It has no walls. No arches. No stained glass. Only sky. Only stone.
At the center of the square, where the executions of the Caorrani Martyrs were carried out, stands the imperial chopping block made of marble, rough-hewn, darkened by old blood. Its surface is scarred, gouged by the strikes of the executioner’s blade. What was once an instrument of death has become an altar.
Around it, people have placed offerings: wilted flowers, fresh blossoms, simple wreaths woven from grass and wild herbs. Candles, dozens, sometimes hundreds, flicker at all hours. Wax drips and pools on the stone like frozen tears. Some are set in iron holders hammered into the cobblestones; others stand simply on the ground, leaning precariously, yet never truly falling.
No banners fly. No icons hang. The only symbol is the block itself, mute, heavy, unmovable. A relic of martyrdom.
The stones of the square are worn smooth by countless feet, but one patch remains stained, darker than the rest, a mark no rain has washed away. People step carefully around it, or sometimes kneel upon it, pressing their foreheads to the cold stone.
Sometimes, scraps of cloth are tied to the nearby posts, tokens of prayers, grief, or hope. There are no priests here, only the faithful. No choir, only the whisper of wind and the murmured prayers of those who come.
This place, once meant to break the spirit of Caorran, has become its heart. Its sanctuary. Its cathedral.