𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐒

.ೃ࿐ˢᵃᵈˡʸ, ʸᵒᵘ ˡⁱᵏᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵃᶜᵗ ⁱⁿᵈᵉˢᵗʳᵘᶜᵗⁱᵇˡᵉ ʷʰᵉⁿ ʸᵒᵘ'ʳᵉ ⁿᵒᵗ.

Would she seize in the futile indictments of fellows entrenched from the springs of covetousness or go on to heed his precious cravings of power? —A Palace of Ulric labyrinths, Elvira Crest.

|Cazar— March 16, 7426|

|Neissoinayd|

HEELS CLICKED ominously against the innards of the fair mansion, the gushing key of her gown roping in the nature that aided quash the shaking trees that heralded her. Moonlight fell comfortably against her discordant eyes, blazing for acclaim as her figure moved in key with the smothering milieu that was made a euphony by her ears.

Her dark and coiled hair reached her upper back, tickling the skin her silk dress uncovered in fashioned philandering. The fragrance of freshly picked daisies and cut strawberries lagged after her like a homeless puppy—nonetheless, the slaying aroma that droned the setting was anything but a soft sweetener.

Lime lapsed against the dams, the ground a mellowing fabric that made her bare feet jealous from lack of acquaintance. As Séraph persisted, the burden of her dagger’s holder timidly snatched against the material of her skirt, reminding her of the sinful task she was to accomplish.

A guard in waiting activated at her appearance, waving her to a band of crystal doors that Séraph, from her numerous studies, handily recognised as Minister Solomon Cazar's room.

Treacherous thoughts flickered as the doors were tugged open to reveal a spacious room that was much more miserable than the rest of the fort. There was a theme of salem and grey on the walls and commodities that made up the room. Dull and pattern stained windows yanked an over-used emblem of a midnight march into the area, phoning up a meter of undesirable melancholy.

A King-sized bed sat snug in the red corner, hailing for Séraph as the shape of a small body pressed under the sheets. Séraph's hands grazed her concealed weapon as she smoothed down her dress. A batch of lengthy hair for a brisk moment bathed out of the covers, unearthing their youthful dark colours before the person sat sank lower as acknowledgement to her entrance.

"Are you Celine?" The question rang from the other side of the space, prompting her to stare at a man who sat on a seldom, hovering, polished steel chair, clouded cigar smoke coiling around him like he was stationed at the lid of a peak.

Another man sat polar to him, long silver robes floating behind him with a spot of gold extending from the pelt of fur that hung short by the nape of his neck, browsing at the side of his face once he also veered around to grab a glimpse at the newcomer. He didn't look as pleased as Solomon to see her.

"I am," Séraph answered, lowering herself in a short and formal courtesy that was as empty as the pumping organ holding itself in the left of her chest. The broad doors behind them let out an underscored groan as the guard let them shut with one final salute.

Séraph caught Solomon Cazar's eyes first.

A hazel watch snagged Séraph's own, regard that could be blundered for all the wealth in the worlds, not just fortune in sheets of currencies but also one of a bucolic homage. A minister's extroversion could invariably find a liking in all.

But not Séraph—Solomon made her repulsed.

A sob erupted from the other side of the room where Solomon's stratum embraced most of the expanse—a young woman's pleadingly stare tore into Séraph, like a child who was left to perish by her parents, she cried. Snot and tears scarred ruddy down the pale shroud of her face as she wept incoherent begs. Dark bangs were her only source of solace as they caressed her for consolation. She shuffled tighter to the bed bannister, finally allowing Séraph to examine the polished chains and glazed cuff that influenced her pain and limited movements. A fresh doxy every starting month, Franklin's words from the club rang pristine in her ears with gurgling acrimony, though most of them are forced. They're basically used slaves with a ministry label holding the last bit of their importance in place.

"Please help me! I’ll pay you! Anything you want!please!" Her begs were bitter-sweet with desperation and curtailing confidence. Turning away from the woman, Franklin's warning splashed continually in Séraph's mind in the form of venom, Life is not fair. Trying to make unfair things fair will only lead to more unfairness. Séraph had never seen anyone's smile go dark and grizzly with wickedness until his, bitches who don't know their place, Alchemy, fit with nasty karma as perfect as a sun and moon in an eclipse.

"Please!"

An insensitive chuckle flared from Solomon as he inspected the crying girl. "I never get bored of how shoddy she looks." Neither of his guests looked entertained by his words. He let out a thoughtful hum, “Trust Ignatius to always take such care with their gifts.” The other man, a man that Séraph now was recognizing as the Ballerini duke, grabbed Séraph's steady gaze before he rose into a stand.

"As entertaining as this was, I have a quarter meeting to attended," he spoke, "One that I hope to see you make the right decisions in, Cazar." His eyes flickered to the tied-up girl that flared at his announcement before his eyes stationed themselves on Séraph.

"It was a pleasure, miss?" he started with a minor bow, waiting for the woman to finish the introduction herself.

"Celine Pyxis," Séraph responded, lowering her head a hair out of involuntary regard. Franklin's surname caused the duke to slightly freeze in his space, his eyes flying back to Solomon who looked more than amused at his guest's revelation.

"I..Franklin Pyxis?" The duke inquired almost dreadingly. It was no surprise he knew who Franklin was. The man she was labelling as her father was a peril to most high up, especially royals. The mention of her Franklin’s name alone would have her locked up in some places that fit as residues to his crimes. Thief. Killer. Liar. Traitor. Criminal. Séraph could read all of it through Lee Ballerini's narrowed pupils.

"Yes, he's my father."

"Wonderful, isn't it?" Solomon smiled a sickly code of white. "Who would've thought such a man could ever love?" He arched a brow at the man who grew defensively knowledgeable. "Definitely not me."

The way Lee stared at Séraph tauten the aura of the room. His eyes berated her, screamed at her with violent wishes of getting rid of her or locking her up at the mere association with Franklin.

"Don't you have a meeting to get to?" Solomon pulled them out of their glaring contest. "Have a seat, my lovely dear." He gestured at the Duke's now empty chair. Séraph obliged as she sunk down into seat, her ears draining out the audible tears of the chained girl and the loud strides the Ballerini Duke made with his exit.

"My, aren't you such a pretty, little trinket?" Solomon questioned in a longing sigh as he slid a glass of what seemed to be alcohol her way. His eyes twinkled an electric mahogany as he spoke. "Tell me, lovely, what possessed a man like your father to send his stunning creation to my home at such an ungodly hour?"

Solomon made his way to the large portiéres, tugging them until midnight light streamed through every single pore on their skin. An incredible sheen honed along with the jagged colours of Séraph's eyes who toppled considerably as at the panorama of the glorious city of Neissoinayd. Vehicles zipped a far expanse from their view, billboards pranced to power as women manufactured from currents masqueraded for passing eyes. Horns honked from both far and close, reminiscing Séraph of the many unknown and distinctive lives that were unknowingly crossing aisles with her own wrong one.

The taciturn line of a fast-food chain saw her focus, the innate budges of loitering cars contrasting the numerous others that zoomed tight to some of the skyscrapers where bulb glares exposed the silhouettes of the occupied individuals inside. In one of the hundred windows was a family of five, all piled together on a table, celebrating something on their television as they dined; a different dim and closed aperture held a lone child, gazing dreamily up at the passing vehicles in awe predicted by a spectacle; the apartment just above was warmed in a violet speck, the shadows of a woman and man boiling into one as they caressed each other into one soul of desire.

Séraph's eyes shifted to the beams of a party on one of the low roofs where several dressed up people swayed in tempo to a song that was mute from her remote scope. Their swishes broke into a still and as Séraph squinted, she understood why. A robotic patrol auto had made a stop at the open roof reception, Seraph could hear the horrible slam of their metallic feet as they bounded onto the crowded roof. The hallowed machines pushed past the crowd, not even bothering to be wary of the drunks who they trampled on in their path. Their attention was directed one the person, a paled girl who wore an all-black gown that stuck to her curvy figure. The girl began to shout out in panic but was out the second she was in an arms reach of the wired monsters. A runaway labourer, Séraph noted to herself. A desperate labourer who sadly was not so fortunate with her trust and connections.

Nobody moved or revelled as they dragged the knocked out woman away, destroyed dignity tagging after her in the aspect of a torn up, black party dress—that was until one of the tipsy men, a man that Séraph had noticed pursuing the deserter seconds earlier with not much serendipity, flapped his arms wide in a cheer that rippled the others into merriment. They didn't care about how negligently the robots regaled people because at the end of the day, those privileged drunks were still of northern blood—blood that would always be more important pertained to Séraph's own of insignificance. They had blood that would never be seen under the clutches of their titanium terrors. They were wealthy-blooded assholes and that would forever be their protection.

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Séraph hushed her intruding insults as she deflected her watch back to Solomon who was still babbling as he tugged the restrained girl's gag back into the asylum of her restricted mouth before sitting back in his chair in front of an irked Séraph. "Have you heard what is happening, little Pyxis? Gothic Mortimer’s establishment, the ones the peasants run from and call Ignatius, they're starting to ruin the Union’s shine.” Solomon twisted in his chair, not once removing his gaze from the woman before him.

Séraph spoke uninterested. “What is the Union planning to do then?”

“That’s besides the point,” he gave out in a boisterous laugh, one that was overly outsized and abusive in some poignant class. “My issue is…why has someone from the Union ordered Franklin Pyxis to send his girl to me, if not to punish me for failing to safeguard their peasants?"

Peasants. Séraph doubted that Solomon's ravenous stare would remain if he knew the truth of her also being a part of the 'peasants.' A sneaky little vandal, Franklin used to say to her, who always found herself in the paths of those who strived to turn people like her into ash.

"Franklin claims someone has become hesitant in regards to Cazar's proficiency involving the Calignes Alliance," answered Séraph, tenderly twirling the glass in her hand to reflect a sense of self in the small tornados that surged inside the caramel coloured liquid. "He says they believe that you've made their deal unnecessarily bruised."

"Bruised?" Scoffed Soloman as he took another careful sip of his drink. "Not quite the word I would use."

"Then what word would you use, First Minister?"

Solomon let out a sigh."While traversing, Celine, you cannot expect no damage to be made for strengthening. There will be tears, scrapes, maybe even wrinkles, but all of that finally comes to an end when you reap all you've performed so arduously for." The distance sounds of transportation became a lulling background ambience for the darkroom that glinted red as the two eyed each other. "But the Arcades have never been people of fortitude have they?" The Arcades...King Epiales Arcade and ruler of Sevgi, the 1st of the 12 planets of the Calignes system. The was a musing snort that came from Solomon. “Indulge me, was it the dying corpse? No, no, perhaps it was that bitch offspring of his.” His grin was a brutish relished. “Oh, I'm practically dancing on my toes here, Celine. Tell me, please, which one was it?” The Arcades... Séraph believed the Arcades were just a detached faction of wealthy snob, just like the man who watched Séraph with browns of crooked lust.

A shy clank rushed about the room as Séraph set down her unused glass back on the metal of Solomon's desk and before the Minister, her eyes reaching the scenes of civilisation behind him with a long and dry income.

Solomon let out a wild giggle. "That’s why you’ve been ordered to come here...to sweet talk me...they want you to kill me."

Her gaze found his again. Umber eyes were bright as the declaration refused to set in heavy for Solomon who took another credible gulp of his liquor. Séraph didn't need to push her limit to unwrap the fissures of his person to understand that he had been anticipating such an attempt for a while. "Right?" Yes. Her eyes leapt towards the chained girl in the nook of the room, and you deserve nothing less than that.Her attention went back to Solomon.

"They don’t disclose the names of customers to me," her voice came out softer and serene from the release of formality. "I was just sent to complete a job." Her eyes drove back to the other person in the room who perked at the spotlight. Help me, her grunts smothered themselves out. Get me out of here. Please.

Following her gaze, Solomon spoke, "I'm afraid that's not quite on my directory today. You see, Celine, I've finally found a good use for you," he purred out the false name with such ample emphasis, it made her disgusted to have the six letters associated with her. "You make a fine woman, yes, but your respect could be reconditioned. Your screams would hold more pleasure with such appreciation, don't you think?"

Her gaze drifted back to him, uncovering the dark spirals of his gaze penetrating her apparel with a heinous intensity. "Yeah?" Séraph struggled to keep her question from aggravating with revulsion. He smiled at her visible scorn. He was just a target. A request that in her heart, brandished the very same sentiments as a cardboard box. He was just a target.He was just a corpse singing arrogantly at the climax of death's noose.

"Oh, attempting to seduce a Minister while planning his assassination is what a lot of people would deem more than rude, lovely." A murderous shadow moulded over Séraph's features.

Attempting to seduce a Minister.

Solomon dismissed her glare as he slouched back in his chair in a fashion other officials would frown upon. His head tilted up, stare devouring up the luminous chandelier that emitted a claret shade like the rest of the room, leaving his neck exposed like a taunting dare for her blade to sever.

The sharp and scraping sound of a dagger being pulled against its sheath pulled his attention back to Séraph who set her weapon down before them. She could tease just as much as the egotistical prick. If Séraph was good at one thing, it would be making sure she dragged her prey to the edge of their shore before getting her way. A small smile rested on her lips as she watched Solomon hesitantly eye the blade of her weapon.

"You were going to stab me to death?" He scoffed incredulously. "I would've thought that a pretty fox like you would've at least tried to kill me with my sateen bedsheets."

"Oh no, I'll make it fancy," the declaration strewed sinister with her chilled tone of glee that harmonized with a dark grin. "That's why I've kept my blade dull, Solomon, so I could watch the way it slowly tears into your jugular with effort. Your screams would hold more pleasure with such appreciation, don't you think?" Solomon didn't look pleased by her words. The silence was deafening as their pandemonium clashed at the roots of their eyes.

There it is, a clouded vibration whispered to her against the thrumming commerce outside, feel it and then peel it.

The mood flung itself into an abhorrent spiral, like the gravity of her world had killed itself off, the colours around her became unbalanced. How had the universe gifted its creations with vile aptitudes such as grace?

Scarlet had told her about his experience once with a man he explained to have a sickly grace. He had never been one to ever believe in such power until all it took for him to wish for death being the blink of an eye—he had told her how it made him want to tear his skin off at the prickling feeling of critters tearing through his bloodstream.

It took all the stability in her body not to act out and latch on the table in the fear her body would start to float away. Séraph could feel her insides trying to flee from within her flesh to the freedom of the sky. And if he hadn't spiked Solomon’s beverage supply days prior, there was no question that Solomon would've effortlessly been able to ruin her.

"You alright, lovely? You look a little, how’d you put it?…off balance." A chuckle fled Solomon as he steadied his chin on his palm, eyes charring under the hoods of his almond-shaped eyes. "Do you want to lie down? I can assure you that I have a few available beds."

"I don't think I'm the one who needs a lie-down, asshole." Before Solomon could spit out another twisted comment, Séraph leapt across the table, dagger firmly gripped in her hand as she gave a powerful thrust against the Minister's robed chest with her legs. Scarlet would have been proud to see how good she was getting at that. Another undertow of grace speared in the stormed mood as Solomon and his chair found themselves flat against the floor.

Solomon recovered surprisingly fast from her attack, both hands already latched onto each of her ankles as he yanked her down from the table with a painful bang. A muffled grunt of fear came from the tied up girl in the closet of the room as Solomon yanked Séraph's dagger from her hold. But she was back on him in an instant; one punch to the side, an elbow to his nose and a sturdy knee to the gut with a quick draw and spring. Her dagger fell to the ground as he hunched forward.

Another buzz rippled through the air as Solomon tried to channel his bolted and thwarting grace.

He knows something is wrong, a man’s cupidinous and familiar chuckle aired to the woman, and by all means, let him know that everything is entirely wrong.

Séraph clasped onto his wider wrist, sparks glinting in her eyes. "Now, this won't hurt—" she started with a frightening smile, "Well, for me at least." Without a second's wait, the woman twisted his arm, using the forced of her flying boot to kick him back and onto the dented ferrous furniture. A cut-off howl broke out of Solomon as he collided with the desk. Hair clinging to his face and eyes widening in enraged shock. His grace....his grace was not working. What was making his grace not work?

Solomon's judgment was too scrambled to even comprehend the tight hold the woman had captured on him again. He was at an ignorant loss, not realising what was happening until Séraph yanked him forward again with inhumane ease. She twirled her body around, facing her back to him. She bent her knees for momentum, instantly withdrawing to her full height, resulting in Solomon being jerked forward with her.

Was this even possible?

A nervous "Now hold on a minute," fled Cazar’s First Minister but it was ignored by the woman who launched him over her shoulder, grip curling on his hand and chest as soon as he slammed against the clear window that let out a pressured crack with his weight. The hiss of a small blade came from under her skirt as Séraph jerked out another knife.

"My morality is not in the market for mercy, Cazar," dangerously whispered Séraph, for the first time in a long time feeling exceedingly pleased.

If another otherworldly being was to peer into the world at this moment, it would've shown them a snake-like illusion of blood-tinted lights that would soon soak up the stygian tears that seeped feverishly from the fresh hole Séraph had made in Solomon's chest.

Black dyed Solomon's lips as he muttered, "He set you up, you stupid girl. You didn't think I anticipated people wanting me dead? A life for a lie. This scheme of yours was a waste." That was all he could muster before tearing static comprised his pretentious features, twisting away from the character of Solomon and revealing the young face that hid behind it. A child. A teenage boy with sad and tragic eyes that were filled briefly with naive confusion before an ending dissolve made him fall limp, his still impaled and malnourished body slamming against the ruined rug with an audible beat. A child. The Minister had sacrificed someone's child.

A stifled shriek broke the cuffed girl whose presence Séraph had forgotten about until now. Séraph didn't even flinch at the girl's firey scream of muffles as her eyes remained on the child's body. He set you up, you stupid girl. He set you up. A river of vermillion-like liquid pooled against the carpet, claiming every material it got close to. Its sharp clutch of what was once a life's fuel yanked at the ends of Seraph's dress, staining it a new print. You didn't think I anticipated people wanting me dead?

The doors behind her creaked free with a shattered wail. "Minister Cazar?" A woman's voice called into the poorly dim room. If fairies and unicorns were real, this woman's voice was exactly what Séraph reckoned they made people feel. "First Minister?"

Once again, a new chiming screech burst around the compartment as the dark-skinned woman launched off with one glimpse of the deceased child decked in Solomon’s royal attire. A sheep in a wolf’s clothing—It wouldn't be a surprise if people outside heard the direness of those screams. A life for a lie. This scheme of yours was a waste

As a matter of fact, the vociferous claps of footsteps told that exact story.

"Interesting," a murmur curled from the murkiest niche of the room. Séraph and the bound girl both flinched with a whip their heads, both with separate objectives of worry.