"Let us pray."
Each word tolled over the crowed, like the harmonious echoes of a church bell.
Hundreds knelt before him. Not soldiers. Not prisoners. Believers. Corellians who had found truth in the shadow of annihilation, who had watched the Alliance crumble and the old gods fail them.
They had come to the
Cult of Saud seeking meaning. Seeking purpose. Seeking the embrace of something greater than themselves.
Today, they would find it.
Da'Razel raised his arms, the gilded plates of his armor catching the dying sun like molten gold.
The robotic mesh of is synthetic voice blared across the plaza.
"You have walked in darkness. You have lived in a galaxy of chaos, of false prophets and broken promises. The Republic offered you democracy, and delivered you death. The Alliance offered you protection, and delivered you agony."
A murmur rippled through the congregation. Heads bowed. Hands clasped.
"But the God-Emperor offers you something eternal. Something pure."
He swept his visage-less gaze across them, men and women, young and old, families clutching one another. Some wept. Some smiled. All of them had made their choice.
"He offers you fire."
At his signal, red robed acolytes moved through the crowd. Canisters of blessed promethium were distributed like holy water, with reverent care. The faithful anointed themselves, foreheads, hands, chests, the sacred ichor glistening on their skin. The smell of accelerant mixed with incense, sweet but sharp.
Da'Razel descended from his dais, strolling among them. His massive armored form moved with surprising gentleness as he touched shoulders, cupped faces, whispered blessings. Younglings looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes. He pressed a gauntleted thumb to ones forehead, leaving a smear of oil like a baptismal mark.
"Do not fear the flame," he intoned softly.
"Fear the cold. Fear the void. Fear a life unlived in service to Him."
He returned to the dais. The sun had dipped below the spires of Kor Vella, casting the plaza in crimson and shadow. The moment was perfect. Holy.
"Brothers. Sisters. Children of the God-Emperor."
His voice rose to a thunderous crescendo.
"BECOME THE LIGHT."
The first flames erupted in the center of the congregation.
A man, middle-aged, weeping with joy, ignited himself with a handheld torch. The fire embraced him instantly, promethium accelerating the burn until he blazed like a human star. He did not run. He did not scream. He raised his arms to the heavens and sang
.
Others followed.
One by one. Then in clusters. Then in waves.
The plaza became a garden of fire!
Hundreds of voices rose in agony and ecstasy, twisted together into a chorus that defied comprehension. Screams became hymns. Pain became prayer. The faithful burned and the faithful rejoiced, their bodies contorting, collapsing, surrendering to the sacred conflagration.
Da'Razel stood motionless at the heart of it, flames reflecting in his gore-red visor. He breathed deep, the smoke, the ash, the sweet-sick stench of rendering fat and boiling blood.
The screaming swelled into a symphony.
A beautiful, agonizing union of souls ascending.
He let it wash over him. Let it fill him. Let it sanctify him.
"Glorious," he whispered.
"Glorious."
When the last voice fell silent, the plaza was carpeted in ash and ember.
Charred remains lay in postures of supplication, arms still raised, mouths still open in final exultation. Smoke coiled upward in thick black columns, blotting out the sunlight that shunned the mass pyre. The air was dense, choking, saturated with the smell of burnt offerings.
The Saint of Flame turned to his surviving faithful, acolytes, young
Karsta Raka, true believers who had been chosen to witness rather than ascend. Their eyes gleamed with fervor. With hunger.
"The God-Emperor has received His tribute," he declared.
"Now we carry His light to those who still wander in darkness."
They moved through Kor Vella like a serpent of fire.
Da'Razel led the column, his golden armor smeared with soot and ash, his monstrous warhammer held high,
The Kotjontû, its Barab core bleeding fire through Quadanium seams, a blazing standard guiding his congregation.
Behind him marched the Cult of Saud, hundreds strong, bearing flamers, torches, and canisters of promethium. They chanted as they walked, a droning liturgy that echoed off the towers and filtered into every alley, every home, every hiding place.
"By fire we are cleansed. By fire we are reborn. By fire we ascend."
The first heretics were found cowering in a transit station.
Refugees. Families who had tried to flee the city before the cordon locked them in. They screamed when the cult surrounded them. They begged. They pleaded for mercy, for their lives.
Da'Razel listened. He always listened.
Then he raised his hand.
"The God-Emperor's mercy is absolute," he intoned.
"It purifies all sin. It welcomes all souls."
The flamers danced.
Bodies ignited. The station became an oven. Glass shattered from the heat. Durasteel buckled and warped. The screaming was brief, promethium burns hot and fast, but the smoke lingered long after, pouring from the station's shattered windows like a slow black snow on a sheer cold night.
The procession moved on.
Street by street. Block by block. The fire worm carved its path through Kor Vella.
Shops were torched. Homes were purified. Those who submitted were marked with ash and oil and inducted into the fold. Those who resisted were given to the flame. There was no middle ground. No negotiation. Only the binary truth of the God-Emperor's love.
The column swelled as it moved. Some joined out of faith. Others out of fear. It did not matter to Da'Razel. Conversion by conviction and conversion by terror were equally valid in the eyes of his deities.
The Empire was not merely an army, or a government, it was a revelation.
Behind them, the trail of destruction stretched like a wound across the district. Fires raged unchecked, leaping from building to building, consuming everything the procession had touched. Black smoke rose in thick pillars, merging into a choking pall that blanketed entire hab-blocks. The smell was inescapable now, burnt flesh, melted plasteel, scorched earth.
A serpentine scar of orange and red, writhing through the urban sprawl.
A message written in flame for all to see.
Da'Razel paused at a major intersection, where the procession's path would soon cross into the northern sectors, where Republic forces had established their precious humanitarian corridors.
His lips curled beneath his helm.
"There are false prophets nearby," he announced to his followers.
"They hide behind mercy. They think their compassion will save them."
He turned to face the direction of the Republic lines, his war-hammer casting long shadows.
"It will not."
The chanting resumed. The column surged forward.
The fire worm hungered.
Remowa
Cassian Abrantes
