[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...
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WARNING: This chapter will contain graphic description and gore, readers discretion is advised. Also, this is a 10k words chapter, I'm sorry I didn't know how.💀
ONE: How to trick the God.
September is a fickle month. A fine seamstress between monsoon cycle, where the northern and southern hemispheres would trade the summer heat with cold air. Rosier often frowned upon this, for he loathed cold, even more to the fact knowing the said month marked the amount of time he revolved around the solar system. Often, the french boy would wrap his skin with his deceased father's fur cloak, draping it around his shoulders. The lion's mane fur would poke his nose with itchy sensation, while the red, velvety material had always reminded him of his mother's engulf—at least, that was what he chose to believe. In days he would catch a cold after bathe himself under the rain recklessly, the boy would snuggle underneath it. Magically, the warmth would soothe his fever ( Prometheus wondered how, until this day ). No matter how it reeked of betrayal and sauvage or his father's blood, Evan chose the said cloak to remain with him in every step.
Ironically, the closest taste of familial comfort he possessed was also the memoir of the day he had lost his forever safety net. He stained the said cloak with muggles' blood as an act of vengeance and his very own flag of war. A bonfire to fuel the fury nested in his chest, that if Muggles dared to stain the cloak with a wizard's blood, it was a suitable justification for him to stain it with muggles' blood, too.
Now, the seventeen year old Evan Rosier harbored darkness in his soul. He was polished purposely to find joy in killing, knitting wails, and tears together like Beethoven's orchestric piece. But, he was never born with a bad heart. Long ago, there was once the sweet-tooth kid who would rather play under the sun than listened to Prometheus's moral philosophy.
"Loyalty held sacredness, a virtue." the man explained to his nephew while glancing through their family album. A cup of tea was settled on his hand that afternoon as the french boy before him inhaled deeply over the scent of lemon in his tea—fascinated by it. He smiled. "We ought to be careful, Junior. People are often fickle, vindictive, they could drive us away from morals, that is why we need moral philosophy—you could believe in anything, any god, angels, demons, or not believe in them at all, you will have the liberty for things as such, it's personal."
"There are people who believed in devil?" queried the heir, his hazel eyes shot up in surprise. "Aren't they . . . evil?"
