The morning sun over the island of Tobias' estate was a harsh, unforgiving spotlight. Quite the contrast to the storm it had endured the night before. It illuminated the gore in the garden and the absolute desolation of a cult's fallen small empire.
Chief Hudson stood at the center of the carnage, right beside the pristine marble statue of the Goddess, which now watched over the mangled, unrecognizable remains of Tobias.
A wooden cart's wheels creaked under the weight of several black-robed bodies, rolled to a stop nearby. An officer wiped sweat and grime from his brow.
"That's the last haul from the estate, Chief. That makes 52 here and 198 at the fortress."
Hudson clicked his tongue, sounding sharp with irritation. He looked at the list of names on his clipboard, then at the pile of meat that used to be the revered bishop. "250 bodies. Zero survivors. Not even a low-level acolyte left to sing."
