As he pressed forward, Remy caught sight of the boy—the very person who had accused him. The boy sat safely behind the enforcers, untouched. Their eyes met, and Remy felt a sharp, stabbing throb in his chest.
"Climb, you f*cking traitor."
He wanted to scream it. To spit the words into the night and burn the name behind them.
But his body wouldn't listen. His mouth wouldn't open. He remained trapped in silence; every breath borrowed from a will not his own.
They marched through the darkness, each step heavier than the last. The cold of night gnawed at their bones, but they didn't freeze — not thanks to mercy, but because of the same cursed work clothes stitched to trap heat, to shield them from the opium mines' searing winds. Clothes designed to keep a man alive just long enough to finish his shift.
They walked. And walked. Even beasts were allowed to rest, but not them. They had no freedom — only motion.
And then, at last, a building emerged from the horizon.
Something grand.
To men born in the filth and fumes of Sethfar's slums, it was like gazing upon the heavens in a dream, too clean to be real.
Too whole.
Streetlamps flanked a paved path that led toward a sprawling mansion. Flowers bloomed unnaturally in perfect rows. On the other row, they were tall and purple, and the next were low beds, short and violet.
At the edges, Crimson Roses stretched as far as the eye could see; they were an ocean of blood.
A gate of blackened steel, elegant with a curving of spiralling roses, parted without command as the enforcers on horseback approached.
Beyond it, a fountain shimmered with glowing vines — fruits of light pulsing faintly in the night air. Silver-winged moths fluttered over their basin, drawn to the gleam like ghosts to warmth.
"Saint of Rose!" the commander called. "We've caught the thieves."
The mansion's massive oak doors creaked open, revealing a grotesque silhouette: Saint Rosaline. No longer seated on his wheeled throne, he waddled forward on swollen legs.
He stepped forward, a man so corpulent it seemed unnatural, his bloated form quivering beneath silken robes dyed the colour of crushed orchids. Despite the delicate name, there was nothing of a sweet rose.
His perfumed sleeves fluttered like wilted petals, but his eyes gleamed with disdain and unchecked power.
"What the hell, I knew he was big, but this… this is something else," Remy thought.
And he was right to think so, the man had seemingly gained a few kg's overnight.
"Why meet them at the door, my lord?" The commander took a deep bow, his gaze shifting in and out.
"We could've brought them in."
"What? Bring these vermin into my abode?" The Saint scoffed. "True, this isn't my main estate, but still…" he paused, glaring up at them, "Disgusting!"
He stepped closer.
His jaundiced eyes scanned the prisoners until they landed on Remy, and for a moment, his own smugness cracked. Though Remy's body remained bound by the seal, his gaze burned with raw, unfiltered hatred.
Rosaline twitched and flinched.
"Such vile creatures," he spat, recovering. "I gave them a chance, and they steal from me?"
It was a lie.
Everyone knew it, even the enforcers.
But the lies in Sethfar didn't need to be believed. They only needed to be spoken to by someone with power.
Remy's fists trembled—internally.
His thoughts screamed for vengeance. "These f*cken bastards how shameless. Tear out their tongues and feed them to the pigs."
But no matter how much he willed it so, his body didn't listen. The seal kept him chained, silent, still.
"I am merciful, man, as everyone makes mistakes, I will give you a chance," the saint continued, his voice dripping with mockery.
"Cerberus, remind me again what the cost of thievery is? " He paused, then gave the commander a knowing look.
"Off with their hands, my lord." The commander responded hastily, his yellow teeth flashing briefly.
"Ohhh, my would you imagine that."
"I will offer you a choice. Work for me as slaves for one month, and your crimes will be forgiven. I will even let you keep the money that you stole. Isn't that… generous?"
His gaze lingered on Louis in a way that made Remy's stomach turn. Drool clung to the corners of his mouth.
"Yes… be grateful, you worthless low lives. Isn't the Saint merciful?"
As if on command, the prisoners began clapping. Smiling. Their bodies moved against their will. The seal made puppets of them all.
"So," Saint Rosaline declared, licking his lips, "what will it be? Hands off… or one measly month of servitude?"
No answers.
Just silence.
No one would respond.
Neither option offered salvation. Both paths led to ruin.
"Alright then… How about you sleep on it?" the Saint said at last, giving a silent nod to his enforcers.
The guards stepped forward, their shadows stretching across the cold stone floor. They grabbed the prisoners by their arms — not roughly, just firmly.
They led them down.
This dungeon was a place long forgotten. The walls were lined with age and rot, and a whiff of excrement burned at Remy's nose as he entered.
The air choked with mildew and something worse, an old and dry and dead scent.
Flickering wooden torches provided the only light. Remy and the others descended into the gloom; a few rats darted past their feet, squealing.
They passed cell after cell. Some were empty. Others held shapes barely human—gaunt arms, twisted legs, shadowy forms slumped in corners.
"Huuu..huuuu…huuuu"
There was a whimper in one of the cells they passed.
"What on earth is going on here?" Remy caught a glimpse of a woman in one of the cells. She looked bloodied, bitten; some of her hair was on the floor, her face unrecognisable.
"The don't even have mercy on women!" and this is when Remy began to understand just what kind of people the saints were.
"They are devils!"
The deeper they went, the colder it became.
At the end of the corridor stood a violet door wrapped in thick chains. Five rusted locks clung to the metal, and a strange parchment, red and yellow, had been stuck across its surface. On either side of it stood two men clad in white and blue.
Temple Knights.
"Get in," one of the guards barked.
The prisoners were shoved into cells opposite the door. Remy's group was locked in together. At the far corner of their cell, a skeletal corpse rested against the wall. Its jaw opened wide, frozen mid-scream.
Remy flinched. Had he not been so numb, he might have jumped.
They huddled in a corner, silent. And then — they heard it.
Knock.
Knock.