Bartholomew was not enjoying the tense atmosphere of the room as the men, women and children stepped up to Titus, kneeled, repeated an oath he seemed to have personalized for each and every one of them, but all of which had a sinister undertone that highlighted their subjugation to him. As children, their ‘great father’ would oftentimes remind them of their status and how they were supposed to be elevated above the simple masses... naturally, Bartholomew had not fallen for the High Inquisitor’s teachings- he rarely ever did. And as he listened to how his brother went on and on about how every last one of the poor, starving visitors had professed their undying love for him, he was thankful for his defiance... it might’ve gifted him a pair of scarred wings, but at least he did not sound like a pompous clown whenever he spoke to a crowd.

Despite his uneasiness and his pondered, silent ridicule, Bartholomew was relieved to see his brother’s smile as he tapped the citizens' shoulders one-by-one- ruffling children’s hairs and took his first steps to reconcile their differences. It filled him with a hope that the madness might finally be coming to an end.

The girl tugged at Bartholomew’s leg and rubbed her stomach demonstratively, to which Bart could only chuckle. He looked down at her dirty cheeks and spoke:

“You will have your food soon, little piggy.” The laughter of a child was a refreshing thing- it almost made him feel like having one of his own... Then again, chances were he did. By his summations, he imagined he would have a lot of them- spread all throughout the Empire. He shuddered at the thought of an army of Bartholomews and hoped to the Gods that they had not inherited his father’s and his siblings’ red hair.

“Bartholomew? If you will?” Bartholomew was brought out from his profound musings to look at his brother before the mirror. Titus stood tall in his glinting, polished armor- miring himself before the mirror dividing them from the rest of the crowd and beckoned for his brother, satisfied to see him respond to his command by straddling wearily towards him. The unnaturally courageous child was quick to step after Bartholomew to stand in the shadow of the two Inquisition men as Titus addressed the crowds with open arms and spoke:

“And so you’ve sworn yourself to me and have spoken your oaths- that your lives belong to me- your ruler. As the Kings and Emperors of old did before them, your blood is mine to spill- your souls are mine to grant to favor our lands the Divine Boons!” More than a few of the dirty, gaunt faces out in the crowd looked at Titus with unnerve as he spoke his lofty words- an expression Bartholomew was helpless to resist, himself. One, in particular- a dirtier, hungrier man than any of the others, demanded from the back:

“We’re hungry! Please- for the love of the Gods- feed us!” Bartholomew imagined he had been the only one to see it- the darkness flashing before his brother’s eyes as the commoner interrupted him with his demands... the congregation, however, saw only that forced smile of his.

“Yes- of course. Come closer, my good man. You will be the first to Serve me- come, please.” The tall, brutish man received several cautioning glances from his companions, before they cleared the way for his approach across the filthy floor. His hesitant steps came to a halt mid-way through the room, where Titus met him with a tap to his shoulder and his ceaseless, handsome grin.

All awaited the continuation- to see what Titus would waste their precious time with next, but none- save for Bartholomew had seen it... Titus was done wasting time. His golden glove had tightened around his sword- a sword that had not seen battle since the madman killed his own council.

All the common populace could see was a flash of reflected, silvery moonlight and a glint of gold as Titus drew his blade in one, smooth movement and slashed the man’s front open. The unnaturally sharp blade sliced through his flesh to bare his abdominal organs and cut cleanly through several of the man’s ribs. Blood and strings of adipose tissue struck his fellow citizens in a wash of warm disbelief. The movement had been so fast- the mood of the congregation had shifted so quickly that it took the man’s body crashing face-first on the runic floor to sound the panic.

Bartholomew was left struck with disbelief as the chamber erupted in a cacophony of ear-piercing shrieks and screams, but Titus- the madman seemed unbothered by it all. They all flung themselves against the barred doors- roaring and screaming for the guards to let them loose as the grinning, bloody Titus turned to speak to the mirror:

“Azazeel- I have them for you. In this Temple of your Worship, I offer you the souls of my subjects. Use the magic of this man’s life to power your divine runes and finally, grant me your boon!” Titus’ green eyes shimmered and glowed as something appeared in the mirror- a purple cloud of smoke, writhing with a life of its own. Something red- something glowing... sparking... stole Bartholomew’s attention down on the floor.

“What in the-…" Bartholomew muttered and took a step back to shield the terror-stricken child as the dead man’s blood began to seep into the runes.