She closed her eyes, her hands rising as she began to focus her power. A soft, golden light emanated from her, and across the citadel, and beyond, in every survivor branded with the Mark of Scales, the shimmering symbol on their skin began to flicker, weaken, and fade.
Outside the throne room, chaos erupted.
Confusion reigned first. Soldiers looked at their hands, then at each other, their faces a canvas of bewilderment. Then came the cacophony of mixed feelings—liberation for some, sheer panic for others who had built their entire identity around the Order.
"It's gone... the Mark is gone!"
"What do we do now?What's happening?"
"Heikal...where is Leader Heikal?"
The fragile discipline snapped. A scuffle broke out near the entrance hall. A man who had always secretly resented the control threw a punch at a fervent loyalist who was screaming about treachery. The sound of clashing metal and angry shouts began to echo through the corridors.
The New Order was turning on itself.
