The Price of Sin

Outskirts of New Osiris.

The moon shone intensely in the sky. Its splendor usurped the darkness of the night, but on that night, it seemed the sunlight reflected upon it was even stronger and more beautiful.

Under the moonlight, a beautiful garden lay hidden behind an old mansion. Enormous trees of imposing beauty let their leaves fall gently onto the grass — which, even after decades without trimming, still looked astonishingly beautiful.

Flowers of impossible colors bloomed between stones covered with ancient moss. They exuded a sense of purity and reverence, contrasting with the profane beauty of the lake resting at the garden's center.

The garden was lovely, silent, and full of life… but it would soon be eternally tainted.

The moon’s reflection on the lake dimmed. The trees’ leaves stopped falling, as if resisting the evil that was to come. The once sacred flowers now exhaled terror and fear.

A tall man, cloaked in a dark hooded robe, walked silently. On his shoulders, he carried a beautiful woman.

She was dirty and wounded, her wrists and ankles tied, her mouth sealed with tape. Even so, she was stunning — curly blond hair fell just below her shoulders, and her body, adorned by a green dress with white details, displayed soft, hypnotic curves.

The hooded man — whose mere presence brought nausea and horror — threw her onto a bed of flowers. Then, he took a strange notebook from his pocket. He read a few lines carefully, reviewing each step of the ritual to avoid mistakes.

He took five white candles and a knife. With his hands, he cleared an area of the garden, moving aside flowers and branches. He placed the candles on the ground, each in its designated spot.

Without hesitation, he cut one of his own wrists.

As blood flowed, he dipped his fingers into it and began writing symbols next to each candle — profane, twisted, indecipherable characters.

Once done, he placed the woman at the center of the circle formed by the five candles, waking her up.

She awoke in complete horror and despair. She struggled to break free, tried to scream, but no sound came — even after he removed the tape from her mouth.

Her tongue had been cut out.

She cried. Tears ran down her face, and her expression was pure terror. Her beautiful blue eyes darted around frantically, searching for a way out, for help, for salvation.

But nothing... no one could save her.

Then, the hooded man began reciting what he'd written in his own blood — as if performing the most profane act ever witnessed by the Earth:

— Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn...

As he chanted, the woman stopped moving, as though an invisible force had seized her body. The man cut the ropes around her wrists and ankles and kneeled her in the center of the circle.

Her face, even more horrified now, seemed frozen in that expression. Eternal horror.

— ...Th’nog ur'khal zha’rahn et-vogath na’ez shagg zoth’mar dath’nur.

The man finally finished the ritual. Then, he took the knife and slit her throat and wrists.

Her tears fell even more intensely.

And, strangely, her blood seemed to coagulate as it touched the ground, spreading as if guided by a profane will. It formed a pentagram, with the candles at its points and the woman at its center.

She was already pale from blood loss. She had given up on life. Then, she looked directly at her executioner’s face.

He was a young man with black hair and brown eyes. He might’ve been ordinary — even handsome — if not for the horrifying smile stretching across his face, distorting him into something inhuman.

In silence, he walked behind her and, with a hammer, crushed her head.

An act of mercy.

The smell of the ritual soaked the garden... and attracted the demons.

Hours earlier, downtown New Osiris.

The eternal blazing sun rose on the horizon, purging all darkness from the night. New Osiris was a regular city in the New Egypt. It had many stores, schools, hospitals, parks, houses, and buildings — and inside one of those buildings, resistances.

A young man with brown skin, green eyes, short curly hair, and a slightly athletic build was waking from a deep sleep.

He got up and looked around his room: a simple closet, a double bed, and a desk with a laptop. Then, he left and went to the bathroom, where he took his morning shower.

After finishing, he returned to the bedroom, opened the closet, and grabbed black jeans and a simple white shirt.

Dressed, he left the room. Just ahead was a door, which he knocked on while yawning.

Knock, knock, knock.

— You awake, Omar?

His relaxed, sleepy voice echoed through the house.

— Yeah. Go make the coffee, Laab.

Half an hour later, Laab and Omar were walking through the streets of New Osiris. Omar was a young man about the same age as Laab, slightly shorter, with a strong build, very dark skin, and long curly hair. He wore dark green cargo pants and a tight black shirt that emphasized his lean, well-defined muscles.

— Bro, check this out!

Omar looked intrigued as he showed his phone screen to Laab.

Omar’s phone displayed a headline from the New Vatican newspaper:

“The youngest Potestade in the world! Kwon Valtross has finally discovered his divine name, now called the Saint of Blades, becoming a Potestade at the age of 16! The Saint of Blades was consecrated as archbishop on the morning of May 8th, 103 A.C.”

Isn’t he way too young? — Laab thought.

— Wasn’t he an Amesh like six months ago?

Laab asked while crossing the street.

— Well, he’s a genius. I wouldn’t be surprised if he becomes the first Santo Anjo.

After turning a corner, passing an empty lot and a park, Laab and Omar entered a cozy, charming coffee shop.

It was just opening, with only one shutter raised. Before entering, Laab lifted the other.

— You two took your time. Omar, help me in the kitchen. Laab, set the tables.

The firm, yet kind voice came from a short girl with curly hair, brown skin marked with vitiligo, and fierce blue eyes. She wore gray wide-leg pants and a white crop top. A shiny piercing adorned her navel, and large hoops hung from her ears. Over her outfit, she wore a simple apron, slightly stained with coffee and flour.

Both answered in unison, sarcastically:

— Yes, ma’am, Cibele!

As Laab arranged the tables, he felt the smooth aroma of coffee fill the space — a familiar and comforting smell. But along with it came something different. A subtle, strange scent that seemed to grow stronger by the minute. An unsettling feeling accompanied the odor, but Laab chose to ignore it.

Omar and Cibele.

Laab vividly remembered how he met the two over 14 years ago. He and Omar were orphans. Laab was only six when he met Omar, who was five.

They met in school, during the early days, and that’s where they found Cibele. She was just four at the time. Since then, the three had become inseparable. They played, fought, laughed, cried, slept, and ate together — like a family.

Laab loved Cibele and Omar as if they were his younger siblings.

Cibele’s parents owned that coffee shop, and when Laab turned 16, they invited all three to work there. They also helped Laab and Omar get their own house when they turned 18.

Laab’s life was simple but good. A rare tranquility in such dark times.

But that smell...

That smell was not normal.

It seemed to insist, to wrap around, to warn.

And yet, Laab kept ignoring it.

For now.