Judgement of the Forsaken

Six years ago

WHEN TEENAGED Sirius and Lucien were kept in the dungeon, it reeked of damp stone and rusted iron. It was contrary to the white marbling of the Sacrarium of the King above them.

Sirius slumped against the wall to relieve the occasional pain he felt in his upper back. His wrists were sore from the tight grips of the clockwork sanctum guards, and he was focused on the sliver of light beneath the heavy door.

Anticipation and anxiety stirred.

Beside him, Lucien muttered curses under his breath, his stomach growling loud with a faint echo. “A day,” Sirius murmured, glancing at his mechanical watch. “It’s been at least a day. And not a word.”

“This can’t be real,” Lucien grumbled, aggressively rubbing the black Pawn on the back of his hand. “How’d this happen?”

“And why’d it happen?” Sirius added, clenching his fists.

From not having time to process the aftermath of the crusade and mourn the deaths of their fellow classmates, Sirius and Lucien were now forced to endure another battle neither of them asked for. When the door lock scraped, its levers coming out of place, the boys braced for the same mechanical gauntlets that had hurled them in here.

But instead of manatech automatons, a robed figure entered. His gold-threaded vestments marked him higher in the echelons of God-King Dajayatan’s ministry.

“Peace and blessings to you, young brothers,” the masked clergyman greeted softly. He offered a clay jug and two cups. “Please drink.”

They hesitated, then accepted, replying with the natural response, “And upon you, blessings and peace.”

The water was cool, blessedly real.

Lucien devoured the simple loaf of bread and dried figs the cleric placed beside him, crumbs sticking to his lips.

“I am Archcleric Mathias, steward of the Sacrarium of the King,” he spoke regally, addressing them through the blank mask. He then revealed some packets of freshly cut cheese and beef jerky from his sleeve, and carefully passed it to them. “I apologize, this was all I could carry for the time being.”

The boys watched quietly, then accepted. They would take all of the food that they could get.

The clergyman postured up. His presence was kinder, humbler, and steady. “I am here to inform you that you will be summoned before His Holiness soon. But no one should face Him on an empty stomach.”

Sirius exchanged a quiet glance with Lucien, bewildered and wary. They had many questions, but the archcleric implored them to save their words for the god-king. “Just eat your food,” he quietly advised them, his tone urgent.

The archcleric, being a Bishop-class, also offered to treat their arm burns. While he could heal them, a scar would still remain. Afterwards, he silently faced ahead as he sat with them in the cell. Dirtying his vestments was of little concern to him, and his expression was a mystery behind the mirror-like facemask that he and other clergy wore. One may have assumed his identity to be a talking automaton because of how eloquently he spoke and dressed, but that was part of his duty as the god-king’s advisor.

Some fleeting moments had already passed when he took a deep breath and stood up. Archcleric Mathias gestured to the torchlit corridor beyond, stating, “I am sorry, I swear on my harmonic core I will make it up to you. But for now, He awaits you.”

The moment Sirius and Lucien exited the cell, they were seized, shackled by the wrists, and roughly handled by the sanctum guards.

Cold iron was merciless against bare skin.

Sirius and Lucien’s burned hands became irritated again, their flesh remembering the harsh conditions, despite being treated. After being shoved in between four clockwork guards, they trudged in silence. Their hearts beat rapidly, and their bodies trembling with fear and uncertainty.

The clatter of the chains echoed against the white brick corridor, louder than footsteps.

These guards’ white-plated helms hid any sign of mercy, their tourbillon still cycling regardless of if the boys were innocent or guilty.

But they avoided looking up at them. To gaze upon them—to question why they were bound—felt like a sin in these halls where fear already thickened the air.

Archcleric Mathias walked ahead of them, his silver mask catching the lanternlight in fleeting glints. He alone carried no weapon, yet his presence commanded respect. Other masked clergymen and women halted in their strides and bowed until he passed.

The all-white corridor of the Chronalux Palace ended in towering blue and wooden doors, their surfaces bound with inlaid brass. On either side stood the windup musketeers.

These clockwork soldiers had glowing keys turning endlessly in their backs, and a musket in the crevice of their shoulders. They shifted with mechanical precision to unlock the chamber with a grinding symphony of colossal gears.

The doors split open, revealing the King’s Chamber.

The air within was different. It was heavier, suffocating. The marble tiles gleamed in stark black and white, a pattern like the judgment of right and wrong itself. At the far end, atop a raised dais, loomed a vast white throne. Only the ornate legs were visible, and everything above was enveloped in a cloudy shroud.

Archcleric Mathias knelt some distance in front of it, head bowed.

Sirius and Lucien followed suit, but two of the sanctum guards pressed their foreheads to the cold floor instead. They grunted and gritted their teeth, skulls feeling tight, like they were going to be crushed.

The guards ensured that they were showing the maximum humility to their deity.

The silence soon broke with a voice that was no mere sound, but a weight, reverberating through stone, metal, and bone alike.

“I know the faces of these two,” boomed God-King Dajayatan. “Dwellers in the Outer Realms from Pallethorpe Village, Quadcore Trivareth…” He paused, the weight of his words settling. “Sirius Khalifa, who rescued his classmates, bringing them back one by one, while praying the whole time. And Lucien Ylfing, a sturdy and unyielding fighter who refused to go down, even when the odds were stacked against him.” The god-king’s words, though acknowledging, carried no warmth. His voice was vast, detached, as though spoken by eternity itself. “You served well in my crusade, and yet, your marks turned black.”

The throne rumbled, despite being empty.

Sirius and Lucien flinched, hiding their hands beneath folded arms as though ashamed.

The archcleric dared to lift his head. “Your Holiness, their deeds were righteous. Their courage, unquestionable,” he affirmed. “I beg of you, grant them clarity and a chance at redemption. I cannot guide them, because never in all our records have such marks appeared on a Chesslandiyan citizen.”

The shadow above the throne stirred. “You speak with mercy, Mathias. But mercy cannot cleanse corruption.”

The boys’ stomachs churned as the voice bore down on them, cold and merciless.

“Tell me, children,” the god-king asked, the words like knives scraping against their ears, “when I turn my face away from you, where shall you seek salvation?”

Sirius forced out the words, throat dry. “From no one but you, Your Holiness. You are an everlasting presence in our lives.”

Lucien quickly echoed the teachings of the clergy. “Without you, we are nothing. We are dust without your breath.”

A pause followed.

The mist swirled above the throne, preparing to deliver judgment.

“I can almost believe in your convictions, but cannot overlook what you are,” the god-king replied. “At least you still know whose hand steadies this world. Yet devotion does not unmake the stains that poison you.”

Sirius and Lucien gulped, occasionally holding their breaths to not miss out on what the deity had to say.

“You stand at a fork in eternity,” the god-king declared. “I will allow you a choice, for I am All-Merciful. Your first path: six years of torment. Branded as outcasts, spurned by kin and strangers alike, you will wander in shame. Death will not take you until those years expire like every heathen who does not complete their pilgrimage. And when death does find you, your punishment will make you beg for that former hell you had while alive.”

The chamber seemed to shrink, the black-and-white tiles pressing in on them. Lucien felt his heart thudding against the dented armor he still wore.

The god-king’s voice lowered, heavy with finality. “Your second path: redemption, but only by trial. I do not gift wisdom freely. You must suffer for it, prove your worth beneath sky, metal, and stone. Only then might your marks find meaning.”

Archcleric Mathias clenched his jaw from behind his mask. “Your Holiness, it is a big world. They are not ready.”

The throne didn’t answer him, only the response of the accused mattered. “Choose,” the god-king boomed.

The silence was unbearable.

Sirius glanced at Lucien, and in that fleeting gaze, both boys knew the answer.

“Redemption,” Sirius whispered hoarsely. Lucien nodded, his voice breaking. “We’ll prove ourselves.”

The throne’s swirling mist shifted, a sound like stone grinding against stone.

“Then hear your sentence, forsaken ones, for your path to redemption starts now. You will journey to the farthest edge of Chesslandiya, to the cradle of all civilization. At the summit of the Lachian Mountains lies the Primorigial Sanctuary. Ascend to its sacred dais and stand in judgment. That is your only hope.”

Sirius swallowed hard, his voice cracking as he dared, “And… what happens then, Your Majesty?”

The archcleric stiffened, hands balling into fists at the boy’s breach of etiquette.

But the god-king only answered in a chilling calm, “Go, child. What awaits you will be known when you arrive. We are done here.”

When God-King Dajayatan’s presence lifted, the heavy mist in the chamber cleared, revealing the pale walls and cold grandeur. There were white pillars that lined the blue and gold carpet runner between them.

They were carved representations of each ranked mark that loomed over the walkway at increasing heights. The spherical-topped Pawn statues were closest to the mechanical door. In front of them were Rook statues in the shape of turrets that had battlements carved at the top. Slightly taller than that were horse-headed statues representing Knight. And taller than that were the conical-headed Bishop statues.

Despite this clarity and glamour, Sirius and Lucien felt smothered beneath the shadow of their sentence. The guards seized their chains and pulled them back from the King’s Chamber. God-King Dajayatan’s words still echoed in their skulls like a curse they couldn’t shake. And though the throne’s light soon dimmed behind them, Sirius and Lucien knew their true trial had only just begun. Whatever waited in the Lachian Mountains would either cleanse them or destroy them.

Only time would tell.