After the prayer for the dead had been whispered by the crowd and the priests alike, the square fell into a silence.
Then, without a word, one of the nuns—clad in ceremonial black, her expression as cold and unreadable as Joy's stepped forward.
In her hands, she held a crystal vial filled with holy water. She uncorked it without ceremony and poured it over Joy's hands.
The water splashed over her skin, washing away the thick red that coated her fingers and wrists, as if absolving her of sin itself. Joy cupped some of it, splashed it on her own face.
Another nun silently handed her a handkerchief and Joy accepted it and wiped her face slowly, her expression never changing.
Then she turned toward the bodies.
"Hang all eight of them in the middle of the square."
She said quietly, her tone firm and emotionless.
"Let every soul that passes here remember what happens when greed mocks the Goddess. Let their bodies teach what words cannot."
