalon, . Maybe Knightlord Vayne would help...She prayed to whatever gods still listened, a silent plea woven into the rhythm of the gallop. But first... she turned to Lysander mid-stride, their eyes meeting over the boy's tousled head. He gave an affirmative nod, a subtle tilt that spoke volumes in their shared lexicon of survival-a signal that meant they all had been assembled at the Ethereal Church of the God of Light, the Lord of Radiance. That was their destination, a sanctuary amid the storm, its spires piercing the haze like fingers raised in defiance.
The ethereal light from the burning sun felt otherworldly as it shone through the little stained glass dome on the roof, fracturing into a mosaic of gold and azure that danced across the vaulted nave like living fireflies. From Alwyn's perspective, huddled there on the front pew, the cathedral wasn't the looming shadow of bedtime tales-the dark crypts and whispering ghosts his father had spun to make him brave. No, this place glowed, radiant and alive, as if the very stones breathed with captured sunlight. The walls rose in graceful arches of pale marble veined with quartz that caught the beams and scattered them in prisms, turning the air into a haze of warm honey. High above, ribbed vaults curved like the ribs of some benevolent giant, cradling frescoes of luminous figures-saints with halos that shimmered like dew-kissed petals, their eyes kind and knowing, painted in hues of dawn pink and seafoam green. The floor beneath his feet was a checkerboard of polished travertine, cool and smooth, etched with subtle runes that pulsed faintly when the light hit just right, like veins under skin. Incense lingered from some earlier rite, a soft curl of smoke scented with myrrh and citrus, wrapping around the pews like a comforting shawl. And the altar ahead, elevated on steps worn smooth by generations of knees, held a simple reliquary of crystal that refracted the dome's glow into rainbows, making the whole space feel less like a building and more like the inside of a sun-warmed shell, protective and infinite.
He clasped his sister's hand tight, their palms slick with the residue of fear-sweat and the faint grime of the streets they'd fled. He felt smugger, more anchored, the closer they sat on that front pew, the wood worn to a satin finish under countless hands seeking solace. He couldn't make sense of the situation-couldn't, but he knew somehow that things weren't normal, that the world had tilted on its axis and left him dangling from the edge. His dad eating his mom... the sight replayed in jagged flashes: the wet tear of flesh, the gurgle that bubbled from her throat like spilling soup, her eyes-wide and pleading-locking on his just before the red-haired knight had shielded him. And the people torn open-he'd seen them through the gaps in the knight's armor, even as her hands pressed over his eyes; bodies splayed like gutted fish, innards steaming in the chill air, just like Momma's. Tears welled up in his eyes now, hot pricks that he stifled with a swallow that tasted of bile. He wouldn't... he wouldn't cry before Ruby. He was the big brother; he had to be the strong one, even if his heart hammered like a trapped bird against his ribs.
He caressed her head, fingers threading through her soft auburn curls-a bid to hide his shaking hands, to steady himself as much as her. He was scared, bone-deep, the kind of fear that hollowed out your insides and left echoes. He wished this was all a dream, one he'd wake from to the familiar clatter of Momma's ladle against the pot, the rich scent of her sweet milk porridge filling the kitchen, steam rising in lazy spirals as Dad tended the garden out back, humming off-key tunes while pruning the roses that bloomed fat and crimson. But it wasn't. It wasn't. The knight's horse still echoed in his ears, the jolt of the ride a bruise blooming across his thighs.
Yet in the midst of that despair, his head swam with places and people he hadn't known-memories intruding like uninvited guests, slipping past his defenses. Memories of being a knight, a sword heavy and sure in his hands, the pommel warm from his grip as it sang through the air in moonlit courtyards. Amidst other knights, their armor clinking in rhythmic solidarity, mutterings about being the Guardian Supreme-he was hallowed as one, a title that tasted of awe and isolation, like standing alone on a cliff's edge while the sea roared approval below. And the last time he'd been in the body of Knight Auria-were those her memories? Did she know about the white-haired man, reoccurring in his visions like a specter from a half-remembered fable, his silver eyes piercing with promises of futures Alwyn couldn't grasp?
Who would he one day become? The thought slithered in, cold and insistent-someone else, forever away from Ruby, from the porridge-scented mornings and garden games. No... no, he didn't want that. He didn't want to lose Rubym.. The tears welled more fiercely now, his body trembling with the effort to contain them, a quiver that started in his fingertips and radiated outward like ripples in a pond.
It seemed Ruby noticed; for she looked at him straight in the eyes, her amber gaze locking onto his with that unblinking trust only siblings could muster. In that moment, she looked like Tiffany-the older girl from the memories, with a gaze that held indifference like a shield, cool and appraising. But the similarity shattered under scrutiny; Tiffany's eyes had been sharper, edged with a world-weariness that Alwyn's borrowed glimpses could only echo faintly. No-she was Ruby. His sister. Not anyone else, not some strange older girl haunting the corners of his mind. She was his Ruby, small and fierce, with freckles like scattered cinnamon across her nose, the one who'd shared secrets under the quilt on stormy nights.
Her voice jolted him out of his revierie, soft as a sigh but threaded with the weight of the unsaid. "Alwyn... are you okay? Where is Momma...?" She muttered it, her eyes gazing at him hopefully, wide and searching, as if his words could stitch the world back together.
He clutched his hands tighter in his lap, nails digging crescents into his palms to anchor the lie he was about to spin. Forcing a smile across his facade took everything-the corners of his mouth tugged upward in a parody of cheer, but it felt brittle, like cracking ice. Tears threatened to spill, blurring the radiant patterns on the floor into watery halos. "They've gone to a better place, Ruby..." he said, gazing at her steadily, his voice a threadbare whisper as he caressed her head again, fingers lingering on the silk of her hair. "We are going to see them soon..." He added it like a promise, watching a heartening smile spread across her face, tentative at first, then blooming full, her belief in him a fragile gift he didn't deserve. I'm sorry, Ruby. I'm really sorry. The apology echoed internally, a silent keen that twisted in his chest. Lies to protect her-it was all he had left, a shield as thin as the cathedral's light.
Then the voice of Auria pierced the air, reverberating across the cathedral, laden with the gravity of only seven figures gathered in the vast space. Her tone was steel wrapped in velvet, commanding yet laced with the exhaustion of battles fought
"I shall begin the Procession..."