The cathedral square was a sea of torches, flickering like dying embers against the oppressive grey of dawn. Malphas felt the mob’s collective fury through the stone, a jagged pulse of heat that scorched the remnants of his fading consciousness. They were not merely thirsty. They were desperate, and in their desperation, they had turned toward the only thing left to blame: the silent, unresponsive gods of the cathedral.
"They are bringing hammers," Lyra whispered, her voice a mere vibration in the foundation. She felt the heavy thuds of masonry being dismantled in the square above. "They think if they tear down the altar, the water will return. They are digging for the source of their suffering."
"They are digging for their own graves," Malphas projected, his awareness stretching toward
