CHAPTER 53: Highcourt's Pyre
Imperial Capital – Highcourt, The Dawn of Cleansing
The smoke from the Grand Imperial Granary still stained the morning sky, a bitter taste on Highcourt's air, but a new, more terrifying stench had begun to spread: the acrid tang of burning flesh and the cloying sweetness of massed incense. The initial chaos that followed Seyda's strike had hardened into a cold, systematic terror. Legionaries, their faces grim, moved through the city's districts, their commands echoing with chilling precision, rounding up those deemed suspicious.
Archlector Malgrad, his crimson robes now stiff with dried ash, stood on a makeshift pulpit erected in the Grand Plaza, where the gilded statue of Emperor Valerius the Pure usually held court. His voice, amplified by hidden conduits of the Flame, boomed across the terrified populace, mingling with the wails of the condemned.
"Heresy! Abomination! The Serpent Witch, the profane hand of Kael Ashmark, has defiled our sacred soil! She has twisted the very Flame to her unholy purpose!" Malgrad's eyes burned with righteous fury. "But the Flame consumes all impurities! This city, this Empire, shall be cleansed! Any who harbor doubt, any who whisper dissent, any who question the Emperor's divine right and the Church's truth—they are the rot within! And the rot shall burn!"
Behind him, Father Loris and Father Joric, their brazer staffs held high, led legions of Purifiers. Their chants filled the air, a maddening, incessant drone that seemed to strip away reason. They were not merely searching. They were hunting.
The Cleansing Fire – Streets of Highcourt
The cleansing began in the merchant quarter, where whispers of supply disruptions and Kael's "mercies" had been loudest. Shops were smashed open. Homes invaded. Families dragged into the streets. Legionaries, driven by the Purifiers' zealous fervor, showed no mercy.
A young merchant, found with a coded message from Virelle's network (a message about diverted supplies, not rebellion), was dragged before a roaring pyre. He pleaded, screamed, but his words were swallowed by the chants. Father Joric, his face impassive, condemned him as a "traitor to the stomach and the soul." The merchant was thrown onto the pyre, his cries abruptly cut short by the crackling flames. The smell of his burning flesh mingled with the incense. The crowd, forced to watch, averted their eyes, but the terror was palpable, a chilling silence that gripped them.
In the Scholars' Quarter, where independent thinkers and exiled poets had found refuge, the purge was more insidious. Books were burned in massive bonfires, their ancient wisdom curling into ash. Scholars, accused of spreading "heretical thoughts" that questioned the Empire's narratives, were seized. Chancellor Elharn, observing from a distance, saw the efficiency. These were not just arrests; they were an erasure of memory, of thought, of anything that might challenge the Crown's absolute truth. He felt a cold knot of dread. This was more brutal than even he had anticipated.
Duke Averne, observing the crackdown in his own district, watched Legionaries string up suspected sympathizers from lampposts, leaving them to slowly choke. Their faces were contorted in agony, their last gasps mocking the silent crowd. The Black Riders of Vellgaard, usually reserved for battlefield enforcement, were conspicuous in their presence, their masked faces reflecting no emotion as they oversaw the brutalities. This was discipline, yes. But it was a madness.
The Price of Fury – Orsain's Gaze
High Crown Orsain Vellgaard watched the fires from his palace window, his face grim. The screams carried on the wind, faint but unmistakable. The Archlector had delivered. The city was indeed being cleansed. The smoke, thick and black, blotted out the rising sun, turning day into a perpetual twilight.
He saw the fear in the faces of his court guards, in his own ministers. The capital was quiet now, yes, but it was the silence of terror, not peace. He had demanded retribution. He had received a bloodbath. He thought of Kael, the rebel who had forced this choice upon him. He had sought to prove Kael a monster, but in doing so, he had unveiled the Empire's own monstrous face to the world.
Lord Marshal Daegarn stood beside Orsain, his own face a mask of weary resolve. "The city is secured, Your Grace. The dissent has been… suppressed."
Orsain simply nodded. He saw the black smoke rising from the pyres. He tasted the ash of fear on his tongue. He had demanded fire, and Malgrad had given it to him. But this fire, unlike Seyda's insidious, internal burn, was an external conflagration, visible for all to see, poisoning the very air his loyal subjects breathed. The populace would obey now, yes. But they would also remember. And they would hate.
He knew Kael would learn of this. He would know the depths of the Empire's desperation. And Kael would use it. He would use every scream, every burning book, every executed peasant to fuel his rebellion, to solidify his claims.
"Send word to the legions," Orsain commanded, his voice hoarse, staring out at the burning city. "Tell them the Capital has been cleansed. Tell them their sacrifices are understood. And tell them… we expect swift victory. This cannot continue."
Daegarn nodded, a grim understanding in his eyes. The Empire had answered Kael's gamble with its own. Highcourt was cleansed, but it bore a deeper scar than any physical wound. The nature of the brutal executions, the terrorized populace, and the widespread state-sponsored violence left an indelible mark on the capital's soul, a grim testament to the Emperor's fury and desperation. The loyalty of fear was a fragile thing, and the pyres of Highcourt were burning brighter than any flame of faith.