As Michael stealthily approached Rainar's temple, the majestic structure loomed before him, a tower of grandeur, its golden inlays glistening even in the storm's fury. It stood untouched by the flood, a testament to the god's vanity and power. Its opulence was a harsh contrast to the despair that gripped the city.
Lines of people, huddled and drenched, made their way towards the temple. Desperation etched on their faces, they walked as if in a trance, driven by fear rather than devotion. Their steps were slow, heavy with the weight of their impending doom.
"We can't go through the front door," Sarba whispered, his voice barely audible over the storm. The front was heavily guarded, a fortress unto itself, teeming with Rainar's loyalists.
Michael snickered softly, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
