Lycoris, Archeko's national flower. 

Unyielding and resilient, never wilting. It symbolises its citizens: strong and persistent. And to those who belong to the scorching gates of hell—this was a feast, a gift from the heavens.

And from here onwards is the start of the tragedy, a play of Life and Death. A dance and a rhapsody in one—the players had taken sides, without realising that it would either lead them to Salvation or Damnation. 

The Holy Tug of War had started.

Matthias’ mind wandered to what Henry taught him: Money is power, and information is currency. The lad had confirmed it to be a fact, realising that escaping the dungeon would not be possible had it not been for his help. 

That man was the only one deemed as worthy, owning at least sixty percent of the riches in this place and known as Archeko’s greedy demon—literally, or metaphorically.

Matthias hopes it's the latter. 

His wandering mind snapped to reality when his head almost kissed the ceiling of the carriage—the cobblestone path proved to be formidable, even for June, who was taking the lead through this excursion. 

“Ow!” He exclaimed as he gritted his teeth. Good thing he managed to protect his head before his head hit the ceiling. That earned him a laugh from the man who sat in front of him, with his signature lazy smirk. 

“It is bumpy here, I apologise that I cannot provide a more comfortable ride for you—my favourite carriage had been dirtied by June, you see. Look at how rough he is at maneuvering the horses,” spoke the blond man. He leaned against the carriage’s walls, padded by something velvety and soft—soundproofing, perhaps. 

“I-it’s better than walking, I’d say,” the young man said, wryly smiling back. 

“Shall I provide a carriage for you and the children in the Orphanage so you’d visit me more often?” The man questioned—no, stated. His gaze was piercing, intensified by his blueish green eyes, which reminded Matthias of the snake in the Garden of Eden. 

Tempting and alluring, yet dangerous.

He wouldn’t be able to blame Eve if this was the snake she had seen—the words from this man dripped with so much allure, making his stomach churn. His soul trembled like a leaf under the weight of his gaze. 

His throat was dry, making his voice raspy as he replied, “...Y-you’ll have to ask Mama Nana, that would be too much to receive from you—”

“Oh, that settles it then.” 

There was no room for arguments, and the words that Matthias wanted to say remained unheard, swallowed back in his stomach. Henry had made up his mind that this time, he would do whatever he wanted.

Waiting was no easy feat—especially for someone like him, who was used to being able to get everything by the snap of his fingers. 

The only difference was that Matthias is a person, not a thing. And perhaps, that was what Henry found interesting.

Matthias was his own person with his own thoughts. Despite being afraid, he continued to act without stopping. He was eager to find the truth. 

Truthfully, Henry felt envious—a little bit bitter even.

How does it feel to have that curiosity and drive to know the unknown? 

Ever since he opened his eyes, he accepted the way he was, drenched with wealth. His own parents were gone; thus, he was cursed to live a life of solitude, haunted by the memories of a man who looked like him—or perhaps, it was him—who knows? 

Henry shook his head as the carriage continued onwards without faltering. It became faster, even, just like a drum, mimicking his own heart as they got closer to where they needed to be. He had never gone near the church, not that he needed to.

What was the use of clinging to false hopes, an intangible thing—a myth for him, when he already had everything he needed? Yet the one person who intrigued him was so close, yet so far from his reach?

His gaze, directed at the young man, was laced with longing, hidden beneath the sanctuary he built—the smile he wore for Matthias. The young man never realised how much of an enigma he was—bringing hope wherever he went.

Someone like Henry couldn't help but be drawn by that simple power the young man held. What he didn’t have was hope, but money to make people do his bidding—and information, which was his currency. 

That was how Archeko was. 

But perhaps, when he found the younger man lying on that field of Lycoris at the edge of this town, his outlook had started to change. 

Henry’s nose scrunched up as his eyes felt that stinging sensation, which he hadn’t felt for years. Perhaps the weather affected his mood; with the rain relentlessly pouring without a sign of ceasing.

The splashing of puddles outside was consistent as they continued their excursion. The tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, but stubbornly resisted falling—perhaps, mimicking how the young lord felt; holding himself together despite the cracks that started to show. 

His supple skin started aching—as if it's burning. That was the feeling he and June only knew—they were getting closer. That was the only palpable explanation for the scorching they felt; it was a holy branding, a punishment fitting for them. 

Has regret ever crossed his mind?

 No.

He deemed that the damned weasel above was not worth following, thus he created his own empire—his own religion, dwelling in the darkness within Archeko, where they thrived through manslaughter. 

The laboured huffs of the hounds—the horses—echoed within the empty streets of Archeko, not a single soul to be found. The cawing of the crows had vanished and been replaced with the somber rhythm of the rain—pit, pitter, patter. It wept, as if mourning those who had left the sanctuary that God had built—it cried for those who succumbed under the weight of need and greed.

Henry's stomach churned. His insides felt like a set ablaze—an inferno hugging and scorching his whole being, claiming what was rightfully his. The rain pestered—wailing. The scent of cedarwood mixed with oranges nuzzled their noses, and the burning intensified. He felt that clawing sensation in his throat, as if someone was begging to be let out. He bit his lip. His eyes became half-lidded as he tried to control the reflux he felt, earning him a worried gaze from the younger man in front of him, Matthias.

“Henry, is something the matter? You look pale!” 

“I…ugh, I’m okay. Just motion sickness, that’s all. From time to time, I will be like this. We’re near, that’s for sure—we, I know.” 

Henry wore that smile. Matthias knew it too well, despite the fact that they didn't interact much. He was not stupid nor innocent; the Young Lord was weary. The young man’s heart ached for him, reminiscing about how his life was, before, then, a realisation hit him.

His eyes widened.

His mouth was slightly agape as he wanted to say something—to reply to him, yet nothing. His mouth quivered, and a slight frown formed on his face. How could he be righteous, how could he comment—no, assume on this man’s mental health when he himself is unstable?

The memories he had were slowly becoming eroded by his current life here, and he dared to offer advice to him? When he was the exact same—wearing the facade to keep himself safe?

Matthias clenched his fist and bit his lip. He dared not to utter a single word—he does not have the right to advise. He couldn’t even get himself together, nor figure out what his next steps should be to try and return to his own timeline—does such a thing even exist?

His future had become blurry; that was why he rushed to the Church. He was human through and through, clinging to that one revered as God, when the situation becomes bleak and out of his control. 

The whicker of the horses became louder—deafening as June, Henry’s butler, led them. He was like a captain of a sunken ship. Despite his coat being soaked and his vision obscured, he continued through sheer will power—not many would do the same. He gritted his teeth as he maniacally started to whip the horses, commanding them to go crazier. 

He knew that what he could feel was also what his master could feel. 

He winced. 

The rain kept him cool, yet his insides burned—like the gates of hell had opened in the depths of his being, no hope of closure in sight. Like his hounds, he let out a groan mixed with a whine. His slicked-back hair became drenched, a mess, now that his hood had fallen off. 

“It…it fucking burns,” he murmured as his eyes stung—bloodshot red, matching his already crimson coloured eyes. The scent of petrichor danced within the air. The goal was in line with his sight. A relieved sigh escaped his lips as the painful excursion would be nearly over, and he would be free once again.

Matthias did not feel it, but surely the other two did. The barrier—a sanctuary for those who believed—had scratched and tainted their beings. It squeezed their heads with mystical force and left a branding, causing both to internally groan with pain, with no cure to be offered.