The garden of roses lay in eerie silence, the sweet fragrance still heavy in the air though most of the blossoms had been torn and bruised from Luther’s wrath. Petals scattered across the ground, like remnants of a battlefield.
At the center of it all, the angel knelt.
He was trembling, his once-pristine white robe now wrinkled, filthy, and stuffed with thorny leaves. His blond hair hung in tangles, littered with bits of greenery. A bruise darkened one leg where the vines had gripped and twisted him too tightly. Every breath he took came out ragged, the sound of a proud creature brought thoroughly low.
And opposite him sat Luther.
The young man lounged casually on a chair sculpted entirely from vines, their surfaces smooth yet alive, pulsing faintly with his power. His fingers drummed lazily against the armrest. A single glare, sharp and unforgiving, was leveled at the angel’s bowed back.
The angel swallowed hard. "I–I swear," he croaked, voice hoarse, "never again. I shall never insult you again."
Luther huffed through his nose, unimpressed. His chair groaned softly as he rose to his feet. The vines twisted, reforming instantly—slithering back toward the ruined flowerbeds, vanishing into the garden soil as if they had never existed. All but one.
A single vine remained, tall and rigid beside Luther, its tip hovering in the air like a poised blade awaiting his command.
The angel shuddered at the sight.
Without another word, Luther strode past him. His boots crunched over scattered petals until he reached the base of the towering statue. With unhurried grace, he settled himself on its edge, crossing one leg over the other.
His eyes flicked toward the angel, expression unreadable.
The silent command was enough.
The angel scrambled upright, forcing himself to stand before Luther despite his trembling legs.
A faint flick of Luther’s hand—a gesture like a king expecting an introduction.
The angel licked his dry lips, forcing a smile. "I... I am Piern. Messenger of our great father, Asmethan, Lord of the Heavens. One of his many sons, chosen to serve him in the heavenly realm. It is an honor to—"
The word cracked through the garden like a whip.
Piern blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
Luther’s eyes narrowed. His voice was sharp, venomous. "I said skip. Spare me the hymn-singing. I don’t care about your ’great father.’ A god who hides behind his statues and sends idiots like you to speak for him isn’t a god worth knowing." Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on novel✶fire.net
The angel’s smile faltered. A shadow crossed his face, his pride stung. "You... you dare speak of the Father in such—"
The vine beside Luther slashed downward, carving a deep gouge into the marble floor just inches from Piern’s foot.
Piern froze. His throat bobbed as he swallowed his outrage. His lips twisted into a strained smile instead. "Ah... of course. My mistake." He adopted a falsely sweet tone, almost coaxing, as though Luther were a stubborn child. "I was sent only to... inform you. To tell you of the wonders of the Father. To answer your questions, should you deem fit to ask. That is my purpose."
Luther leaned back slightly, arms folding across his chest. His expression betrayed nothing, though the cold gleam in his eyes warned Piern that every word was being weighed.
Minutes stretched on. Ten. Fifteen. Then more.
Luther sat perfectly still, chin raised slightly, as though deep in thought. The only movement was the faint twitch of his lips, caught between scowl and smirk.
Piern’s nerves frayed with each passing second. His hands grew clammy, sweat beading at his temples. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, desperate to break the oppressive stillness.
Finally, Luther’s lips curved.
"So tell me, Piern," he drawled, his voice dangerously calm. "Why didn’t your damn god come himself? If I’m truly his so-called ’child,’ why does he send lackeys like you? He had no issue possessing my body, no issue forcing me to open some ancient temple door—but when it comes to actually showing his face?"
He tilted his head mockingly. "Nothing. Just statues. And statues don’t count."
Piern’s mouth opened. Then closed. He looked aside, unable to hold Luther’s gaze.
The subtle gesture did not escape him.
A wicked smile spread slowly across Luther’s face. "Don’t tell me..." His voice dripped with mockery. "Asmethan is too lazy to talk to me himself? Or perhaps..." He leaned forward, tone dropping into a razor-edged whisper. "He’s busy enjoying something more pleasurable for a so-called god."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Piern’s shoulders stiffened. His lips pressed tight. He said nothing.
And that silence was answer enough.
Luther’s eyes darkened, his smile twisting into fury. "Unbelievable." His voice rose, echoing with anger. "Dragged into your nonsense, forced to bleed and break for this world, and the god behind it all can’t even be bothered to look me in the eye?!"
The vine beside him quivered, rising like a spear ready to impale.
Piern’s panic broke. He stumbled forward, raising his hands in surrender. "Wait! Wait—it is not time yet!" His words tumbled out desperately. "Father will see you! He will reveal himself in the future. But you must wait. That is all. Wait!"
Luther’s arms crossed again. His eyes narrowed to slits, heavy with disbelief. The skeptical glare he gave Piern was so sharp it felt like a blade pressed to the angel’s throat.
"...Are you fucking serious right now?"
Piern forced another shaky smile, sweat dripping down his temple. "It is the truth. You must... trust."
Luther snorted, unimpressed. "Trust? I’ve seen enough of you winged hypocrites to know that complaining won’t bring your high-headed gods down from their thrones. Even if the world itself burns, they’ll still be sitting pretty, waiting for their servants to handle the mess."
Piern flinched but said nothing.
Luther let the silence linger, his gaze heavy. Then, at last, his eyes shifted toward the statue looming behind him. His voice dropped, quieter now but sharper for it.
The question cut through the stillness.
"Why did Asmethan choose me?"
For the first time, Piern did not answer immediately. His lips parted, his face scrunching as though trying to find the right words. Finally, haltingly, he spoke.
The words fell like a hammer.
Luther froze. His jaw clenched, disbelief flashing across his face before it curdled into pure rage.
He rose slowly, his shadow stretching over the trembling angel.
The vine hissed, its tip sharpening like a blade.
And the garden held its breath.