The High Priest of Plot staggered through the temple, bleeding. The end had truly come, just as the Dreamsmith had warned him. Demons had come from the sky, thousands of them, attacking the cliffside temple. The withergeists had returned to the Thread once more.

He gasped, clutching his side and slumping against the wall. The temple was burning . . . Blades above, he needed to get to the reliquary . . . 

He had fought them off, the withergeists, but at great cost. The western wing of the temple had entirely collapsed, and the atrium was burning. It had taken all the powers of Zealot to drive them off.

Now, he was dying, and the temple of Plot himself, was burning. And it was his fault. He swore. For 4000 pages this temple had stood, and after it was entrusted into his care, it finally fell. The history in the these crumbling walls, the holiness . . . 

He gasped in pain again. The withergeists would return soon, to raze the temple, after his death. There was no way around it. The protections in place had been entirely destroyed, and the citadel guards wiped out. Only he remained, and his end was near.

He fell to the ground, cursing. Zealot clanged against the hard stones, the blade glowing with dull fire. He had wielded it faithfully for years and years, and it had served him well. But he could do more. It could not save his life.

The pain seared his leg now. The withergeists . . . they had slashed and scratched him, cutting him upon, shredding his vestments. He was losing blood faster than before.

He sighed, closing his eyes, feeling the cool stones underneath. "Please . . ." he whispered, weakly. "Spare me. Spare the temple. Let any power aid me."