They came before sunrise.
No warning. No calls for surrender.
Only the sound of armoured boots dragging mud through alleys that had no names.
The slums were still half asleep when the first screams started.
Brother Telan stepped through the smoke slowly, robes fluttering at his sides. The heat of the nearby fires shimmered against his skin, sweat already sticking to his neck. His eyes never moved from the path ahead—narrow, crooked, lined with warped doors and makeshift homes. Shacks built on broken stone and hope.
A knight kicked one of the doors open.
A girl stumbled out barefoot, maybe twelve at most, her face streaked with ash. She didn't scream. She just looked at them, eyes wide, confused. Behind her, a woman crawled, coughing, one hand clutching a rosary that looked too worn to still shine.
"Clear the home," the knight said.
"Wait—" the woman gasped. "We're not—please, we're not—"
The sword struck fast. Not cleanly.
