The Astraia Main Cathedral stood as a monument to celestial arrogance, its twin spires piercing the grey morning sky like jagged needles of white marble. Inside, the air was a suffocating blend of expensive frankincense and the cold, damp scent of ancient stone. Light filtered through massive stained-glass windows, splashing the nave in bloody reds and bruised purples, but the warmth of the sun never truly reached the floor. Thousands of citizens had gathered, their murmurs creating a low, vibrating hum that echoed off the vaulted ceilings. They had come for the Sunday liturgy, but the atmosphere was not one of peace. It was heavy with the lingering terror of the morning’s grisly display at the South Gate and the economic shockwaves that had turned their pockets into repositories of paper.
