By the time I left the valley of stone behind, I felt that I had learnt to create almost anything — ideas, music, and form itself. But even I could sense a dangerous pride beginning to grow inside me. I wanted to make the world better, yet in that eagerness, I often forgot one thing — understanding right from wrong.
Master Thalon noticed it too. One evening, he said, "Creation without justice is illusion. To create responsibly, you must first know fairness. Your next teacher waits for you in the Hall of Winds."
The Hall of Winds lay at the heart of Aarvak Island, shaped from glass and marble that caught every breeze. As I walked inside, I felt invisible currents twirling through the air, whispering in patterns. The entire hall seemed alive.
And there, near the centre, stood a man wearing a long black robe that rippled like storm clouds. His face was calm, framed by short silver hair, and his eyes—sharp and piercing—held no anger, only certainty. He looked both young and ancient, like someone who had judged centuries but never aged a day.
He looked at me and said, "When you speak, choose your words like swords. They can protect the weak — or cut them."
Elder Aarion nodded respectfully. "This is Master Alden Crios, known in realms both seen and unseen as The Judge of Balance. He governed nations, set laws that shaped civilisations, and ended wars not by victory, but by fairness. Some called him The Iron Saint; others, "The Scale of the Gods."
Alden smiled faintly. "And now they just call me old."
I bowed deeply. "Master Alden, what will you teach me?"
He rested his staff — an ancient silver rod with a crystal at its tip — against the marble floor. "Justice," he said simply. "The art of standing between truth and mercy without drowning in either."
His lessons began that very day.
Unlike the other masters, Alden didn't teach me through training or creation. He taught by debate. Every morning, he asked me questions so complex that they made my head spin.
"If a thief steals bread to feed his child, is it still wrong?"
"If saving one innocent causes harm to a hundred guilty, which path should a protector take?"
"If truth can destroy peace, is silence a crime?"
At first, I gave random answers. He never nodded, never scolded. He only said, "Think again."
He once told me, "Justice is like a blade — balanced perfectly between mercy and reason. Too much force, and it breaks. Too much softness, and it bends."
His lessons were a mixture of ancient and modern law. He made me read stone tablets written in long-lost tongues describing the Laws of the Old Realms, where truth was carved into rock and judged by spirits. Then, he set glowing panels before me — strange screens full of text and codes that looked like the systems governments might use one day.
"Modern law, he said, "is made from logic. Ancient law was born of conscience. Combine the two, and you will serve both the head and the heart."
One day, he placed me in the middle of the hall and said, "Today, you will judge."
Before me appeared two glowing images — one of a warrior who saved a child but destroyed a city, and another of a man who saved a thousand lives but sacrificed one.
"Whom would you forgive?" he asked.
I stood there for what felt like an eternity. Both were right. Both were wrong. Finally, I took a breath and answered, "Neither forgiveness nor punishment is mine to decide. I would make them face each other. Let them understand what their choices did."
For the first time, Alden smiled — a real, warm smile. "Good," he said softly. "Law isn't about victory. It's about understanding the weight of your actions."
He also taught me something modern yet vital — psychological justice. He explained how governments use surveillance, evidence, and data to deliver law today. "But, he warned, "the more the world watches people, the less people watch themselves."
He said that was why he came to the island. "I once built systems so powerful that they erased emotion. The world called it perfection. I called it the death of empathy."
"That's why I left," he said quietly one evening. "I came here to remember that law must protect life, not control it."
In his final lessons, Alden shared an extraordinary technique — the Mirror of Balance. It was neither spell nor machine, but a discipline of focus. By breathing slowly and aligning thought and pulse, I could see the "weights" of actions and consequences like faint lights in the air.
"Every decision, he said, "creates two echoes — one now, one later. When you can see both, you will judge without regret."
He also made me train under pressure. Once, he simulated storms of chaos around me — winds roaring, walls cracking — demanding I choose which side to save: the collapsing pillars or the sacred artefacts within. When I froze, he shouted above the noise, "Injustice hides in hesitation! Act with clarity, even if the world crumbles!"
Afterwards, when the illusion faded, he placed his hand on my shoulder. "You will make mistakes, Mukul," he said. "Even I have. But never make them out of greed or fear. That is justice."
He gave me a small silver scale the day I was ready to leave. "Whenever you must decide," he said, "hold this in your hand. It will not move — because true balance is not a weight; it is a choice."
As I stepped out of the glass hall that evening, the wind sang softly through the marble pillars, carrying voices like whispers of reason. I realised that Master Alden's greatest gift wasn't teaching law — it was showing me that morality isn't cold judgement but compassion with discipline.
And that was how I met Alden Crios—the Judge of Balance, the master who taught me that power without fairness corrupts, knowledge without empathy blinds, and that truth, to remain pure, must always stand beside mercy.