"Praise slaughter, praise death, praise war, praise the bloodstained land.￠￡"
"Your name, written in blood, spreads through the depths of hell. The howling north wind is your blade, sickness and old age are your spear. You shall not lose, die, or perish. When we chant your name, you will surely return to this land once more."
"Great Frederick, you are the master of all things, the end of all creation!"
The murmurs in the square gathered into one mass, like the groans of dying patients lingering in everyone's ears. Strands of blood flowed through the cracks between the mud and flagstones like red snakes, winding outward and staining the ground beneath everyone's feet crimson.
Above the uneven rooftops, firelight dyed the night red. Pillars of thick smoke shot into the sky, while sparks drifted across the entire Imperial Capital on the rising hot air, like a river of scattered stars.
Far from the edge of the square, the bishop raised his head and used his hand, covered in age spots, to open his heavy cloak. He watched the scene devoutly. In a low, hoarse voice, he said:
"Thirty years ago, in Metz, I dreamed of everything happening today. I saw black flames rise from beneath the earth and reduce this decaying empire to ashes with my own eyes."
The young cultists gazed at the archbishop with reverence. To those who lived in darkness, the great purge thirty years ago had been unforgettable in every sense. In every rural village in East Metz, countless witches, mages who practiced Black Magic, and people declared heretics were dragged from their homes every day. They were either hanged or tied to the stake and burned.
Those had been the darkest days in all of East Metz. Though the evil forces had been struck down