They Who Slaughtered Hope 🌈| Slow Updates/Editing

Chapter 00: Prologue

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𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚡

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𝘚𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 16𝘵𝘩, 𝘔𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘺

Lennox's mother was leaving. Again.

Each time, he wished that it would be her last excursion. That she wouldn't come back. Each time, he was left disappointed.

"Lennox, dear," his mother's clipped voice called out from the entrance of the flower shop. Autumn's afternoon sunlight poured through the glass door, casting her figure in a featureless silhouette. "Run the shop for a bit. I have some friends to meet, I'll be back before dinner."

He sighed as his calm, empty eyes landed on a neglected pot. Its flaking glaze was coated in dust, and its many cracks allowed dry soil to spill through. Once, it hosted a fine flower bush. Now, it had long since dried up, leaving nothing but a dead stick in its wake. It was among the many messes he cleaned up whenever his mother condemned him to their botanical graveyard. Lennox was stuck at the shop, while she was out having dalliances with others who, too, taunted fate.

"Fine, Mother." Not like he had a choice.

Emily Kendrick's heels clicked and clacked against the tiled floor. She turned to face her eldest son, raising an eyebrow at his derisive tone. "Lennox, can you help me fasten this necklace? I don't want to damage my nails by messing with the small clasp," she said stiffly, reluctant to admit she needed help from her son.

Without a word, he approached to complete her request, stepping back when he finished. Deft on his feet, the echoes of his brutal dance lessons lingered from when the family was still a part of high society. When Lennox was forced to play 'the perfect son'.

His mother snatched back his attention. "How do I look?" She pirouetted in the shop's foyer, her silver-plated jewellery swinging about. The shine contrasted with the humble feel of the shop's interior, the wallpaper drab and unappealing in comparison.

"You look quite dapper, Mum," Lennox murmured, saying exactly what was expected of him. His mother only strutted away into the madness outside, offering him nothing more—as if she were dying to get away from it all. The door closed and a bell chimed, signalling her departure.

In mid-conflict London, social gatherings were few and far between. The war zone was expanding to every corner of the British Isles, leaving no place untouched by violence. Bomb craters burrowed into the road like freshly dug graves, and no one dared to cross streets at night lest they be ransacked of their belongings. His mother was one of the few remaining socialites, leaving it to her eldest son to manage her family's run-down shop while she ran around playing the 'perfect' wife and partygoer. In London, one either had to be a good liar or have connections to survive. His mother was one with the latter. This was her reality, and Lennox and his family had made it their own.

They knew how to avoid the Syndicate, and they were already safeguarded from the Veritas. His mother was, by an extremely small margin, smart enough not to get herself killed. If she wore the right colours, she would live to see another day.

With his head propped up by his arm, Lennox looked around the shop. The once pristine wooden shelves were littered with petals and empty pots. The shop's seed display was dwindling both in quality and quantity. Grimy windows let in what little light they could. Outside, a tarnished little greenhouse could be seen from far away, as only crumbling commercial buildings lay beyond it. Nothing was out of the ordinary.