The chapel smelled of copper and incense, an unholy mix clinging to the stone walls.
Dax stood in the center of it, shirt cuffs rolled high and spattered dark, the blood on his hands drying in patterns that looked almost intentional. The bodies of priests sagged where they had collapsed against pews, their eyes glassy, their throats torn raw by the suffocating weight of pheromones that had frozen them in place until their lungs forgot how to draw air.
Not one of them had been able to run. Not one of them had even managed to kneel.
The violet of Dax's eyes glowed like molten glass, sharp enough to cut through the thick, heavy silence that hung after screams. His presence still pressed down, invisible iron shackles pinning the last survivors to the floor where they shook and choked and prayed, though no god was listening.
