Zeke:

Mauve was an ominous colour. Emire had told me as she mercilessly dumped my bow in a trashcan an hour ago.

If I knew I was going to walk into the duke's party crawling with smell of death and leftovers of long passed tragedies anyway, I wouldn't have bothered changing my bowtie.

Besides the limped lifeless body of the gatekeepers pressed against its door, I realize three things are out of place as I enter the grand hall_

1. The once holy, flawless porcelain pillars of the hall don't look as strong or grand, splattered with various shades of crimson, as they have always been claimed to be.

2. fine powdered silver crystals with a slight lavender hue, demon dust, lying in bulks disproportionately amongst the mounts of corpses clearly serves its purpose of a warning.

I can't hear a single heartbeat, or a single pained mourn as I make my way through the door.

At least I didn't have to do that stupid bow before the king.

3. It is evident as I look down at my expensive cream beige suit, it was such a waste of time and money to buy the outfit. I could've attended this in my pajamas and gotten zero raised eyebrows.

I untie my brown cloak and slump it over my shoulder, careful not to stain it.

"Damn, that's some fine stuff they smoked" Emire remarks as she dukes her head after me, her cerulean dyed locks shining with a grey hue in the pale moonlight. I roll my eyes "Was it really a simple coup? A coincidental band of demons just happened to be in the area?"

"It was no accident. The demons were either weapons or cover ups" I say, as I try not to think too much about all the patterns laid around the room. patterns that could redefine loyalties and faith of this condemned nation. demons aren't particularly hard to possess for sorcerers anyway. And sorcerers aren't allowed in courts of our territory.

Emire bends down and presses her invitation to the inside of a guard's palm pinned against the doorframe "with sincere blessings to the throne" she announces

It seems too late to appreciate the irony of that joke.

I was only here for the cuffer anyway. I continue towards the giant table laid out at the end of the room, atop five stairs to be exact, a stair for each rank permitted to sit on the table with royal blood. Such a spectacular end to utter bullshittiness

I spot the duke from a mile away, a small soldier doll made of clay, probably a mischievous gift from the enemy, clenched tightly in his rigid fist, his eyes still wide open, a restless expression on his stern face as if he was in the middle of cursing a sorcerer when the thing, which made a colossal hole through his shoulder, attacked him.

He would've been better off with a prayer instead

I pry the cuffer from his robes. I find it inside a pocket watch, a torn piece of an agreement, tucked away in the joints in the form of a miniature rolled paper. On it, the sermons to enslave us. For the final act, I take out my lighter and set it on fire. It lights up nicely, turning to ash till all that's left behind are five fingerprints. We buried our loyalty with our comrades in the previous war. If they wanted the old generals to prepare for a new one, they should've asked nicely, with something like money, instead of holding a useless vow over us like this. I thrust the remains of it in my breast pocket.

I am not going to war. Never again.

In my peripheral vision Emire picks up a knight with an inch of life in him. I hiss. she mouths 'prayer for the deceased' and continues

As if.

within a millisecond her fangs are sunk deep in the knight's jugular.

After she's done, she throws the body aside. Before I can pass a comment on her, I hear a faint skip of heart. Low pitched, like a needle dropped on marble. I rush to the area. A sharp wail pierces my nerves.

It's almost humorous. how the sight of a coup d' feat didn't make me flinch but seeing a baby alive in this mess throws my senses in disarray.

I have never believed in miracles.

and I stopped believing in a heaven long ago.

But when I see this child lying in a pool of mortal mess, small fists struggling to move, face wet with tears straining down it's cheek through dry blood, and the few strands of hair on its head covered in demon dust and ashes;

I might have started believing in miracles. Even if only for a feeble moment.