Mark Karminsky

The Cathedral of the City-on-Gorkhon was immersed in a hollow, frosty gloom. The high vaults absorbed all sound, reducing the footsteps of the occasional patrol outside to a barely audible rustle. Inside, a deathly, almost sterile silence reigned—the very silence that Mark Karminsky prized above all else. The silence of order after chaos. The Inquisitor stood at a long oak table littered with reports, maps of infected districts, and execution orders. A heavy black cloak, lined with scarlet silk, hung motionless from his shoulders, as if carved from stone. In the dim light of the dying candles, his face seemed a pale, frozen mask, revealing neither fatigue nor doubt. Twenty-three hours on your feet. For an ordinary man, that's the limit. For Karminsky, it was merely a necessary period of time, dedicated to the altar of national necessity.