[Completed]
An alchemist who poisoned himself, an assassin who stabbed his own heart, an arsonist who burned herself, and a hero who couldn't defeat his inner monster.
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( A re-enact of Hades...
•❅─────────✧❅✦❅✧─────────❅• 47 - The Queen's Gambit
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WARNING: Reminder that from this chapter until the end of the story, the plot will involve darker topics such as murder, torture, and death. Viewer discretion is advised.
The Yuletide fourth's sky was vacant of stars, stygian, it juxtaposed against ivory ground, and quicksilver streams. Chilling and crisp, the holy night was idyllic when the sun had vanished. Often, people forgot the heathens history of Yule, the darkness that reigned long before twisted to joyous jingles with overly romanticized holiday. Solstice nighttime was longer than daylight, identic of the devils and the wicked.
Nyx herself graced the night with the essence of security, darkness had become a host for star-crossed lovers to commit crimes over scandalous kisses, their rapacious touch, and giggles under the moonlit. The night also concealed horror shrieks, bloodshed, and revenge. Because in the dark, everything was hidden, unknown and secretive.
Unlike the rest of Ireland, a village on the Northern seashore did not forget the terror that lurked behind the crawling night of Yule.
The seashore bungalows were the witnesses of massive witch trials centuries ago. No wonder, tale of lurking beasts in the nearby woods didn't dissipate through generations. It was told over and over to put children to bed, or witches would catch them and rip their hearts from their flesh as a sacrifice to the night—or at least that was what the muggle babbled about magical beings.
Tales aside, the forest remained untouched until this day.
The village's main clock rang three times in the main square, slicing the silent night air. Witching hour had arrived, like a cue, a rhythm of wooden doors and pub windows shut was heard, they kicked out the wasted man to the streets, exposing them to the cold night with cheap tankard clasped to their hands. Seagulls were asleep on mangrove branches as ravens soared and took over for the night.
Silence.
Perhaps, the tale was partly correct. Devil lived and empowered during the night. But the devil did not have a grotesque face and deformed teeth, nor had the razor-sharp claws and blackened rotting skin. No, they took the form of beauty; of a chiseled jaw, gleaming apricot skin, rosy lips, and charming features of a french boy, that was Evan Rosier.
"When did she arrive?" his voice was as sharp as the shiny dagger directed to the lady's neck. Her auburn hair was thick of oil and sweats as the skull-masked devil questioned her, her whimper resonated fear as her eyes caught the moonbeam, mirroring fright and hopeless tears. She stared at the cadaver, laid still before her. Her son. Mouth gaped, his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. He didn't give up with no retaliation, but his initiative ignited Thanatos's fury. He challenged the God of death, and his soul was raked out of his body with three firm stabs on the chest. If that wasn't macabre, the devil had cracked and slammed the Irish boy's skull to the chipped paint wall beforehand. Red stained his shirt, spewing out of his system as Rosier stepped above his body. Metal and sanguine roamed the air before it puddled the wooden floor.
