“Long, long ago, when I was but a common child in the slums of Lux Caelum, I lost my right eye. It was an unceremonious loss: a drunken fool, a flying bottle, and before I knew it, a bloody mess spurted forth like a macabre fountain as a glass shard pierced my eye and wretched it out of my socket. I could not see. I could not feel. From then on, the world was cast in the dullest of greys. I lost the gift to see color."

  —???

  ———

  The Knight

  The Knight and the floral man are the last to depart from the theatre. It is late now, and the bustling crowd of merry-goers and performers outside have long since departed. There are only empty streets here, save for the two obscured souls strolling wordlessly under the darkened night. They pass the corners—they tread away from the main district—and soon, the narrow lanes of the alleyways surround them from all sides. Tight. Restricting. The Knight cannot even walk without its shoulders touching the cold brick, yet the lanky man is undisturbed, his steps silent and body light. All it can see is his robed back as they descend farther into the passage.

  Eventually, the man stops before a worn-out door. A prickly rose is embedded in the front, and the words “The Floral Bloom” are engraved upon the wood.

  “Here, at last,” the man says, caressing the splintered edges.

  “This is your shop?” it asks dryly, for at first glance the business is rather unassuming. No, it is even more mundane than that; if not for the sign, then the Knight would have never guessed this inconspicuous corner to be the home of a flower boutique. It is hidden here, far away from prying eyes, lurking in a place where only drunks and the dregs of society will pass. “I must admit, this is not quite what I expected. How can you hope to attract any patrons in such a desolate location?”

  “Ah, but you are mistaken. I do not hope to attract anyone. I merely wish to provide the utmost quality of service to my guests, and that is simply not feasible in the hustle of such a busy area. This corner is quaint, do you not agree? It has its charm, and besides I prefer to cater toward a specific… clientele. Fate tends to draw them to me, and it is so I am ever fortunate to establish such fond connections.”

  “Fate draws them, or is it that you seek them out?”

  “Is there any difference? They are chosen, all the same.”

  “Of course there is a difference. One has a choice and the other doesn’t.”

  But the man only laughs as if it has just said something rather humorous. “No one has a choice in the face of destiny. Everything is predetermined. My occupation, my clients, and even our meeting here on this day was set from the very beginning. I am merely following its call.”

  “And just what is that call, exactly?”

  He stays quiet for a moment, before replying with an obvious redirection. “Why, it is to serve you, of course! Come now, let us talk inside. My darlings await.”

  The Knight wonders if he really thinks it so foolish as to follow along with such a laughable ruse. Still, the man is if nothing else incredibly confident. It respects that to a certain degree—enough to not slay him right away, at least. “I do hope it is more appealing than the storefront suggests.”

  “Worry not. Outer appearances do tend to be most deceiving.”

  He grabs the handle, and the same mysterious scent the Knight felt at the castle begins to waft beneath the crevice. Something has changed in the beyond; whatever was previously behind the door is no longer there, replaced by a much more sinister domain.

  The door opens, and a bizarre view is unraveled before it: flowers. Strange, otherworldly flowers. They are nothing the Knight has ever seen before, forms twisted and transfigured into grotesque, yet alluring, amalgamations. They hang from the ceiling with their bulbous petals, pigments drenched in a bloody hues, while they extend slightly outward with spindly, thin appendages—like a spider’s leg. It is a disturbing sight: unnatural, but why exactly the Knight knows not. It oozes a disgusting air that reeks of depravity.

  But those spider-like flowers are not the only species in this space. There are familiar sights as well such as lavenders and purple hydrangeas resting within glass displays lined to the side. And a red carpet lies underneath, covering a floorboard infested with orange chrysanthemums growing below the wood; yet their growth is not chaotic. They are meticulously arranged, forming a pathway as if to serve as a guide through the maze of flora.

  “… Deceiving indeed,” it says as the masked man leads it to a silken lounge. He gestures for it to take a seat and then saunters over to the displays, meticulously inspecting each bloom and humming to himself as he searches for a fitting specimen. One after another, one after another, he shoves his face against the glass. He ogles the petals, the stems, the ovaries, and then he gently picks it up in a tender hold as a parent would their child. There is genuine love in that gaze of his, a mark of a true artist, as well as complete utter devotion toward the refinement of one’s craft.

  A pity, the Knight contemplates. What caused such a pure-hearted desire to become so malformed? No, perhaps it is because of his obsession that he is so fervent. Madness is but a step away from passion.

  Eventually, he finds his mark: a peculiar flower with six lance-shaped leaves. The edges are drenched in white, intensifying into a deep pink toward the center while red freckles are dotted near the throat. The man nods in satisfaction and carefully shields the flower before presenting it to the Knight with a flourish.

  “I do believe you will quite enjoy this child,” he proudly declares, placing it atop its gauntlet. “It goes by many names throughout the world, but I much prefer the Polus’s moniker: the Stargazer Lily.”

  “Stargazer, you say?” the Knight says, stroking the leaves.

  “A ravishing flower, is it not? Its namesake represents prosperity, abundance, and a deep connection with culture. I dare say it is a fitting symbol for the Throne of the heavenly skies.”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Hoh, will he shed his guise at last? “So you know who I am? Interesting, I don’t remember ever taking off this cloak. How exactly did you find out?”

  He chuckles and waves toward his rose-embedded socket. “Oh, I have my tricks, madam. Call it a gentleman’s intuition. I have a talent for finding people; it is my gift, a blessing granted by Cosmos upon my birth, although there was once a time I failed to recognize her majesty. My purpose…”

  Something dreadful suddenly courses through him. It passes by and disappears just as quickly. But its singular appearance is enough to leave a lasting impression: an impression of despair, of pure, seething hatred toward the world and all it has brought. It is malice in its purest form.

  “Ah, but nevermind that,” he says, returning back to the perverse madman it has come to know. “What matters is the present and the future to come. And you, my most esteemed Throne, have a very special future awaiting you.”

  The man collects himself and casually strolls toward the back of the shop where yet another door is located. But something is different about it. It feels… endless. Whatever lies beyond is no mere closed space; it is much grander. More open. And according to the Knight’s sight, there is even a ray resembling sunshine trickling below. That should be impossible considering the time is currently twilight, so where does that door lead?

  “Follow me, if you would so please,” he beckons. “Beyond here lies my most treasured possessions. Normally, I would bar entry to this area from my other guests, but you… you are special. You deserve to witness to my life’s work.”

  “My, what an honor,” it says with words dripping in ridicule. If the man has noticed its sarcasm, then he pretends to be unaware. Nonetheless, the Knight rises and follows him to the door.

  Prepare yourself, Aegis. I have a feeling this fraudulent peace shall soon come to an end. The hidden baby above taps its helm in affirmation, though the Knight can sense his increasing worry. The masked florist has unnerved the child since the very beginning, and he wishes for nothing more than to quickly flee toward safety. That is something they cannot do. They must solve this threat now.

  The door creaks open, and the man steps into the light. “Without further ado, welcome to my sanctuary.”

  The Knight enters as well, and it is soon mesmerized by a stunning sight.

  They are outside. But not out on the streets of the Capital. Not under the pale gleam of the moon. No, they are outside and standing under the blistering heat of the mid-day sun. The ball of flame glares far, far above them, high beyond a cloudy sky of blue. It shines its light upon the realm below, and the Knight looks down to find itself standing atop a field of grass. The meadow spreads without abandon as gorgeous flowers of every species lie scattered about in a sprawl of perpetual bloom.

  At first, the Knight believes itself to be caught in an illusion—a trick of the mind. Yet that cannot be, for it can feel the wind lash at its helm in gentle whips. It can feel heat and the cool breeze rushing past. This is no spell, but a desperate dimension entirely.

  The Knight has never seen such a thing before. For one man to force creation into conjuring a realm solely for his own use… he doesn’t appear to be all that powerful, and yet this strange florist has just become the most dangerous being it has encountered since its awakening.

  “Where is this?” it questions.

  “My very own paradise.” The man opens his arms wide and takes in a deep, gluttonous breath. He lets the light wash over him, and he embraces the surrounding world. “I call it the Garden of Eden, for this shall be the final destination of the worthy: of the most beautiful of humanity. Their sorrow, their ugliness, their love… it will all be safe here in a land where they may blossom without worry. Thus is the duty given to me by the Mother, and it is why she has gifted me this sacred place.”

  He beckons it forward, and so the two walk side by side through the realm. It is peaceful here. Naught can be heard but the sounds of nature, and the Knight cannot help but view this space as something beautiful. It knows this beauty is a deceptive lure, yet nonetheless there is no denying the man’s tasteful arrangements.

  Soon, the pair arrive at the only landmark of note: a lone birch tree surrounded by four flowers encased in an amber substance. Their beauty is forever imprisoned, trapped in a constant state of eternity. The masked man walks up to one of them, and he touches the display with what appears to be a sentimental yearning.

  “I call myself a florist,” he whispers. “And yet, in my lifetime I have only succeeded in creating four flowers of true wonder.”

  He caresses the case. Inside lies a flower that resembles a crystal. Seven petals surround the jewel-like heart, and each petal is dyed in a color of the rainbow: a fiery red, a cool blue, a leafy green, a vibrant yellow, and so on until they all blend together into a dazzling prism.

  “The first was my mother, who worked so hard to ensure I grew up proper. Without her, my love for art would have never bloomed.”

  He moves on to the next flower. Unlike the first one, it emits a despicable aura, more so than the spider-like flowers of before. Pitch-black tendrils spit out from the center, a noxious green slime is splattered in unsightly patterns within, and its petals lay decayed in a dirty pile of filth. It is repulsive, and merely looking at the pathetic thing is a waste of the Knight’s effort.

  “The second was my father. I learned from him that there was beauty in everyone, no matter how darkened their soul may be.”

  The third flower towers in size compared to the others. It has a pallid white stem, large and thick, which resembles somewhat the form of an adult woman’s torso, and its leaves curve into two round spheres of sagging clumps. It is as if the thing is attempting to replicate a bosom, yet its seductive facade is betrayed by a gaping maw in the chest’s center, opening up as spikes surround the vibrant red lips.

  “The third came from a particularly lascivious woman. She was a fellow admirer of the arts such as myself, and in the end she became that which she cherished most.”

  The final flower is strange. The Knight has expected it to be the most bizarre of them all, only to discover a simple red rose. And yet there is something mesmerizing about it. Out of all the flowers thus far, it is the most beautiful despite its mundane appearance. Innocent. Unknowing. It is the very essence of virtue.

  “The fourth came from an exceedingly ordinary man. He was average in every sense imaginable: average appearance, average personality, and average ability. Yet, despite his mediocrity, he became the star of my little collection. Fascinating, isn’t it? The most unique of souls was blended amongst the crowd, his true potential undiscovered. That is until he met me, and so it was that I gave him a new purpose.”

  He turns around and faces the Knight. His demeanor is different now; the man who attempted to manipulate it at every moment is gone. Now, there is only a misguided child. He pleads with his lone eye, begging for it to listen to him. For the first time since this prolonged charade the man is truly sincere.

  “Do you remember what you said to me at the theatre?” he mutters. “Cosmos… you are correct. Our Mother has never left, for she is here with me. She is this garden, the rose blooming from my eye. She is the land, the soil, the dirt in which humanity shall be saved. This is my destiny. I am the savior. And it is your destiny to bloom as one of the chosen. Join me, my friend. I promise to make you beautiful.”

  The Knight replies simply and without hesitation. “No.” In a way, it feels pity for the man. He has given his heart, his very soul, to a cause born of twisted ramblings and false revelations. It is his only purpose; and if he is to learn the truth, then he shall surely crumble.

  “… I see,” he says with a bitter laugh. “You, too, have refused me, then?”

  “Are you really that surprised?” it replies, throwing away its cloak and unsheathing the twin celestial blades for battle. “You know who I am. You know where my devotion lies.”

  “I suppose I am not. Still, I had hoped for one with such darkness as yours to embrace my gift. A shame. Truly, a shame.”

  With a sigh, he reaches behind his back and reveals a curved, serrated dagger. It is small, jagged blades jutting out with a malevolent bloodlust, and a crimson liquid drips from the weapon’s edge: sticky. Spurting. Like an abnormal form of sap.

  “Ah, now this won’t do. I’ve never formally introduced myself! To think I’ve been so utterly rude all this time. Do forgive me,” the man cackles. “I go by many names, but you may call me Satanael.”