"You all should leave. Take those ox carts and go home," Xion said, tossing a lighter into the goblet.
The flame roared to life as it touched the crimson.
The blood-soaked tongue, bloated and grotesque, thrashed against the metal rim, shrieking in agony as the flames started to devour it.
A sickening sizzle filled the air.
The people could only watch in stunned silence.
Some had still clung to hope that Saintess Talia would explain. Maybe this was all a misunderstanding? But now, watching that thing burn, they finally accepted the truth.
She had nothing to say at all.
A few bold ones inched toward the exit with wary, darting eyes. And the crowd slowly followed behind them.
Orren, half-laughing in disbelief that he was still alive, sat on the cold floor.
"Old man, you should leave too," Xion said gently while motioning to the doors. "I hope you live a happy life with your son."
