The bells of Saint Ravel tolled ominously through the foggy morning, their iron clangs heavy with dread rather than hope.
Inside the vast marble halls of the Cathedral, a grim scene unfolded.
Dozens of priests, clerics, and junior inquisitors were herded into the Grand Assembly. Armed Templars stood guard around the perimeter, eyes cold, swords gleaming. No one spoke above a whisper.
At the head of the hall, Grand Inquisitor Velric sat like a vulture perched upon a throne of polished bone. His robes were darker today, almost black, and his eyes burned with the feverish light of paranoia.
"The rot spreads faster than we thought," Velric intoned, his voice carrying across the chamber. "It festers in the hearts of our own flock."
He gestured sharply. A trembling priest was dragged forward, pushed to his knees.
"Brother Maltheus," Velric said coldly, "charged with sedition. With speaking against the divine authority. With conspiring with... demons."
Gasps rose from the gathering.
Maltheus — a man who had once been respected, even beloved — wept openly, shaking his head.
"N-no! I would never— I swear on the Holy Flame—"
Velric ignored his cries.
He raised a gnarled hand.
The guards obeyed without hesitation.
The priest's screams were brief, ending in a sickening snap. His lifeless body slumped to the floor, a warning more eloquent than any sermon.
Velric's gaze swept across the assembly.
"Understand this," he hissed. "Faith is not merely belief — it is obedience. Doubt will not be tolerated. Mercy will not be given."
A heavy, oppressive silence followed.
In the shadows near the grand pillars, blending seamlessly among low-ranked clerics, Lucien observed it all.
A cold satisfaction curled in his chest.
He hadn't needed to lift a finger. A few planted rumors. A few misdirected letters.
And the Church had begun devouring itself.
"Paranoia is the sharpest dagger," Lucien thought. "It makes them kill their own far better than any blade I could forge."
He turned quietly and slipped away before the assembly ended, the seeds of chaos growing ever stronger in his wake.
---
Later that night, in the Black Rose's hidden meeting place...
The atmosphere was electric. News of the Church's brutal executions had spread like wildfire through the lower districts.
Townsfolk whispered that the clergy had become mad.
That the "Holy Ones" killed their own out of fear.
That the gods had turned their faces away.
Exactly as Lucien had planned.
He sat at the head of the long table, watching his allies — or rather, his puppets — argue and scheme.
"We need to strike soon!" barked Grast, the broad-shouldered mercenary leader. "While they're turning on each other, we take the Cathedral by force!"
"No," Lucien said simply.
The room froze.
Grast's nostrils flared. "Why the hell not?"
Lucien leaned forward slightly, his crimson eyes glinting in the candlelight.
"Because a crumbling tower is far easier to push once the foundation has rotted completely."
Grast opened his mouth to argue again — then hesitated.
The look in Lucien's eyes wasn't one of passion or hope.
It was cold. Calculated. Unbreakable.
In that moment, even the most stubborn realized something vital:
Lucien wasn't leading a rebellion for justice.
He was orchestrating an annihilation.
A slow, methodical destruction.
Grast grunted and sat back down.
The meeting continued, but now the tone was different.
More cautious.
More obedient.
Lucien smiled thinly, hiding his satisfaction behind a mask of casual indifference.
"Patience," he thought. "Let the wolves devour each other first. Then... I'll set fire to the whole forest."
---
Meanwhile, in a hidden chamber beneath the Cathedral...
Velric paced furiously. His advisors — the few he still trusted — huddled nervously around a table piled with parchments, maps, and witness reports.
"It is not coincidence," Velric growled. "It is coordinated!"
"But... we have no proof, Your Eminence," one of the advisors dared to say.
"No proof?" Velric spat, slamming a heavy fist onto the table, sending documents flying. "Proof is for cowards! I feel it in my very bones — someone, or something, orchestrates this rot!"
Another advisor, a sly-looking scribe, leaned forward cautiously.
"There is... one possibility, my lord," he whispered. "A demon in human skin. A creature that manipulates hearts and minds instead of wielding claws and flames."
Velric's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Then we shall burn every district. Every alley. Every soul, if we must."
He turned toward a nearby wall, where a large, detailed map of Saint Ravel hung.
His fingers traced the districts: the merchant squares, the noble lanes, the slums.
His hand paused over the Shrouded Quarter.
"The corruption festers there," he murmured. "I can feel it."
He turned back to his advisors, madness gleaming in his gaze.
"Prepare the purges. No mercy. No warnings. By week's end... the Shrouded Quarter will be nothing but ash."
---
End of Chapter 12