The bells of the Holy Citadel rang hollow.
Not in triumph, but in alarm. The sound echoed across the white spires of the Church's capital, sending ripples of unease through the sleeping city.
In the high council chamber, light from stained glass windows painted the marble floor in hues of gold and violet. But the beauty of the room did nothing to ease the heavy atmosphere.
High Inquisitor Seraphiel stood at the center of the table, knuckles pressed against the polished stone. His armor gleamed, but his face was pale, jaw clenched. Around him, the Cardinals shifted nervously in their scarlet robes.
At last, the doors opened. A group of battered knights entered, armor cracked, bandages wrapped hastily around bleeding wounds. Their leader stumbled forward, dropping to one knee before the council.
"Crowmere has fallen," he gasped, blood staining his lips.
The chamber erupted.
"What do you mean fallen?" one Cardinal demanded.
