The bells no longer invited.

They confirmed.

Altdorf’s square had been scrubbed clean. Crates removed. Masks gathered. Blood washed from stone. What remained was order — visible, deliberate, restored.

At least in form.

Caelwyn stood at the window as he had every week. Below, a procession assembled beneath iron lanterns: bare-backed men despite the cold, women veiled in plain cloth, priests in heavy robes bearing iron hammers.

No music.

Only chanting.

Steady.

Controlled.

“It was inevitable,” Stacy said quietly, breaking the wax seal of a temple decree.

“Of course it was,” Caelwyn replied.

“Forty days of fasting. Public penitence. Visible discipline,” she read. “Let those who faltered return themselves to Sigmar’s order.”

Below, a man knelt upon wet stone. A cord rose and fell across his back.

The sound was sharp.

He did not cry out.

The crowd did not flinch.

“Public,” Stacy observed.

“It must be,” Caelwyn answered. “Private guilt does not calm a city.”

A priest raised his voice.

“Sigmar tempers us in flame. We burn so impurity may fall away.”

Another cord fell.

Another bowed head.

Intensity remained — only redirected.

A woman confessed aloud, voice trembling not from fear but from effort.

“I placed myself above my household.”

“Fast,” the priest instructed. “Serve.”

She bowed in gratitude.

Gratitude.

“They have not extinguished it,” Stacy murmured.

“No.”

“They have sanctified it.”

Merchants knelt beside laborers. The young Watchman stood rigid in prayer. Even the man who had once spoken from a crate now bowed with convincing humility.

The city moved in unison again.

A bell rang.

“Order is restored,” proclaimed the priest, hammer striking stone with a resonant clang.

The crowd echoed it.

Order is restored.

Caelwyn watched the man who had struck the fatal blow days earlier kneel without hesitation. The cord descended. He rose calm, composed — refined rather than broken.

“Do you see it?” Stacy asked.

“Yes.”

The fire still burned.

Only now it burned inward.

Near the fountain, a discarded mask had been placed in an iron brazier. A priest set it alight. Paper curled. Paint blistered. Twine snapped.

The crowd watched with satisfaction.

Symbolic.

Necessary.

The ash rose into the night.

The chanting continued.

“They believe it is over,” Caelwyn said.

“It is,” Stacy replied.

He looked at her.

“This chapter.”

The procession moved through the streets. The square stood cleaner than it had in weeks.

No blood.

No masks.

Only faint red lines across penitent backs.

“The same fire,” Caelwyn said quietly.

“Different altar,” Stacy answered.

The bells rang once more.

Steady.

Certain.

Beneath restored order,

something still burned.

---

MASKS & MASQUERADE
🜍 Month 2 · The Old World · WFRPG
🜍 Week 4 — Order answers excess
🜍 The fire remains

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