It was twenty feet tall and equally wide, rendered in oils so dark and potent, they seemed to absorb the ambient light.

The central figure was a man— a Templar—clad in crimson armor that gleamed with the hue of fresh blood. His helmet was held in his offhand, revealing a face that was both beautiful and terrible, with eyes that burned with the light of utter scourge.

In his other hand, he held the severed head of a demon by the hair.

The demon's head was enormous, easily the size of a man's torso. Its flesh was black and pustulent, covered in hundreds of eyes that stared in every direction. Even in death, even rendered in paint, those eyes seemed to watch with boundless hatred.

The gaze of a true fiend.

The man's expression was one of triumph and madness in equal measure. Blood covered his armor, his face, his handguards...

Beneath the painting, carved into the stone altar, were words in the old tongue: "Through change, strength. Through strength, salvation."

The Red House contained many other facilities such as barracks for the Templars stationed in Liedenstorm, an armory filled with weapons and armor, a library containing Church doctrine and tactical manuals, kitchens, dining halls, training rooms and meditation chambers for monks.

But beneath all of this, accessible only through a single guarded staircase, were the holding cells.

The cells were carved directly into the bedrock beneath the city. Each was perhaps eight feet to a side, with stone walls two feet thick and iron bars as thick as a man's wrist. They stank of mold and human waste and fear.

These were where the Red House kept its prisoners. Captured Abominations, chained and sedated for study. Heretics caught practicing forbidden magics. Criminals arrested for illegal possession of Relics or trafficking in corrupted goods.

Very few who entered these cells ever left them.

***

The meeting room was on the third floor, accessible only to those of sufficient rank.

It was a long chamber, perhaps forty feet by twenty, with a massive oak table dominating the center. Twenty chairs surrounded the table, each one occupied by a figure in crimson armor or Church robes.

Commander Strut sat near the head of the table, his helmet removed to reveal his weathered face. To his left sat Captain Orpheus, golden hair gleaming in the lamplight, his expression one of barely concealed boredom.

Scattered around the table were others:

Captain Mildred, still fully armored, his presence a constant reminder of duty.

Captain Helena, a woman whose scarred face spoke of countless battles survived. Her armor bore more dents than any other at the table.

Brother Marcus, a Church official in dark robes from the capital.

Sister Veronica, another Church representative, her eyes sharp and calculating behind wire-frame spectacles.

Lieutenant Garrett, young and eager, his armor still relatively pristine and Lieutenant Thorne, older and more cynical, nursing a flask he'd snuck into the meeting.

Sergeant Kane, massive even for a Templar, his presence filling his corner of the room.

Sergeant Ira, thin and wiry, Brother Tobias, elderly and frail, leaning heavily on his staff, Sister Margaret, Captain Roland, who commanded the western garrison, his armor covered in unfamiliar markings from battles fought far from Liedenstorm, Lieutenant Cassia, whose reputation for cruelty preceded her wherever she went, Sergeant Dmitri, who spoke little but whose tactical mind was valued highly, Brother Edmund, whose knowledge of Church law made him invaluable during tribunals, Master Wolfield, a small man who seemed even older than Commander Strut, with white hair and a feeble, ancient frame. He leaned on a walking stick, thick glasses perched on his nose, observing everything with eyes that missed nothing. He was an advisor in the imperial court, serving directly under the emperor.

And at the head of the table, draped in robes so red they were almost dripping with blood, sat the Red Mother.

No one wore their helmets in her presence. To do so would be the gravest insult.

She was old— an ancient living relic, some called her. Her face was hidden beneath a crimson veil, but her hands were visible. They were skeletal, the skin papery and translucent, showing every vein and bone beneath.

When she spoke, her voice was raspy and dry, like wind through dead leaves.

"A prayer to the grey clouds that the grey crows do not consume us even in our rot..."

Every Templar at the table bowed their heads.

"A prayer to the horned angel of the North, that its wings may shield us from the frigid winds of the Niel."

"A prayer to the watcher of the Blazing Sun, for its crown is everlasting."

Captain Orpheus's lips moved silently, mouthing the familiar words.

"And a prayer to the kings of Tartarus, that they may never wake from their slumber."

Silence filled the room as the prayer concluded.

Then the Red Mother's head turned toward Commander Strut, the veil concealing whatever expression she wore.

"Commander Strut. What is the conclusion of the Purge?"

Strut's jaw tightened. His voice when he spoke was cold and flat,

"It was a success, Red Mother. All of the Corrupted have been Purged. I can only pray that their souls may find peace."

The Red Mother shook her head,

"There is no peace for the department, Commander. Only an eternity of torment."

Commander Strut grimaced and shifted uncomfortably before returning to his seat.

Meanwhile, Orpheus leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face.

The Red Mother was silent for a long moment.

"The capital has sent word," she said finally. "A prophecy has been delivered from the Oracle by its Prophets. A new strain of corruption is spreading across the land, more virulent than anything we have encountered before."

Murmurs ran around the table.

"The Church cannot afford to take risks," the Red Mother continued. "It cannot afford to take chances in the slightest. Any human showing even the slightest signs of wild, unregulated corruption will be put to death immediately. There will be no exceptions. There will be no mercy."

She paused,

"The Defilement spreads too quickly now. Too many are falling. If we do not act with absolute conviction, we will all be consumed."

Her skeletal hands folded on the table.

"Do any of you dispute this?"

No one spoke.

The meeting continued, but the atmosphere had shifted...

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