TWENTY-FOUR HOURS BEFORE THE DEATH OF DAMIAN ROSWALD
The midnight bells tolled.
In a bedroom on the twentieth floor of the Palace, a young woman writhed in ecstasy, her groans loud enough to be heard in the corridor beyond. Her ample breasts heaved, red bites welling up around stiffened nipples.
Her uniform lay tattered upon the ground, torn apart in a frenzy of drink and lust. The man between her legs explored every inch of her being, and her breath escaped her in choking sobs of the purest pleasure.
***
A red-haired woman sat alone on her bed, pieces of shining armor at her feet. As she unwrapped the gauze from around her waist, she released a soft moan of pain as the warped and melted flesh of her stomach was exposed to the biting chill of the darkened room.
A mark of power—of sacrifice—that resonated with the great shard of the Heavens chained far beneath the mountains. The bandages fell away, white fabric stained yellow and red. The woman sobbed and fell onto the bed, her tears spilling onto the sheets, her breaths coming like a drumbeat.
***
In a street far away, buried in the shadows of eternal darkness, a blind man walked unhindered. His gait was confident, his cane tucked beneath his arm should the ruse be required once more. There was no place he could walk unfettered—every inch of the city was his possession.
He allowed himself a rare, genuine smile, as he thought of the satisfaction the morning light would bring. The shadows followed in his wake, like ink spilled from a bottle, chasing their master with fervor. The blind man carried onwards, unhurried, whistling a jaunty tune that was lost to the night.
***
In a private suite a dozen floors above the River Rose, a brown-haired young woman cried and sobbed and begged for mercy. She ducked as another bottle smashed against the wall behind her, and she curled into a ball on the floor, weathering the rage of her brother as a fisherman might weather the raging storm.
She cried in fear, and begged for the savior who turned his hand away, no matter how many times she reached for his aid. In this world, there was one unshakable truth—that no god, or angel, or devil, truly cared for the plight of man. And none cared for a woman.
***
Across the river, in an unsuspecting basement beneath a chapel, an artist cackled and laughed as he painted a new masterpiece. Bold strokes of lively red, and flashes of flaming orange, and notes of deep melancholy.
The madman stepped back from his canvases—from the lifeless corpses hanging from the ceiling—and laughed until his belly hurt, until he no longer knew whether he was screaming or his victims were still begging for mercy.
***
The midnight bells tolled, and the gears of Fate turned ever on.