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“Sorry, there’s a lot to explain…”
“Then you’d better get started.”
It wasn’t noticeable, when the truth first began to spread.
Gossip about the Day of Unity was expected, with how the day would be upon the Isles within the week. Rumors abound of its true nature always swinging into the fantastical, the mundane, the religious or the skeptical were expected and very much commonplace in shops, streets or shady nooks across the isles.
Then, a little after midday, the notifications started.
First it was just Hexside student’s parents and friends, then it spread to friends, coworkers, fellow coven members, basic acquaintances and people that only knew the other by their face. Scrolls receiving a mass flurry of Penstagram messages and posts, raven calls and crystal ball chats with frightened retellings of what happened at Hexside not but a few hours ago. It was this combined tide of information that most started to realize that this was not just another conspiracy theory. A wave of warning started from students spreading the word of what was to come to every one of their loved ones. It wasn't long before it was picked up by the news, broadcasted on every crystal ball.
“Perry Porter reporting live from the front steps of Hexside, after the Emperor's Coven had attempted to raid…”
The grim details stuck with everyone who stopped to watch in the storefront windows, and those few who didn't stop to listen still were disturbed by what little details they overheard.
Manipulating and harming children.
“Forced Branding of children for the Day of Unity…”
Decades old beliefs revealed as deceptions from a false prophet.
“Inside sources with damning evidence of Belos’ lies about his divinity and intent for…”
Unspeakable, bile-retching acts of a monster.
“Palismans taken from their witches and consumed…”
Thousands of souls suffering for eternity in stone.
“Petrification as punishment has never halted…”
Death and destruction on scales unimagined.
“Mass magic draining ritual…”
And on the arms of every adult witch and demon, displayed a mandatory mark that they once thought a gift from their glorious Emperor to unify like minded beings and safeguard from the threats of wild magics. In truth, it is a certificate of death given by a madman, whose sole goal and life purpose was the unified agonizing death of every soul inhabiting the Boiling Isles.
“…witch hunter…”
That was then the truth could no longer be ignored.
Understandably, when faced with the reality of a ticking time bomb being sewn to onto one’s arm, folks can become rather volatile regardless of whatever dimension they reside in. Especially towards the ones responsible for putting that bomb on them in the first place. So many Boiling Isles residents independently decided to inform their local Emperors Coven representatives of their displeasure in a variety of ways. The most common form was outdoor group discussions.
“Citizens, return to your homes! Don’t believe these lies crafted by mad wild witches, who only seek chaos and violence! The Titan shall forgive this transgression and lack of faith only if you disperse––!”
“This is the Latissa Branch of the Emperors Coven, requesting any and all aid available, there is an overwhelming large number of belligerent townsfolk marching towards the precinct. Possibility of a large-scale riot on our hands if we don't get assistance now!”
“The blasted Abomitons are all useless! They’ve all just… powered down! All at once! All we have are piles of sludge and metal, and no one can get a hold of Blight Industries to fix whatever happened! We’re taking a beating without them!
“This is madness. We’ve served under a crazy old fart who plans to kill us all the first chance he gets! Now they want us to waste our lives and get torn apart by these mobs?! Nuts to this, I’m getting out of here!”
“There are too many of them—!” “All prisoners return to your-ACHK!” Sounds of magical explosions and pained gasps are all that can be heard for a moment. “The Conformatorium is being swarmed! We need reinforcements, repeat, need reinforcements at the Conformatorium! Can anyone…”
“What do you mean he’s catatonic!?” Screamed the enraged Terra Snapdragon, as she held the stammering captain rather close to several witch-eating plants. “How was an entire squad of guards defeated and the head of the Illusion Coven put out of commission by mere schoolchildren, captain?!?”
“Titan damn it, can’t we get any backup in Bonesborough?! We barely have enough guards left to hold a block!” “What about the strike team? They should be close enough to—!” “The Owl House raiding party hasn't returned contact since they first surrounded the place, we have no idea what’s going on over there.”
“I heard that the Golden Guard has even turned on the Emperor, my buddy who came back from the Hexside raid said they saw it themselves…”
“Emperor Belos hasn’t come back from the lower chambers… who is in charge?” “Kikimora, what are your orders!?” “Where are the coven heads, have they betrayed us as well?”
“The rumors aren't true, right? Do we still follow the Titan’s will?”
“May the Titan protect us…”
“Where is the Emperor? What does he have to say of this?”
As many coven guards faith wavered, asking themselves the same question of where their once glorious prophet of the Titan was. Was he planning to respond? To bolster his forces? Communing with the Titan to beg for its forgiveness in his people’s lack of faith? Where was Belos, now that his illusion of a day of Unity was shattered, the only union being the resolve and drive of his once obedient subjects to see him cast down for his acts. All the while in a small room, located somewhere in the halls of the Emperor’s Palace, where there once was a bed with a small frog tucked in with care, an overstuffed nightstand, some shelves with knick-knacks and books strewn about.
Once, as currently all that was discernible in the rubble and ash was torn fabrics, broken wood and paper ripped to shreds. Standing with clenched fists and ragged breaths in the rubble of what used to be, was the monster that had brought pain and ruin to both this room, the Isles, and one who once called this his room. Who happily called him Uncle. Just like the others before. He loomed there over the remnants of what was, choosing to fester with hate and disappointment at what he considered another in a long line of failures. All as his empire fell, and life’s purpose burned to cinders.