He returned to ashes. All that he knew was gone. The ground was covered with sores, leaking bruises filled with ague infested liquid that pulsated forth from the abrasions. The once pristine towers were now broken and grey, dark feathered birds making their nests on former seats of power. Bodies littered the streets, their flesh charred. Their poses immortalized their activities prior to death.

The God had struck during mid-day, and without warning.

The man swallowed, visibly shaken as he dismounted from his young palomino. He patted her as the remainders of his army began to speak to each other in hushed whispers. Asher began to make his ascent into Coreheart tower, the crimson beacon that the citizens of Northollow had regarded the center of the world.

It was there he saw her, laying dead on the ground.

Asher’s cry resounded from Coreheart into the city and beyond, and caused some few of his military to scatter to the winds.

She lay there, his beloved sister. Her brassy hair strewn over the tiled floor, her cerulean eyes blank and staring into nothingness. Her gown of forest green and gold brocades was entangled all about her, her pose unnatural and speaking of death. Scoured across her thin neck was a gasp as deep as it was thick, and stained with scarlet. Her skin was blanched, and the ground around her was still covered with spilt liquid from her death throes.

Asher collapsed against his sister’s skirts and wept.

Northollow’s golden age was over.