The apple had long since rotted in her hand.
But the old woman still sat there, unmoving—eyes fixed on the glowing orb, its surface pulsing with light, war, and whispers.
Inside: chaos, blood, betrayal.
Outside: silence.
Until—
The room shifted.
The air bent.
The shadows along the stone walls deepened—then peeled away like skin, forming shapes… six of them.
Six silhouettes emerged from the corners of the witch's dim chamber—each cloaked in veils of time, darkness, and ancient intent.
One tall and hunched, her form decorated in raven feathers.
One gaunt and glass-eyed, skin like dried parchment stretched over bone.
One with a crooked crown of vines twisting through his tangled beard.
Another—a child's size—yet her voice, when she finally spoke, rang with centuries.
A fifth—limping, snorting, teeth chattering as if laughing at a joke no one told.
The last—a figure cloaked head-to-toe in stitched fabrics, neither voice nor gender clear, only humming with dreadful glee.
They all stood behind her now.
Watching.
Waiting.
The orb world shimmered in her reflection.
The old woman smiled.
Her voice was dry silk and old rum:
> "Oh… you've finally arrived."
She chuckled, licking what was left of the apple's rotten flesh off her thumb.
> "I couldn't wait, darlings. So I may have… started without you."
She leaned back into her high-backed chair—bones creaking, amusement thick in her tone.
> "Why are you always like this, hmm?"
She gestured toward the glowing sphere of chaos.
> "Always so late to the slaughter. Always insisting on the proper order… as if fate ever cared for your schedules."
The raven-feathered crone hissed:
> "Why won't you ever wait for the rest of us to begin the events?"
The parchment-skinned one tapped a bony finger against her chin.
> "We haven't even had the chance to bet on which sin shall rise first."
A flickering laugh came from the stitched one—followed by an airy voice from the child-like form:
> "Now, now… don't scowl, old friend. It's not like the Day has come yet."
She stepped forward, peering into the orb like a child at a candy jar.
> "They're still on their third day inside. The first rites haven't even begun."
The vine-crowned man rumbled low.
> "Still… you've tilted the board."
> "You've stirred the pot."
> "You've scratched the silence."
The old woman's grin widened.
> "Of course I have," she purred. "Silence is boring. And mortals make such lovely music when you poke them a little."
She pointed a knotted finger toward the orb.
Inside, Bjorn bled beneath roots.
Lucien plotted with regal malice.
Lust's eyes narrowed.
Aira's breath trembled with resolve.
> "The sins are waking."
She chuckled.
> "So why not give them a little encouragement?"
> "After all… it's almost Walpurgis."
The orb shimmered in the middle of the room like a dying star—pale, pulsing, patient.
The six silhouettes slowly circled around it, keeping a respectful distance, as though approaching a god, or a corpse.
The old woman leaned forward, her face half-lit by the orb's glow.
> "Well, since you're here now… shall we begin, hmm?"
Her bony fingers danced above the orb, and a strange chime echoed through the chamber—like broken glass being played like windchimes.
The ritual had begun.
The childlike witch grinned, her stitched doll-body twitching unnaturally.
> "You started without us, and now you want to play fair?"
> "I suppose I'll place my bet on Lust," she whispered. "They always bring the most entertainment before they fall."
The vine-crowned man stepped forward next, dragging a wooden staff that sprouted small thorns as he walked.
> "Gluttony. They move slowly, but they consume all in the end."
The crone in feathers let out a cackle.
> "Fools. Pride has already taken root. The golden boy… Lucien… he will rise."
The stitched one clicked their fingers, and several moths fluttered from the folds of their coat.
> "Envy. They're quiet. But they're watching. Always watching."
The parchment-skinned figure laughed hollowly, voice like dry leaves scraping across stone.
> "Sloth. Because while the others burn bright and loud, Sloth endures. It waits. Time is on its side."
The old woman said nothing for a while.
She simply stared into the orb, watching the flickering shape of a boy hiding under the roots of a massive tree, blood on his lips, fire in his eyes.
> "Wrath," she said softly.
Then louder.
> "No…"
She turned to the others with a crooked smile.
> "Not Wrath."
Her eyes locked on the flickering image of Bjorn, eyes half-closed, breath shallow, heart still thundering in defiance.
> "I'm betting on him."
The others glanced at each other—some amused, some skeptical, some grim.
> "That broken child?" the crown-vine witch asked.
> "He's already dying," said the Pride-backer.
The old woman bared her teeth.
> "And yet he refuses to die."
She sat back, licking her cracked lips.
> "He doesn't know what he is. Not yet. But soon, very soon…"
She whispered:
> "He will make the whole orb world bleed."
The room went silent.
And above them all, the orb pulsed—once.
Twice.
Then again.
As if acknowledging the bet.
Darkness.
Wooden floorboards. Dusty curtains. A belt being raised.
A younger Bjorn, no older than eleven, stood trembling. Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow. Before him, a towering silhouette of a woman—vaguely shaped like his aunt—held the belt in one hand, rage simmering in every breath.
> "Ungrateful little shit—go ahead, hit me back! DO IT!!"
She swung again.
The belt snapped against his back.
Again.
Again.
Smack!
Smack!
SMACK!
Young Bjorn's fingers trembled at his sides. He clenched his teeth, trying to be strong, trying not to cry. The pain—he could endure it. But the shame? The helplessness?
> "STOP CRYING! You're a man now, remember?
Bjorn's breath grew heavy. His eyes began to glow—not with tears—but with rage.
He moved to lift his hand.
To hit back.
But—
---
GASP!
He jolted awake, hand twitching upward toward empty air.
Morning.
The sun filtered faintly through the forest canopy, casting golden light through the mouth of the massive hollow-rooted tree.
Bjorn sat hunched inside the dark space, arms wrapped around his knees, sweat cold against his skin.
His eyes scanned the surroundings—quiet, still.
No footsteps. No voices.
He exhaled.
> "Tch… just a dream."
He leaned his head back against the bark, muttering bitterly.
> "How I wish it was real…"
He stared upward.
> "Eleven-year-old me was so… stupid."
A long silence.
Then—
GGGRRRRRRRWWWWLLLLLLLL
His stomach roared like a dying beast.
Bjorn winced, clutching his belly.
> "Ugh..."
He looked toward the open woods.
> "Come to think of it… it's almost been two days since I ate."
He slowly stood, wincing from his wounds and stiff joints, brushing leaves from his shirt.
> "Let's find something before those suicidal bastards find me again today."
He stepped into the forest, eyes scanning the treetops and underbrush like a ghost on the move—wounded, hungry… but very much alive.
Cut between various locations across the orb world—each showing a leader in their current setting as Lucien's messenger delivers the same message:
> "Lucien of Pride requests a meeting. He claims to have vital information regarding the Envy faction… and the survival of all the rest."
---
Sloth Faction
A crumbling shrine shaded by thick vines. Statues lie toppled and moss-covered. Within, on a stone dais, the Sloth leader reclines with his head resting on his palm, body sunk deep into worn cushions.
The messenger finishes reading the note.
Sloth Leader (half-lidded eyes):
> "Yare yare daze…"
He turns his head one inch toward the messenger.
> "…Waking me up… just for that?"
He lifts his other arm slowly and stretches with a groan like the forest itself.
> "Tch. Fine. If the world's ending, might as well watch it happen standing up..."
---
Wrath Faction
Inside a half-destroyed bunker of bones and scrap metal, the Wrath leader sits with bandages wrapping his torso. Blood seeps through them, but his eyes are blazing.
The messenger, clearly a low-ranking Pride member, delivers the message, standing at attention.
> "Lucien seeks a—"
CRACKKK!!!
The Wrath leader SLAMS his hand down on the table, shattering it into splinters before the messenger finishes.
The messenger flinches, but—chest held high, pride flickering in his eyes—he does not retreat.
Wrath Leader (through clenched teeth):
> "That bastard thinks he worthy of summoning me . Who does he thinks he is HAH!"?
He glares up at the messenger, blood running down his side.
> "Tell him I'll come… and if he's wasting my time, I'll crush more than a table."
The messenger nods once and backs away slowly, still not looking away.
---
Lust Faction
Inside a decadent ruined ballroom, red silks drape cracked pillars. Laughter and moans echo faintly from behind curtains. The Lust leader, bare-shouldered and wrapped in serpentine jewelry, lounges across a plush couch as two servants fan her with feathers.
The messenger kneels, trying not to look directly at her.
> "Lucien of Pride requests a—"
Lust Leader (interrupting with a sultry grin):
> "Oh… how bold…"
She licks her lips, sits upright slightly.
> "The boy wants to play politics now… How exciting…"
She leans closer toward the messenger, whispering like venom:
> "Mmm… I'm getting wet just thinking about it…"
The messenger gulps.
She throws her head back and laughs.
> "Tell him I'll come… but only if he knows how to entertain a lady."
---
Greed / Gluttony Faction (shared grounds)
Inside a ruined cathedral now repurposed into a market of stolen goods and forbidden food, Greed sits atop a throne made of broken coin chests while Gluttony gorges on something disturbingly unidentifiable nearby.
The messenger bows respectfully.
> "Lucien invites you both to a meeting. Urgent. It concerns the Envy faction."
Greed (sharpening a golden knife):
> "Information is power… power is currency…"
He tosses a coin up, catches it without looking.
> "And I never say no to a good investment."
He flashes a grin.
> "Tell Lucien I'll be there… and he better come with more than just words."
The messenger nods.
Behind him, Gluttony suddenly stops chewing.
Gluttony (voice muffled, stuffed mouth):
> "Mmmmh… Sounds like a feast. Maybe they'll bleed while talking…"
He giggles.
> "I'll come too. Can't let him eat all the drama alone."
They both laugh—Greed with elegance, Gluttony with madness.
---
Back to Pride's Territory – Lucien's Room
Lucien, standing at the highest balcony, gazes over the forest canopy with arms folded behind him.
Lucien (smirking):
> "Let the games begin."
[Deep within the forest – morning mist clinging to roots and branches]
A dense wall of trees muffles all sound. Time seems frozen here.
Amidst the shadowed woods stands a tall silhouette, motionless beneath a crooked, dying tree. Their entire form is cloaked in flowing layers—almost like the forest grew over them. Nothing but the outline of a human… watching.
They've seen everything—the rise of Bjorn, the fracturing factions, Lucien's growing ambition.
The camera pushes forward, slowly revealing more of the dark figure. Leaves part in the wind. A sharp jawline appears, pale skin like marble. And then…
A smile.
Thin. Cruel. Poisoned with satisfaction.
The kind of smile you wear when your plan is working—and no one even knows you were playing.
This is no spy.
This is Envy incarnate.
Their voice doesn't speak aloud… but the expression says enough:
> "Let the others shout, scheme, and bleed."
"The true destruction… begins from within."
Fade to black.