In the center of the ceiling, arranged in a septagram shape, was a circle of white candles, the flames hanging down onto thin wicks, like clusters of golden lantern fruits.
The candles were scorched by the heat, melting into drops of translucent wax, which slowly rolled down the wicks into the flames, emitting a soft sizzling sound and casting a gentle light.
A few green vines stretched out slender tendrils, like curling claws, clinging to the white candles, and the tender leaves on the tendrils opened their arms, hungrily absorbing the heat radiating from the flames, leaving mottled black shadows in the soft candlelight below.
Around the oval meeting table, the seven members of the Seven Sins silently stared at the pot of vines in the center of the table, speechless for a moment. In the room, apart from the sound of Beelzebub munching on something, there was no other noise.
Friedman could hardly hear anyone else's breathing.
