Screams and the wet, tearing sound of flesh echoed through the darkened chamber. Blood crawled across the stone floor in slow, lazy rivulets, pooling beneath bodies that no longer twitched. Dry, broken coughs rattled from ruined throats—sounds that came from people who weren't quite dead yet, but desperately wished they were.
Fortunately, no one normal was present. If there had been, the scene would have shattered minds.
This was an interrogation room in name only. In practice, it was a slaughterhouse that had already finished its work.
The Order of Voriel.
That was the name carved into Jerry's thoughts as clearly as if it had been etched into his skull with a blade.
A newly risen Order. Fanatical. Organized. And worst of all, sanctioned.
They followed the will of Voriel, the Gravebinder, a god of Death who did not hide behind intermediaries or vague omens. He commanded. He claimed. And now, he was reaching outward.
The assassins who had attacked were never meant to succeed.
