Decades of pent-up resentment in Zelheim's Lower City District were ignited in an instant by a spark called "truth."
It had begun as a simple gathering to demand answers.
The people didn't even have proper weapons—only rusty shovels, work hammers, and even a trampled turnip.
"Come out! Explain yourselves!"
"We won't drink worm water!"
"Hand over the antidote that kills the worms!"
They gathered around the central church of the Third Parish. Its great black iron gates were sealed shut. A dozen or so armed church personnel cowered behind the railings, their halberds trembling slightly. The points of their weapons were aimed at the very lambs they claimed to "shepherd," their expressions a mask of panicked bluster.
