Screams tore through the night sky of Zelheim.
In Central Square, the once impeccably dressed nobles could no longer be bothered with decorum, shoving and pushing as they fled. Trampled peacock meat mixed with mud, expensive velvet tablecloths snagged on collapsed chair legs, and red wine spilled across the ground, a glaring, bloody red.
Against the torrent of the crowd, two figures stood unmoving, like reefs in a raging sea.
Prince Willandar raised a hand, unhurriedly straightening the cuff of his trench coat, which had been wrinkled by the crowd. He glanced aside at the monster gnawing on a table leg, one eyebrow slightly raised.
"Velin, your malice toward the Church is a little excessive."
The Prince's tone was calm, yet laced with an absurd sense of knowing.
Velin stood at his side, his eyes fixed on the ever-expanding bishop at the center of the stage. At the Prince's words, he sighed, a touch of helplessness in his voice.
