The bells were supposed to bring order.
Instead, they opened a mouth.

On festival day, Vyr-Delta’s cathedral square fills with smoke, hymns, and bodies pressed too close together. Elias knows crowds—how fear moves before people do, how sound can guide a mass like a hand at the small of the back. When an unseen pressure slips beneath the music, late and heavy, he knows something is wrong.

An Inquisitor demands answers. A priest smiles too easily. And when the great doors part, they do not open outward—but inward, like the city itself is drawing breath.

What steps from the smoke is not metaphor, not madness, and not contained by stone.

As panic ignites and the square collapses into chaos, Elias is left with nothing but three cards, a breaking voice, and a truth he must cling to while hell pushes through brass and bone.

The gate is opening.
The city is screaming.
And Christ still reigns—even here.

Reformed Theologian GPT: https://chat.openai.com/g/g-XXwzX1gnv-reformed-theologian

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