High Inquisitor Vael threw his head back and burst into wild, screeching laughter.
He gripped his jeweled platinum scepter with both hands, pointing its diamond-encrusted tip straight at Lin Mo’s chest. Behind him, fifty dark-armored inquisitors drew their jagged shortswords, forming a defensive ring around the marble pulpit.
At the base of the dais, two hundred black-iron mercenary guards slammed their heavy tower shields together, shoving back the front rows of shivering northern pilgrims with brutal force.
For three long years, Vael had ruled the northern province through terror, manufactured miracles, and dark blood-gold.
Whenever an honest priest, village magistrate, or local elder questioned his lavish expenditures, Vael branded them as heretics and had them dragged into the cathedral dungeons. Northern families lived in constant dread of his midnight inquisitor raids.
Vael looked down at the freezing crowd, his face adopting an expression of pious, sanctimonious sorrow.
“My flock!” Vael cried out, his voice trembling with theatrical grief. “The Sacred Light demands obedience! To question the holy tribunal is to invite eternal hellfire upon your children! The freezing winter is not a curse; it is divine purification for your secret sins! Give your grain to the church, and the light shall warm your souls!”
