For sixty relentless days, Veyr was paraded across more than a hundred Righteous Faction worlds, dragged through their capital streets like a captured beast, while crowds lined up to spit, curse, and hurl whatever they could find at his broken body.
From the shimmering towers of Voralis to the ash-covered slums of Myraxis, the story was always the same: a chained Dragon displayed as a trophy, a fallen messiah mocked by those who once trembled at his name.
By the end of the sixtieth day, when even the novelty of his humiliation began to fade, the Righteous Faction announced something far darker than any parade.
