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"No—no, please—just let me die—krrk—!"
Within the expanding bounds of the God of Terror's divine domain, a nobleman who had been granted a seat in the Elder Council and was invited to the celebration clutched his own throat with both hands.
His muscles bulged, veins snaked along his arms and neck. Tears streamed down his face, now mottled with purple as the force of his own grip strangled the breath from his lungs.
Blood seeped from between clenched teeth, his bitten lips trembling, his features twisted in an expression of atavistic fear. His eyes bulged wide, wild and bloodshot.
His pupils dilated, his brain refusing to register any further sight, preferring blindness to glimpsing the horror that did not exist yet could not be denied. In the end, with frenzied strength, he snapped his neck.
He collapsed backward. Even in death, his eyes were wide, staring up at the looming figure upon the domed ceiling of the divine sphere, at the god that ruled this suffocating nightmare.
He was not alone. Those earliest to fall under the God of Terror's domain were now succumbing in waves. Under the intensifying weight of the ambient fear, one by one they turned upon themselves, dying by their own hands.
Bodies littered the square, strewn like offerings. Crimson blood pooled beneath them, seeping into the cobbles. The festival meant to celebrate Aleisterre's victory had transformed into a tableau of horror, of darkness, dread, and death.
Then, without warning, a black hand passed over the nobleman's unblinking eyes and gently...
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