Edward stood on the fleshy altar, the quiet epicenter of a world that had just been fundamentally broken. The last, glittering shards of the shattered rift faded into nothingness, leaving behind a silence so profound it felt louder than the previous chaos. He looked down at the High Priest, his glowing eyes devoid of any discernible emotion. The question, "What are you?" hung in the air, a testament to a faith that had just been executed. Edward offered no answer.
The surviving cultists, their fanaticism extinguished by the sheer, blasphemous spectacle they had just witnessed, were frozen in place. Their divine mandate had been consumed, their connection to their god severed and devoured right before their eyes. They were soldiers whose flag had just been eaten. The corrupted energy that had fueled their swords sputtered and died, leaving them with nothing but simple, mundane steel.
