When he was young, Alaric used to believe in the gods - towering figures who controlled the seasons and embodied all sorts of concepts, both significant and insignificant. He would often spend his evenings staring up at the stars and imagining the deities that resided among them. He would dedicate hours daydreaming of the god of war, patron of the Flammenvolkt duchy and judger of men. Sometimes, he would think of the beautiful goddess of persistence, whose wit went unmatched by any mortal woman. When he could ponder them no longer, he would think of the goddess of the harvest, who ensured the abundance of the fields.

But as he grew older, Alaric became disillusioned. He saw the cruelty of war - what it did to people, the lives it ruined. He quickly learned the true fickleness of love, observing parents who only loved under watching eyes. He also realised that hunger remained ever-present; no matter how sincere a prayer. There would be no end to suffering. The gods remained as they always were - distant and indifferent to the suffering of mortals. Even the legend of Saintess Seraphine often felt like a cautionary tale. She was marked by the gods’ love; but it was that very love that slowly killed her. Even to the end, her youthful visage and gentle demeanour belied the burden she carried - her body slowly consumed by the divine mana that coursed through her veins. Rumours even spread that the same love had taken to the child she sired with Duke Flammenvolkt.

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He continued to follow the attendant through the halls, but he couldn't help but feel a premonition that something was about to go horribly, horribly wrong.