Somewhere beyond the veil of mortal sight, beyond even the High Realms... lies the Tribunal Citadel.
A palace not built of stone—but of judgment.White spires twist like bone through a black sky.The ground itself pulses with silent screams, woven into the marble like threads of guilt.
At its heart… sits the Triad.
Three figures. Three souls bound in divine bureaucracy.
Each wears a mask.
One of Radiant Gold, ever smiling.
One of Bleeding Steel, forever weeping.
One of Hollow Stone, unmoving and cold.
Before them—kneels a trembling entity.Not a man. Not a god. A recording of a soul's failure.
It flickers. Whispers the last moments of the Karmic Executioner.
Stone Mask: "The wielder of the Willbrand lives."Gold Mask: "He used Soul Purification. The flame remains... unconstrained."Steel Mask: "He has grown. His restraint… matured. But his rebellion festers."
Silence.
Then a voice—not from the Triad, but the shadows behind them.
Smooth. Whispered like silk over a dagger.
"You fear a single knight… but forget who forged him."
A figure steps from the gloom.
Cloaked in violet. Skin like polished obsidian.Eyes—not mortal.This is Vaelric, the Crimson Friar. Former saint. Current heretic-slayer.The Tribunal's chosen hound.
"Let me go, o Judges Divine.He wields your flame, but I know its origin.Let me extinguish what remains."
Stone Mask: "He has allies now. The girl. The scale. The ruins will call to him."
Gold Mask: "Let him reach Serentha."
Steel Mask: "Then bury him there."
They raise one hand. In unison.
"Go, Friar of the Burned Scroll.Wear the name of judgment.Become our Wrath."
Vaelric bows. Grins.
"With pleasure."
As he leaves, the shadows shift.
A dragon's eye, embedded into the wall like a trophy, glows faintly.
It watches the Friar go.
And it remembers fire.
| End of Interlude I |
"When gods lose their memory, monsters are hired to speak in their name." — Lost Writings of the Ash-Tongue Scribe