At the center of everything, Varen remains on his knees.
The marble beneath him is so polished it reflects light like a pale mirror, but his knees never see it. The surface—impeccable and cold—contrasts with living flesh: scraped skin, split open, still damp with fresh blood. Each breath renews the burning sensation, as if the floor itself refused to accept him.
The chains are heavier now.
Not just metal. Not just gravity.
Something within them has been activated.
The pressure increases steadily—almost imperceptible at first, but enough to drive his shoulders down, tighten his back, force his body to remember that it does not belong to him. The links—wide and dark—are anchored to the ground by energy seals that pulse with a deep rhythm, synchronized with the heart of the castle.
He cannot move.
Not even a little.
He knows it.
Every attempt, every minimal muscle contraction not required for breathing, triggers an immediate response. Not always visible. Not always painful at first. But always present. Like an invisible hand slowly closing.
Beside him, motionless as a statue carved for war, Kaelth Vorr stands watch.
He does not need to touch him.
When Varen tries to lift his head even a few centimeters, the commander applies pressure with a single hand to the back of his neck. It is not a violent shove. It is precise. Calculated. Laden with absolute authority. Just enough force to push him back down.
Wait. That is the order.
The central plaza roars.
Thousands of voices overlap in hostile chaos with no shape or direction. Shrill screams, deep roars, insults, threats, premature celebrations. The sound crashes like a constant wave, vibrating the air, the marble, the towering structures surrounding the space.
There is everything.
Humans who hate him. Some out of fear, taught to dread his name before they even understood it. Others because they need to believe the monster exists—that all evil can be concentrated into a single figure kneeling before them. It makes hatred easier.
Velkari who watch him with suspicion. Not all with disdain. Some with genuine fear—not of what he is now, chained and bleeding, but of what he did. Of what he proved was possible. Their gazes are hard, tense, evaluative, as if ensuring that this time the system will not fail.
Nexum who look upon him with open rejection. For many of them, Varen represents a dangerous fracture in the new order. An uncomfortable figure. A mistake that should never have been allowed. His very existence is a threat to the stability so painstakingly built.
But not all eyes are the same.
Scattered through the crowd like isolated sparks in a dark sea, there are others.
Humans who do not shout. Who keep their mouths shut by pure survival instinct. Who clench their teeth, aware that any misplaced gesture could condemn them alongside him. Fear keeps them still—but their eyes do not turn away.
Nexum who watch with absolute focus. Their faces show neither euphoria nor rage. Only concentration. Expectation. Some clench their fists. Others lower their heads slightly, as if trying to understand something that has yet to take shape. In their eyes burns something dangerous: hope.
Kaelth notices.
He always notices everything.
The pressure of his hand remains firm, reminding Varen that he is not alone at the center of the plaza. That every second, every breath, is being measured.
The noise begins to change.
It does not vanish at once. It does not cut off abruptly. But something slides over the crowd like a shadow extinguishing fire. The shouts grow less coordinated, more scattered. Some voices fall silent. Others hesitate.
The plaza's light reorganizes.
The banners of the five Velkari domains—suspended above the plaza by invisible energy fields—tighten in unison. The emblems seem to stiffen, as if responding to an unheard signal. Aurelion. Varkhane. Helior. Dominia Velk. Eryndor. Five symbols. Five wills. The upper stands fall partially into shadow, while the center is flooded with a colder, whiter clarity.
The soldiers' formation hardens. Straight postures. Aligned weapons. Held breaths. No verbal orders are given. None are needed.
A low melody begins to emerge.
It comes from no visible instrument, from no single point in space. It is a deep, resonant vibration that slides across the marble and climbs the columns. It is not music meant to entertain.
It is an announcement.
A premonition.
Something immense is coming.
Varen knows it.
His body knows it before his mind does.
At last… he thinks. At last, I'm going to see them.
From the elevated platform at the center, five figures slowly emerge into the light—each surrounded by a distinct aura, each carrying a specific weight that imposes itself without exaggerated gestures. Representatives of the five Velkari houses. Leaders. Judges. Architects of the current order.
They do not advance together, yet they are not separate. Each occupies their position with calculated precision, as if the space itself had been designed to receive them. They stand above everyone.
Literally.
From there, any gaze directed toward them must rise.
Superiority.
That is what they represent.
Untouchable beings.
The crowd reacts instantly. Bodies respond before voices. Backs straighten. Heads bow instinctively. Knees tremble. And voices strain to praise them.
It is respect. It is conditioning. It is ancient fear. It is the certainty of standing before something that must not be challenged.
One of the representatives steps forward.
His presence eclipses even the others.
"Silence."
His voice breaks the chaos.
It is not a shout.
It is not amplified.
It does not need to be repeated.
The word cuts through the plaza like a command embedded in the very blood of the place. The effect is immediate—almost unnatural. Thousands of throats close at once. The collective roar dies into a residual murmur that dissolves within seconds.
Absolute silence.
Varen does not lift his head, but he feels the change like a shock passing through the space. The air grows heavier. Charged.
Before him, the presences solidify.
"Let it be recorded," the voice declares. "The accused has been brought before the High Judgment of Helior."
The tone is neutral, stripped of emotion.
"Varen Kaelor," it continues. "From the Narak waste sectors / Dominia Varkhane, eastern discard zone. Twenty-three human cycles of age."
Each word falls with surgical precision.
Dominia Varkhane.
The words strike something deep. Something Varen did not expect.
Narak.
For an instant, the world tilts.
He did not believe they knew. Not that detail. Not that origin.
By pure instinct, he lifts his head.
The movement is minimal—but enough. The chains tighten in response. The collar vibrates with a dull warning. Still, Varen keeps his gaze forward.
His eyes widen in surprise.
He is not alone.
Before him, at the lower level of the platform, aligned in a cruelly ordered formation, stand five more people.
Bound.
Kneeling.
Blindfolded.
Their mouths sealed by containment devices.
To most of those present, they mean nothing. Secondary figures. Collateral damage. Narrative tools for an exemplary trial.
But to Varen…
The air lodges in his chest.
He recognizes them even like this. By posture. By how they bear the weight of their bodies. By the visible scars on exposed skin. By the energy still emanating from them—faded, weakened, but unmistakable.
People close to him.
Too close.
The past, which had barely begun to surface, now crashes into him violently.
This is not just a trial.
It never was.
And in that moment—kneeling, chained, surrounded by a silent multitude—Varen understands the true magnitude of what he is about to lose…
and of what he is about to break.
Varen clenches his teeth.
If not for them…
he never would have understood what he was.
They were the ones who found him when he was still just a body surviving among scraps.
They did not promise salvation—but they offered answers.
They taught him to see reflections where others saw only garbage.
Because of them, darkness ceased to be silence.
And even now—even kneeling, even silenced—they remained his anchor.
Proof that not everything his life had touched had been corrupted.
The marble beneath his knees suddenly turns cold.
The golden light dims.
The shouts, the artificial sky, the banners—everything loses shape.
And Narak exists once more.