The Cult and Its False Judgment

The echo of Selvaria’s temple bells still lingered in the air when Lyselle and Caelan arrived at the massive stone gate leading to the Grand Temple. That morning, the sky was a dull gray, as if veiled by a thin layer of dust, and the air felt heavy—laden with something unseen that seemed to force every lung to work harder.

The temple towered above them, flanked by twin spires on each side. Its walls were carved with reliefs of broken wings—the symbol of the cult that ruled the city. On the long marble staircase, robed followers in pure white stood in formation, chanting hymns in low, unsettling tones that made the hairs on one’s neck rise.

“This place… feels like the belly of a giant, ready to swallow anyone who steps inside,” Caelan murmured, his eyes scanning the crowd.

Lyselle said nothing. Her gaze was busy absorbing the details—the carvings, the small symbols etched into the door’s corners, and, most importantly, the pattern of the guards. Four spearmen stood on either side of the gate, while two more held crossbows from elevated positions.

As they ascended the steps, a voice greeted them—too gentle to be called a threat, yet too sharp to be a welcome.

“The foretold visitors.”

Sister Elaria stood at the threshold, her white gown now adorned with golden embroidery along the sleeves and collar. In the morning light, her dark eyes looked like two bottomless wells.

“Come inside,” she said curtly. “Today, you will see the truth.”

They stepped past the massive stone doors into a vast chamber with a towering ceiling. Oil lamps hung from long chains, casting light over giant statues of angels with broken wings. The floor was a black-and-white mosaic, its tiles forming a great circle at the center.

There stood Inquisitor Bellos.

He looked the same as yesterday—black robes, silver mask engraved with flames—but this time, his right hand held an iron staff tipped with a claw-shaped head.

“Bellos,” Elaria called, “the witnesses have arrived.”

Bellos turned, his movement slow but heavy with intent. “Good. Truth must be witnessed so that error can be burned to ash.”

He walked to the center of the room, pointing toward a steel door on the right.

From that door, two guards dragged in a boy no older than twelve. His face was pale, his eyes swollen from endless crying. Chains bound his hands, and each step was yanked forward by the guards’ rough pull.

“Sin,” Bellos declared, his voice echoing against the temple walls. “Rejecting the teachings and consorting with the faithless. Punishment: purification.”

Lyselle felt her blood boil, but she held herself back. One wrong move, and they would be the next targets.

Caelan, on the other hand, clenched his jaw. “Purification? He’s just a child,” he muttered.

Sister Elaria turned to him, her thin smile almost threatening. “Age is no shield for sin. A filthy soul must be cleansed as early as possible, lest it grow into poison for this city.”

Bellos raised his staff, the claw-shaped tip glowing faintly red. The room seemed to hold its breath. Behind him, the followers began to chant, their voices thick with fanaticism.

“Bellos,” Elaria said, “show them that mercy is not kindness… but weakness.”

At that, Lyselle took half a step forward. “If the ‘truth’ you speak of means harming a child who doesn’t even understand what’s happening, then that truth is nothing but tyranny.”

Silence fell. Every eye turned toward her.

Bellos halted mid-motion, tilting his head as if weighing her words. Elaria stared at Lyselle for a long moment before smiling faintly.

“Good,” she said softly, though her tone carried a cold edge. “Your courage will be tested… along with your faith.”

She gestured, and two guards approached with fresh chains.

Caelan instinctively reached for his sword, but Lyselle gripped his arm. “Not here. Not yet,” she whispered.

But in both their eyes, the decision had already been made—no matter what, they would not let that boy vanish under the cult’s ‘judgment.’

Outside, the temple bells rang again. This time, their sound felt like a countdown.

---

The air in the grand hall seemed to vibrate—not from heat, but from tension crawling into every corner. The followers’ chanting slowed, as if even they were holding their breath, waiting for what was to come.

Bellos lowered his staff slightly, stepping closer to Lyselle. “You dare interrupt a sacred judgment,” his deep voice rumbled.

“Give me one reason not to drag you out and burn you in the square alongside this boy.”

Lyselle stood her ground. “Because if you do, you admit your so-called ‘truth’ is fragile—unable to stand before a question.”

A hiss rippled through the crowd. Some followers gasped, others tightened their grip on prayer beads.

Sister Elaria stepped forward, now level with Bellos.

“Questions are poison, Lyselle. Poison that severs mankind from the Light. And poison must be destroyed with fire.”

Caelan, who had been silent until now, finally spoke.

“Funny. If your faith were truly strong, it wouldn’t falter just because a woman asked a question.”

His voice was cold, his eyes scanning the room—counting guards, measuring the distance to the exit.

Bellos twirled his staff, the motion quick like a whip. “Careful, prince,” he said, spitting the title with disdain.

“Your family name may shield you in Virelion, but in Selvaria… there is only one name that rules.”

He glanced at Elaria, who smiled faintly without looking back.

“Enough words,” Elaria ordered, nodding to the guards.

“Take the boy to the purification chamber. They,” she said, her gaze locking on Lyselle and Caelan, “may follow. Let them see with their own eyes what true judgment means.”

The guards yanked the boy’s chain again. The child glanced at Lyselle, his eyes a fragile mix of fear and desperate hope.

Lyselle fought the urge to attack right then.

Caelan walked beside her, whispering, “If we move now, we’ll be fighting the whole temple. Wait for the moment.”

The purification chamber lay deep within the temple, through stone corridors lit by torches. With each step, the hymns faded, replaced by the clinking of chains and the guards’ bootsteps. The scent of incense mixed with the stench of burning metal grew stronger.

When the great iron door at the end opened, they were met by a blazing red glow from a magic circle etched into the floor. Heat radiated sharply, and three red-robed executioners stood at the side, their faces hidden beneath black cloth.

Bellos entered first, planting his staff in the circle’s center.

“Blood and fire, the truest cleansers,” he muttered like a prayer. The circle pulsed faintly, as if answering him.

Elaria turned to Lyselle and Caelan. “You wanted the truth? This is truth undeniable—that filth must be cleansed, even if it means burning the flesh from the bone.”

Caelan stepped forward half a pace, his voice low and sharp. “Or maybe it’s just an excuse to satisfy your bloodlust?”

Bellos looked up, his eyes blazing behind the silver mask.

“Bloodlust? No. This is hunger for purity.” He raised his staff again, ready to begin the ritual.

Lyselle glanced at the boy—his eyes squeezed shut, his small body trembling.

In that instant, something inside her broke.

She stepped forward, placing herself between Bellos and the child.

“If you want to begin, you’ll have to go through me first.”

The room froze.

The executioners tensed, guards leveled their spears, and Elaria simply stared at Lyselle as though weighing the best way to cut her apart.

Bellos did not back away. His staff shot forward like a spear, but Lyselle raised her hand, summoning raw magic that trembled in the air. Sparks of red fire clashed against the blue light from her palm.

The collision made the floor shake, dust falling from the stone walls.

Caelan drew his sword, moving to guard both Lyselle and the boy.

Elaria lifted her hand, sending two guards lunging at Caelan from both sides. Steel rang out as swords met spears.

“Kill them,” Elaria said flatly, without emotion. “Let their blood be today’s first offering.”

The magic at the circle’s center exploded like lightning in a stone cage. Blue light from Lyselle’s hand and red flame from Bellos’s staff pushed against each other, flaring brighter with every second.

“You dare, wretched witch!” Bellos pressed forward, each step cracking the stone beneath him.

Heat bit at Lyselle’s skin, but she did not retreat. “If ‘holy’ means killing an innocent child… then I’ll be the vilest heretic in your eyes!”

Her magic pulsed, sparking thin arcs of lightning that coiled around Bellos’s staff.

The boy whimpered, retreating in fear as his chains rattled. Caelan kicked one of the guards into the wall, deflecting another spear thrust.

“Lyselle, now or never!” he shouted.

Elaria, still watching, conjured three violet magic circles in the air, releasing shadow chains toward Lyselle. Lyselle threw up a shield that cracked on impact.

Bellos’s flames lashed out, nearly striking her face, but Caelan was there, blocking with his sword—its blade turning red from the heat.

“If we stay here, we die,” Caelan muttered, glancing at the iron door behind the executioners.

Lyselle grabbed the boy. “Find the gap—I’ll hold them!”

Bellos laughed coldly. “You think you can escape judgment? Even if you hide at the world’s edge, the Light will find—”

A sudden explosion cut him off.

Part of the stone wall crumbled, dust filling the room. From the gap, a cold night wind blew in.

“Now!” Caelan yelled.

The three of them bolted for the breach. Guards tried to block them, but Lyselle sent a wave of ice magic across the floor, making them slip.

Out in the night air, Lyselle glanced back. Through the dust, she saw Elaria standing in the magic circle, watching her… and smiling.

Not a threatening smile—but one that promised we will meet again.

The night wind stung their lungs, but freedom was brief. Far to the west, beyond the temple walls, a red glow lit the horizon—and beneath it, the blackened sprawl of burned fields.

Something heavy settled in Lyselle’s chest. “Caelan… do you see that?”

He nodded, eyes narrowing. “That’s Ardellon… but this should be harvest season, not burning season.”

A dark suspicion took root in both their minds. Whatever had happened there… it was the start of a darker chapter.

---

Their escape from the temple was far from easy. Followers still gave chase, warning bells shaking the night air.

Caelan led the way along a rocky path, while Lyselle guided the trembling boy.

“Do you always believe you’re right?” the boy finally asked, his voice barely audible between their footsteps.

Lyselle looked at him. “No… we just try to do what’s right. That’s not the same as always being right.”

They ran through a small forest, the shadows of the trees shielding them, though the flicker of distant torches told them the pursuit hadn’t ended.

Caelan stopped abruptly, pressing his back to a thick tree. “They’re circling from the north. We need to turn west.”

“Toward the fire?” Lyselle raised a brow.

“Precisely because they think we’ll avoid it. We’ll decide our next move after we see what’s there.”

Night deepened as they climbed a low hill. From its crest, Ardellon stretched before them. The fields that should have been green lay dry and brown, pocked with black burn scars. Thin columns of smoke still rose from some spots.

The boy clutched Lyselle’s arm. “Those… those are our food fields,” he choked.

Caelan’s brows furrowed. “This isn’t a natural crop failure. The burn patterns start from the edges toward the center—it’s deliberate sabotage.”

Lyselle looked from the distant flames to the boy at her side. The same anger she’d felt in the judgment chamber began to take root.

“I don’t know who did this,” she said quietly, “but I promise… we’ll find out.”

From the darkness, a black raven swooped low, landing on a branch nearby. Tied to its leg was a small scroll sealed with Virelion’s crest in wax.

Caelan took it, breaking the seal. His eyes froze on the message. “Duke Varrick… he’s in Ardellon. And this is… an official order to seize the entire harvest.”

Lyselle looked back down at the scorched land, then at Caelan. “Then… we know where we’re going next.”

The shouts of their pursuers were now far behind. They had a little time. The night wind carried the scent of burnt earth, and on the horizon, the red glow deepened.