She motioned behind her, sending paragons into motion. A hush fell over the crowd of thousands. Fear and awe swelled in Cyrus’s throat. There she was, the goddess Lycaena. Two paragons escorted her from the hastily constructed wood prison behind the platform, each one holding her by an arm. Her hands were linked together with steel chains that looped up to her neck. Her dress and wings dragged as they climbed the steps behind the platform. Sickness swirled in Cyrus’s gut upon realizing the priests had hacked off the goddess’s multicolored hair. Was sacrificing her not enough? Must they humiliate her first? Murmurs spread through the crowd at the sight of her. How many were prayers? How many groaned with disgust at the empire’s cruelty? Cyrus hoped it was most, if not all.

“Citizens of the Everlorn Empire!” Sinshei continued. “I extend my heart to you, and hope that you will join me in this holy worship. What I do in the flesh, you may do with your own hearts. Sever the lifeline of heresy that beats between the weak, sinful, and prideful, and this object of idolatry. Today, it ends. Today, I come wielding the knife.”

The paragons forced Lycaena to her knees. Sinshei withdrew the three curved knives with golden handles from her leather belt. She handed one to the Usurper King, and then one to his wife. The last she kept for herself.

“Do not weep for this loss,” the Anointed One continued. “Do not view this as an end, but instead a new beginning. Let us rejoice in this freedom. Let your hearts be light as you are uplifted by the truth. You need not worship these objects of heresy. You need not bow your heads to a lie. My father, the God-Incarnate of all creation, stands ready to forgive your ignorance and accept your prayers. Let him be your truth. Let him be your righteousness.”

Her excitement reached a fevered pitch. She held the knife aloft, and she called out to the throng with a feverish faith glowing from her gleaming smile.

“Will you join me?” she asked. “Will you pray with me? Will you partake?”

A tremendous roar marked the people’s answer, and so began the last desperate attempt to save the life of the goddess. Cyrus’s eyes widened at the sight of an enormous lioness leaping from the heart of the crowd into the thick lines of soldiers protecting the platform. The resemblance to Endarius was uncanny, only she was a picture of death instead of life, with bones for armor and pale gray fur instead of a lively gold. Her wings were weapons that tore into her foes like bony fingers. The soldiers tightened together, relying on sheer numbers to keep their foe at bay.