The chapel slept, but Auren did not.

He moved like smoke through its empty halls, each step echoing faintly across ancient stone. Moonlight slipped through stained glass windows, casting grotesque saints across the pews—faces warped in judgment, hands always reaching.

He passed the altar slowly. The silver bowl from the ritual was still there—blackened with cold wax and ashes.

But behind it…

A faint shimmer.

A gust of unnatural wind lifted the edge of the altar cloth, revealing a worn handle embedded into the floor—ironbound and etched with Tribunal scripture, long defaced.

A trapdoor.

Auren drew a slow breath, then pulled it open.

The scent hit him first—dust, rot, blood, old incense. Below, steep stairs led into darkness. He didn’t hesitate.

His blade fragment flickered with pale light as he descended. It didn't glow often. Only when something was wrong.

The underchapel was vast. Bigger than the church itself.

Stone walls bled with forgotten paintings—mural after mural of judgment and execution. But the figures wore no halos. Their faces were contorted in agony, painted with such rage it felt like they screamed in silence.

Then he saw the relics.

Bones.

Hundreds of them, arranged in circular patterns—kneeling skeletons, heads bowed, arms outstretched toward the center. Each one was chained to the floor. Each one marked with Tribunal seals.

But the worst sat in the center: a sarcophagus, blackened and sealed with seven rusted locks.

Etched upon its surface in golden lettering:

“Here lies the Judge Who Judged Gods.”

Auren approached, heart hammering.

He reached out—then paused. He wasn’t alone.

A voice echoed from the far wall.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

Lyra stepped into view from the shadows, cloak drawn tight, dagger in hand.

“I told you the village had secrets,” she said. “You didn’t ask how deep they went.”

Auren raised a brow. “You knew about this?”

She nodded. “I’ve been watching the Friar since I was twelve. My parents vanished after a Red Vigil. When I followed the incense carts, I found this.”

She knelt beside one of the skeletons and touched its arm.

“These weren’t prisoners,” she whispered. “They were clerics. Tribunal saints. And they died worshiping something that isn’t divine.”

Suddenly, the blade fragment pulsed in Auren’s hand—hot and violent.

Then—crack.

One of the chains twitched. A skeleton turned its head—ever so slightly.

Another lock on the sarcophagus clicked open on its own.

And from beneath the stone lid came a whisper.

“...Judge returned… knight reborn… flame remembers...”

Auren backed away, breath tight. “We need to leave.”

Lyra didn’t argue.

As they climbed the stairs, a cold wind slammed the trapdoor shut behind them.

The chapel above was no longer empty.

Vaelric stood at the altar, hands folded, eyes calm.

“Curiosity,” he said gently, “is the first flame in the forest.”

Auren stepped in front of Lyra. “You’ve locked gods in tombs and burned saints for fuel.”

Vaelric didn’t flinch.

“And you, child of karma, have barely begun to understand what you are.”

He stepped forward, robes whispering like silk across stone.

“When the chains break,” he whispered, “judgment will burn everything—even you.”

And with that, he turned and walked into the shadows.

“The past is not buried.
It sleeps with one eye open,
beneath altars soaked in praise.”
                              — Verse III, Forgotten Tribunal Hymn