They called it a parade.
The knights rode through the town like a flood of death, trampling everything in their path. Men were butchered without pause. Women dragged off screaming. Children shackled, branded, and tossed onto wagons. Even animals were taken — not out of need, but sport. What once wore the guise of virtue now reeked of unchecked hunger. And yet the knights smiled. They laughed. They cheered.
For years, they had been holy men — healers, protectors, saints-in-training — repressing the rage in their marrow, bowing to a doctrine that chained their flesh to peace. But tonight, they were free. Freed from their god, from the guilt, from their halos and hymns. All it cost was faith. A single offering of belief in exchange for pure, ecstatic liberty.
They gave themselves to the End.
It promised purpose. It promised power. And they, in return, gave their wives, their children, their sanity, their souls. They no longer sought to save others — they sought to end them. Because in their twisted gospel, death was salvation. And the End would reward the devoted.
They marched through the streets in a storm of fire and blade. Their horses trampled the dead, hooves soaked in blood. Their swords howled like wind. Every house became a tomb. Every prayer was met with silence.
And still, they chanted.
Praises to the End.
Smiles carved deep into their faces.
Hearts burning brighter than hell.