Cleansing of sins

The Grand Plaza of Solarium was lit with the heat of expectation. 

Hundreads had gathered beneath the towering Cathedral of the Holy Flame, its spire cutting into the steel-gray sky. The Eternal Flame atop the spire flickered faintly, creating a feeble glow that seemed too weak to light the hearts of the disillusioned masses below. 

The air was plauged with whispers, a low murmur of speculation that hung like smoke over the square.

Vendors peddled their wares at the edges of the crowd, their cries half-hearted as if even they could sense the gravity of the moment. The people weren't here for bread or trinkets—they were here to see something, anything, that might make them believe again. 

Faith had withered under the weight of corruption, and the Church's promises had long turned hollow. But now, the faithful and the skeptical alike had gathered, lured by the whispers of a grand display: a cleansing, the Church had said. 

A rebirth.