Pray for the Wicked | ATEEZ

52.

I bitterly swallowed my thoughts from yesterday about the confidence I had labeled as real as I stared through the dimmed mosaic window before me, watching Odeion which loomed in the dark distance.

Shaky fingers found the chain around my waist, fumbling and picking at the gold. The song of the metal was faint and hollow in the roar of noise surrounding me.

I glanced across my shoulder, stealing a look at the servants rushing down the hallway, hurrying from room to room with armfuls of splendid decorations, servers carrying trays and plates brimming with lavish arrangements of food, and guards clad in gilded armor marching after them. Everyone was preparing for tonight.

With a shaky breath, I turned my back to them once more, chest aching from nervousness.

All that stood between me and the grand celebration were minutes. The hours had long wasted away. It was now, and if I didn't arrive soon, I would be late. Still, I found myself unable to leave the corner I had hidden away in as I fixed my attention on the midnight scene in front of me.

I tried to imagine the way the sun would rise above the horizon in mere hours, tried to picture the way its ways would spread and allow the light to flood into Hell for the first time in centuries. All because of Hongjoong and me. It was nearly impossible for me to paint the picture in my mind.

Odeion would be unrecognizable, and I would be responsible. The twilight paradise visible through the colourful glass panes would never again be the same, the tempting darkness forever gone. All because of a fallen angel.

I felt far from ready to face the people eagerly waiting in anticipation by the Aubade Basilica, and, as I watched my obscured reflection stare back at me, I couldn't help but feel small and unworthy of their gratitude. My breath came quicker and quicker the more my worry grew, my chest rising and falling in irregular intervals.

I wasn't ready.

I wasn't a hero.

I wasn't a saviour.

I was a traitor. A fallen angel. A sinner.

I flinched at the warmth of a hand on my shoulder, a gasp parting my lips as I was torn from my downward spiral of self-criticism and turned to the son of Satan. His smile faltered as his eyes found mine, the excitement written across his face melting into that of concern instead.

"Are you alright?" he asked, carefully.

"I'm fine," I said, but the lie tasted bitter despite how effortlessly it had slipped off my tongue. I straightened myself, smoothing down the fabric of my midnight dress as I put on a mask of sincerity.

My attire complimented his tunic, and the chain circling my hips the gold-work threat neatly sewn into the dark fabric of his top. His robe, on the other hand, complete with crimson and dragons, made him stand out.

San looked powerful as he moved to stand in front of me, a stark contrast to the colourful panes of glass behind him. His ebony eyes were disarming, the way his raven hair brushed against his forehead as a frown creased the skin between his brows even more so.

"You underestimate me if you think I'm that easily fooled, angel," he said to which I hesitated before, at last, mumbling, "I'm nervous."

"And why is that?" he asked, his voice earnest, sincere, as the question settled in the air between us. Dark eyes searched my face as he awaited my answer which I found came easily to me.

"Because wearing black won't change the fact that I'm the daughter of your worst enemy, San," I admitted, surprised at my own honesty. And then the floodgates were open, allowing the rest of my fears to come rushing down like a violent flood.