The Temple of Adanos loomed over Valkavar, its once-pristine walls now a darkened canvas of conflicting legacies. The faded murals of the Dragon King, Adanos, still whispered of his wisdom and justice, but they were obscured by garish banners bearing the sigil of the Cult of Beauty—a stylised mask, half-beautiful and half grotesque.

Inside, the sanctity of the temple had been replaced by a chilling spectacle. The scent of incense and fragrant oils hung heavily in the air, masking the faint metallic tang of blood. Once a place of quiet reflection, the main hall now bustled with the frenzied energy of preparation. Cult acolytes, dressed in silken robes that shimmered unnaturally, moved with mechanical precision, adjusting mirrors and draping statues of Adanos in translucent veils.

At the heart of the desecration stood an altar. No longer an emblem of the Dragon King's teachings, it had been refashioned into a grotesque pedestal. Atop it lay a gilded sculpture of a human form, flawless and eerily lifelike, its beauty so perfect it unsettled the eye. Surrounding the altar were acolytes chanting in a rhythmic, hypnotic cadence. Their voices blended Common Marnellite with an older, guttural tongue, rumoured to be the language of daemons.
A woman knelt at the altar, trembling. Her face bore the scars of a hard life, and her plain features stood in stark contrast to the glittering congregation. She had come seeking transformation, desperate to be remade in the image of the Cult’s ideals. Two vrykolakai stood behind her, their presence both commanding and unnerving.

The first, a tall man with sculpted features, leaned down to the woman. His voice was as smooth as silk but carried an edge of menace.
“You offer yourself willingly, do you not? To become something greater?”

“Yes,” the woman whispered, her voice cracking with desperation.

“Then you shall be remade,” the second vrykolakas, a woman with alabaster skin and eyes like polished jet, intoned. Her hands moved with an unsettling grace as she lifted a blade of gleaming silver, its edges engraved with runes.

The crowd watched with a mix of reverence and hunger. Among them were whispers of the New Valka syndicate—a shadowy organisation rumoured to be entwined with the Cult. Some said the ritual was more than a mere act of transformation. It was a gateway, an offering to daemons that the syndicate worshipped in secret.
From the shadows of the temple, a figure observed. Clad in a tattered cloak, they moved silently, their eyes scanning the scene with a mixture of outrage and caution. Beneath the hood was a loyalist to the teachings of Adanos, one of the few who dared to stand against the Cult. This was no mere desecration; it was a statement, a challenge to the old ways.

As the blade descended, the loyalist clenched their fists. They could not intervene—not now. The Cult of Beauty had the power of the Empire’s elite behind it. Any resistance would mean death. But they would not remain silent forever. The woman’s scream echoed through the temple, and the ritual reached its climax. The mirrors around the altar reflected her transformation—her scars vanished, her face reshaped into something the Cult would deem “perfect.”

The crowd erupted into applause, their fervour drowning out the last echoes of the woman’s humanity. The vrykolakas smiled, their work done, as they turned their attention to the next supplicant stepping hesitantly forward.

In the darkened corner of the temple, the loyalist slipped away, their heart heavy with what they had witnessed. The Cult of Beauty might not be entirely evil, but their obsession with perfection had become a tool for something far darker—a force that threatened not just the old faiths but the Empire itself.

If the rumours of New Valka were true, then this was only the beginning.