Prologue

Screams of rebellion shattered the night sky above Vine Mansion. A lopsided structure reduced to its skeleton, any semblance of its former glory disappeared with a second glance. An uneasy breeze blew past the high-arched balconies into a small room, stirring invisible cold coils of air through the cramped and chaotic space. Flustered midwives and butlers took turns attending to the pale woman lying on bloodied sheets.

"Congratulations, Madam," the Handmaiden, a woman whose eyes of tenderness would put any mother to shame, whispered with an expression of vicarious joy. She held the baby up for Madam to see. The baby's small arms were flailing in unison with her cries – her face still smeared with uncleaned blood.

The mother of the child, head of the Vine Family, cracked open an eye with great effort. And almost imperceptibly, the corners of her lips turned up into a small grin. There was a novel sense of pride ballooning within her, as if some flower in her had finally borne fruit after perennial impotence. Her irises reflected back red.

"Poppy," the name rolled like liquid over her tongue. "I'm going to name her Poppy."

"The flower poppy, Ma'am?"

"Yes, after the flower."

A pause. A starving indulgence in fervid fantasies. A thirst for the golden crown. The Handmaiden was the first to snap out of the delirium, a gnawing anxiety brewing in her heart finally began to boil over after powering through the tumultuous delivery process with pure strength of will. There were more important things at hand than celebrating the birth of a new heiress to the family.

"Madam, how are you planning to handle the Atheist Faction? The scale of their operation is already well beyond our expectations. I'm afraid, if this continues…"

As a servant, she was well-versed in the artful ellipsis.

"Cut off the head of the snake, and the body will die. Countermeasures have already been prepared against them. I'm tired. Let me rest, Maize."

Madam's authoritative tone forcibly terminated further conversation.

~

Some distance away from the Vine Mansion lies a huge slab of land marked by eight flag poles. This is the Town Square where the seeds of gossips and disease and relationships germinate and spread through the intertwining lives of many shady merchants who prey on unsuspecting victims, zealous artisans who will do any favours for a gold coin or two, and aimless vagabonds and slaves who beg for money and mercy. On the rare occasion when the whipping gets too unbearable and life becomes too much of a hassle, a slave will unfailingly extinguish its last breath with a ghastly scream and promptly expire on the spot. Afterward, one may observe the curious sight of a band of beggars quarrelling and fighting over the possessions of the God-sent clothes supplier, and all in the blink of an eye, the corpse will be stripped stark naked and transformed into a public ornament.

A thick solemnity now pervaded the dreary landscape of the Town Square as an ever-growing crowd swarmed around a man tied to a large stake in the middle of the square. A blowing horn called for silence. Commanding everyone's attention was an old woman of small stature, her frame accentuated by the maroon-coloured shawl draped on her bony shoulders, and a great forehead, around which a black headscarf encircled itself snugly. The sagely aura of her demeanour aptly complemented her equally wise words.

"As the head of the Religious Sect, I, Temple Master Rye, hereby declare you a heretic for trying to attack the very core faith that ties us all together. We are a polytheistic community that is built upon the faith of the common people. When you, leader of the Atheist Faction, actively attack the doctrines that make up the cornerstone of our community, it is a mark of betrayal of the fundamental values that we worship. All who are present at this moment shall be witness to your sin and the Religious Sect shall exercise its holy right to punish you in hopes of you repenting in your next life. For if the diabolical roots within you are not extirpated, then as surely as the sun revolves the Earth, another diabolical faction will spawn to challenge the authority of the Religious Sect.

Executioner, light the fire."

The orange glow of the fire melted into the September sunset. From the crowd, five-year-old Riven broke free from the grip of a monk and ran after the ravaging wicked flames. Tears streamed uncontrollably down his russet cheeks, his vision shaky and wild. The chamber in his heart bottling all his fear and desperation and frustration crashed as he tripped and tumbled to the ground, skidding right to the feet of the Temple Master. His howling cries gathered no sympathy.

"Boy, your father got what he deserved. He should've known his place," Rye said, leaning down solemnly, as if imparting some profound irrefutable fact of life. Glaring at her was a pair of sobbing hateful eyes.