Sinshei took a single step toward the group. They were working up the nerve for bloodshed, hovering at the edge. Every shout, every curse, was meant to give them courage. They knew many would die, such was the reputation of a paragon and the magic of a magistrate, but their primitive islander minds thought their numbers would be enough. Such ignorance. Such foolishness. Perhaps Magus had been right when he condemned the lack of progress made by the church in converting their hearts. They were not loyal, not faithful, and certainly not afraid.

That would not last long.

“God bless and keep me,” she prayed. “God watch and guide me. Thy blade, thy mercy, become one.”

Four divine weapons manifested in the air about her, hovering perfectly in place. Two were swords, and two were axes. From handle to blade, they shimmered with golden light. Sinshei commanded each and every one of them like a limb. She needed only to whisper her faith, keep it manifest, and the divine weapons would obey. The weapons lashed through the air, wielded by invisible hands. Each shift, each motion, imagined in her mind and re-created in the real.

And then she turned them upon the crowd.

“Thy blade.”

Flesh meant nothing to those perfect edges. Blood sprayed, bones cracked. People screamed as she walked amid them, the four weapons a whirling sphere of death around her.

“Thy mercy.”

One man threw a spear, only for it to be chopped in half on its approach. She lopped his head off without a thought. She stabbed each of his neighbors, then had the two swords rip straight out their backs so they might continue their arcs. Always in motion. Always protecting their divine master.

“Become one.”

A few meager heartbeats, and the slaughter was done. Her prayer ceased. The weapons faded. Sinshei unclenched her fists, and she rolled her shoulders to loosen a knot growing at the base of her neck. Over a dozen corpses lay about her, and a dozen more injured fled with missing limbs or bleeding wounds. She looked over the mangled bodies twisted in pain. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of those bearing masks, especially the one with a skull sewn into the front.

“The Vagrant may have been useful in defeating Gordian, but his inspiration grows dangerous,” she said as she stood among the corpses. “We will need to find and break him soon, lest this spiral out of control.”

Soma nudged one of the dead with his boot.

“Hold faith in my spear, Anointed One. Its tip has claimed gods. It will one day claim him, too.”