The Criswell's Curse

Finally, I arrived at Astin, the royal capital of Ashen’s Kingdom.

The bigger streets were lively, filled with people’s laughter and joy. Shops adorned themselves beautifully, catching the attention of anyone who passed by. Seeing such luxurious items, peasants fawned, imagining they were the owners of such relics. With the breeze, the sweet smell of chocolate and freshly baked bread rode up the street, allowing the stomach of the hungry ones to wishfully groan.

This scenery, however, didn’t last long. The further I walked into the secondary streets; the scarcer life became. Beautiful buildings gradually switched to decaying houses, filled with cranky old wood and its all-year-round residents: termites. Shops were humbly dirty, filled with mold and dust all around. Beggars sat on the ground with extended, bony hands, praying for someone’s sympathy.

Bars appeared alongside several pools of beer on the dirt ground, mixing with the intense smell of urine from the sidelines. Drunkards walked around without a path in mind, hoping to swallow their sorrows and regrets with just another glass.

The joyous laughter was gone, giving birth to loud music and yelling women, shrinking with their flirtatious voices. Glasses crashed on the floor, alcohol poured down, moans echoed through the street. Some meters ahead from this sinful display, several men laid their back against a thick concrete wall, filling their lungs with some rather expensive cigars. Their clothes were shabby, overused and a size too big. They were mercenaries.

Right next to them stood what I’d been searching for. A tall building made of dark red bricks stood before me, with all its glory. As my figure approached, suspicious gazes from my surroundings fell on me, its intensity peaking the moment my body stopped at the side entrance.

Knock.

The thick iron door opened with a shriek.

“What do ya want? Did you lose your way, kid?” An intense smell of tobacco and alcohol exited the body of the muscular, bald man in front of me.

“It’s a lovely day for a picnic.” I raised my head.

His chocolate-colored eyes widened. Certainly, he wasn’t expecting me to know what this place truly was as, to most people, this establishment was a very successful bar, bringing many good men’s judgment to ruin. However, if you had the right connections, you’d known the password to enter what was known as The Garden.

“Indeed.” He chuckled. “Come on in, kid.”

It was on my 2nd life that I overheard Marquess Verne talk about a special garden somewhere in the capital. At the time, he spoke with Alvin, in one of his scarce visits, hoping to gain his favor for a new investment venture.

“A Garden with a flower for any type of need.” Those were the exact words he used to describe the place.

Back then, such sentence appeared innocent, forcing me to assume this was but a florist whose clever business name was captivating. But questions did arise.

How could flowers possibly fulfill any needs besides bringing a faint glimpse of joy?

Three months later, two guards arriving straight from the capital in the peak of the night, both drowned in rum and beer, talked loudly by my window.

“And you know... that prick wants to go there again tomorrow.” One of them said as he leaned his weakened body on the other, who simply laughed at his comment.

After sneezing because of the harsh Frosting wind, his colleague continued. “He must’ve bought all the black market by now... these rich fuckers and their spending... if I was rich, I would use it all on Emma!”

“Why? She’s just a whore, dude.” As he replied, a loud burp came out. They both rested against the wall, preventing their bodies from falling to the ground. Regaining some footing, the first one removed a cigarette and lit it up, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke into the cold air.

“That’s because you haven’t been with her...” A smug popped up on the man’s face, as if he was proudly bragging of his own achievements. “Emma’s hands are magical, far better than mine, you see?”

“You’re joking. You think she’s better than you at it?” At his question, the man smoking nodded.

With this, their obnoxious laughter rang through the area, probably waking up a handful of servants. “Next time, ask for her. I’m telling you; you won’t regret it.”

After that, everything became clear. The Garden was the name everyone used for the black market, since all their products and services were associated with a unique flower.

When another guard appeared, holding a large bottle of liquor in his hands, the conversation became even more interesting. From Emma, they started to talk about the market itself and, due to their carelessness, I memorized some information which would prove to be useful in the future: “Roses” were the flowers used for hiring assassins, “Tulips” for buying slaves, “Sunflowers” for drugs and lastly, “Orchids” for acquiring poisons.

As we walked down the rather dark halls, dimly lit by a handful of white candles, several iron doors passed by. They were locked and yet I sensed the men behind them, waiting to strike at the moment’s notice.

My lungs inhaled the gingery fragrance from the incenses on the top shelves, forcing my weak body to become lighter. There was something in it that made you weak, relaxing your body as if you’d just awaken from a long nap.

I’m surrounded. Was the first thing that popped into my head, forcing an icy shiver to crawl down my spine. Mercenaries watched me from all the corners in this tight corridor and, at the smallest threat, at any bad comment or sign of danger, they’d wipe my existence away with no regrets.

I gulped. This was a test. It had to be.

Finally, the bald man stopped in front of an iron door. He glared at me as if he was waiting, expecting something else from me.

“I need some flowers. Tulips, to be exact.” At my statement, he grinned.

His large hand grabbed the handle and a higher shrieking sound rung through the hall, allowing the heavy door to open. A bright red light showered my eyes, forcing me to blink several times before getting accustomed to it. The walls, painted in a crimson red, mingled well with the furry dark brown carpet covering the floor. The faint smell of ginger had dissipated, giving birth to a potent mixture of incenses, mostly from drug consumption by the handful of gentlemen at the bar in their expensive suits. Reactively, I covered my nose, breathing in as little as possible, not knowing how much my tolerance would allow.

I was weak and if my body kept on taking this amount of essences, it wouldn’t take long for me to pass out in a corner somewhere. The man laughed, amused by my sudden action.

My eyes then shifted to the men and women standing behind the stalls, showcasing their products patiently, just like carnivorous plants carefully waiting for a little fly to be drawn to their sweet scent. Contrary to most merchants, they wouldn’t yell or chase customers around; instead, they simply stood there, some resting their bodies, others examining everything that moved as if money wasn’t a problem that affected all but the higher-class.

“Go straight and you’ll find your Tulips.” The man shut the door and removed a cigarette from his shirt pocket moments later. Noticing my slight reluctance, he patted my back. “Knock two times, kid. Don’t forget it.”

And with that, he left, focusing his attention on his lifelong lover: a large cup of beer.

After walking a handful of minutes, trying to take in everything surrounding me, my feet stopped in front of a thick iron door decorated by a handful of spikes, threatening to kill any intruder. Just like the man said, I knocked; twice.

Several strange sounds echoed through the area, almost as if someone was unlocking many padlocks from behind the metal entrance. The door eventually opened and another overwhelmingly tall, bald man opened the door. Noticing no one in his sight, he glanced down, greeting me with his sharp dark eyes and way too vivid battle scars.

Seeing my figure, he grinned. “Are you here to see the Tulips, Miss?”

“Yes.” I replied before allowing the strange man to lead me down the stairs.