The rain hadn’t stopped in three days.
It drummed softly against the slate rooftops of Empyria, turning the gold-capped spires of the Inquisition’s Hall into dark silhouettes against the storm. Mist clung to the marble steps like a shroud. Cloaked figures passed silently beneath arched doorways, their footsteps swallowed by the stone.
A bell tolled. One note. Cold and final.
Inside the Hall of Judgment, the air was warm — not by fire, but by breath, by tension, by candlelight flickering across polished obsidian walls. Long banners hung above, each bearing the mark of Sol in radiant gold, and beneath them sat the circle of inquisitors, cloaked in grays and whites.
They whispered among themselves, voices low and sharp, like knives sliding across parchment.
In the center stood Evander — Warden of the Inquisition, tall and still, his cloak soaked through but his expression unmoved.
At the far end of the chamber, High Inquisitor Damar Volen rose from his seat, a thin man with a voice like crackling parchment.
Damar Volen:
“The matter before us is Hecate.”
A ripple of discomfort moved through the hall. Even the flames in the sconces seemed to dim.
Damar Volen:
“Fifteen years of silence. No escape. No visible decay of mind or body. Yet she remains… aware. Watching.”
He gestured toward Evander.
Damar Volen:
“Warden, your stewardship has kept her contained. But the question now is simple. What is she to us? A prisoner? A weapon? A prophecy?”
A younger voice rose — Inquisitor Valen Dree, scholarly, narrow-eyed, barely past thirty.
Valen Dree:
“She was once human. A victim of the Witch Hunts. We condemned her without trial. Some say she speaks the truth.”
Scoffs. A cough. One of the elder inquisitors, Mara Tellen, leaned forward with a glare like polished steel.
Mara Tellen:
“And some say the abyss sings lullabies. Shall we now offer demons our apologies?”
Valen Dree:
“She is not a demon.”
Mara Tellen:
“No. But she speaks to them.”
Another silence. Thicker, now.
Damar Volen:
“We cannot let indecision rot our purpose. The Warden will descend. Alone. He will question her. He will return with judgment. That is all.”
Eyes turned to Evander. He gave only a slow nod.
Later — The Stairwell
The heavy doors shut behind him with a final thud.
He stood at the mouth of the stairwell leading down into the deep vaults. The air grew colder with every step, every torch he passed casting longer shadows. His boots echoed against stone slick with age and moisture. The smell of moss and old blood crept in.
The corridor narrowed. Symbols lined the walls—sigils of binding, old wards, prayers written in the ink of vanished tongues.
Evander's hand brushed the hilt of his blade, but he did not draw it.
There were no guards past the fourth gate.
None were needed.
The last door stood before him. Ironwood, runed, unyielding. Behind it: silence.
He exhaled slowly and placed his palm upon the seal.
A moment of stillness.
Then, from beyond the door:
Hecate (softly):
“Hello… Warden.”
