Umazo: "Oh, Luken~! Would you be a dear and fetch me some more iced tea?"
Beneath crooked earth. Beneath fractured rock. Beneath tiled stone. Beneath the entirety of the First Ones' Kingdom itself, an enormous network of underground tunnels had been carved into existence long ago.
They twisted through the world's foundations like veins beneath flesh, countless passageways intertwining and overlapping one another in maddening patterns.
Vast corridors spiraled into narrower burrows before splitting once more into dozens of branching routes, each path nearly indistinguishable from the last.
Together, they formed something resembling a colossal slumbering serpent buried beneath civilization—a labyrinth of concrete and stone coiling endlessly through darkness.
A maze.
Every corridor, every turn, every dead end had been designed for a singular purpose.
Confusion.
Disorientation.
Despair.
Those unfortunate enough to enter without proper guidance quickly discovered the truth hidden beneath the kingdom's polished streets and gleaming towers.
Escape was not merely difficult. It was impossible.
The evidence of this stained the tunnels themselves.
Blackened skeletons remained slumped against distant walls, their empty sockets forever staring toward exits they never found.
Severed fingers rested amongst piles of ancient debris. The stale scent of decay clung stubbornly to the air despite the passing of decades, mingling with the bitter odors of dust, dried blood, and long-forgotten tears.
To find oneself trapped within these burrows was to receive a death sentence without trial.
Unless you knew the way.
Unless you stood so high within the kingdom's hierarchy—so trusted by the system itself—that a sacred map had been entrusted into your care.
A map leading toward the heart of the labyrinth.
Toward the chamber hidden at its center.
Once upon a time, that chamber had contained nothing but shadow. Endless shadow. A vast hollow abyss untouched by light or sound.
Now it had become something far stranger.
Millions upon millions of white silk threads stretched throughout the enormous expanse, weaving themselves between every corner of the chamber.
They wrapped around one another, crossed over one another, supported one another. Entire layers of silk connected together in breathtaking harmony, resembling less a collection of strings and more an organized civilization suspended within the void.
Despite their impossibly thin appearances, the threads possessed extraordinary strength.
They held firm beneath unfeasible tension.
Looking upon them from afar was strangely reminiscent of gazing down upon the glossy stone roads of Yexdale—the center district of the First Ones' Kingdom.
Nestled amongst this sprawling kingdom of silk sat three obsidian thrones.
The first throne had been decorated with a magnificent collection of white and rose-pink flowers. Blossoms spilled across its armrests and backrest alike, flourishing beautifully against the dark ore as though spring itself had taken root within the chasm.
The second throne bore a significantly different appearance.
Hundreds of intricate magical runes had been carved directly into its surface. The symbols spoke silently of forgotten eras and primordial histories—the earliest beginnings of the Realm of Rage itself.
The third throne eclipsed both others in sheer presence.
It was larger.
Heavier.
Far more imposing.
Steel blades protruded from its structure like jagged fangs. Silver axes had been embedded into its sides.
Iron arrows rested between grooves carved throughout the seat. It appeared less like furniture and more like a monument dedicated to judgment itself.
These seats belonged exclusively to the three most trusted figures within the First Ones' hierarchy.
The Witch.
The Steward.
And the Truth.
Luken: "Dear Madame, you've already had approximately seven cups. Perhaps some water would suit you better now."
Luken Fregi Ulf.
Son of the Mountain King.
One of the Seven Elective Dictators.
The Heavenly Steward of Balance.
A gentle smile rested upon the young dictator's face as he leaned comfortably against the flower-covered throne.
His black-gloved hands remained neatly clasped together while his posture radiated an almost effortless elegance. Large burn scars stretched across his closed eyes, sealing them shut for eternity.
Soft freckles dotted his snow-white complexion.
Short dark-chocolate curls framed his face, their slightly messy appearance swaying gently within the chamber's cool breeze.
A pristine white shirt rested beneath a deep azure overcoat fashioned in the style of a noble's suit, its surface adorned with ornate embroidery that shimmered whenever stray light touched its stitching.
Luken calmly adjusted the light-blue scarf wrapped around his neck before extending a single finger into the air.
Almost immediately, a marvelous butterfly descended from the darkness.Its delicate wings fluttered gracefully as it landed atop his hand.
A small chuckle escaped him.
Over his left shoulder rested a metal pauldron detailed with exquisite brass craftsmanship. Matching blue armor cuffs protected each wrist, their bronze guards catching faint glimmers of reflected light from the runes scattered throughout the area.
A pleasant tune drifted from Luken's lips as he crossed one leg over the other.
His white trousers had been tailored with remarkable precision, fitting neatly against his frame. Wrapped around his upper right thigh rested a sharp black garter, creating a subtle contrast against the otherwise immaculate attire.
Across his lap lay a long gray lance.
Leifhöken.
His Blessed Tool.
Bright orange and yellow flowers had been incorporated throughout its design, winding elegantly between leather straps and expertly shaped steel.
The weapon possessed a beauty that bordered upon artistry, resembling something meant to be displayed within a cathedral rather than wielded upon a battlefield.
Eventually, the butterfly abandoned its perch.
Its tiny form strayed away from the dictator and vanished into the drowning sea of shadow surrounding them.
Umazo: "You'd do best not to interfere with what a woman desires, darling."
Madame Umazo.
Enchantress of the Forgotten Shores.
Messenger of the Realm of Rage.
The Eye of Freedom and Wisdom.
The Witch.
Lavender hair cascaded down her shoulders in waves, spilling across her robes and throne alike like silken spiderwebs woven by moonlight itself.
Against the chamber's eternal abyss, her light-tan skin seemed almost luminous, glowing softly like a lantern suspended within the night.
A teasing grin spread across her lips.
With casual grace, Umazo adjusted the brim of her milk-white witch hat.
Brilliant purple and sea-blue gemstones decorated its surface, each one carefully encased within gold settings.
Along its side rested a vibrant viridian feather whose colors stood proudly against the otherwise pale design.
Pristine white robes draped across her curvaceous figure as she reclined comfortably within the rune-covered throne. The garments flowed majestically around her frame, pooling against the obsidian seat like freshly fallen snow.
Her glittering violet eyes cut through the murk with effortless ease.
Sharp.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
Umazo: "Though I suppose some water would be rather nice right about now."
———
Several hours had long since passed.
And still, there was no sign of the final arrival the pair had been waiting for.
Umazo let out an exaggerated groan before allowing her cheek to collapse into her palm. Her violet eyes had long since lost any trace of enthusiasm.
She was restless.
One foot tapped repeatedly against the silk floor beneath her throne while her other leg swung lazily through the air.
Every few moments she yawned into her hand, fanning her mouth afterward as though the simple act of waiting had become a personal attack against her existence.
The Witch looked miserable.
Entirely done with the situation.
Unfortunately for her, the man sitting across from her appeared completely unaffected.
Luken somehow remained exactly as he had been hours ago.
Patient.
Throughout the wait, he had occupied himself in ways that only served to further irritate Umazo. At various points he had meditated quietly within his throne, conversed with wandering insects that gliding through the air, and even spent nearly half an hour allowing butterflies to land upon his arms.
Not once had his composure broken.
Not once had he complained.
Not once had that infuriating smile left his face.
Everything about him annoyed her.
Umazo: "Is that man even coming? Or is he too busy singing our precious Prince a lullaby?"
Luken: "Now now, Madame. We shouldn't—"
Umazo immediately dismissed him.
With a lazy wave of her hand, she cut him off before he could even finish speaking. Her gaze wandered upward toward the spiraling shadow hanging above them.
Umazo: "I vote we begin without him. It's rather obvious why we're gathered here in the first place."
Her fingers drummed against her armrest.
Umazo: "Windfield's prolonged absence."
A quiet chuckle escaped Luken.
He leaned forward slightly within his throne, folding his hands together once again. Umazo's impatience had always amused him.
Luken: "Unfortunately, sacred protocol dictates that matters of this magnitude must be discussed in the presence of Judgment himself."
Umazo stared at him.
Then blinked.
Umazo: "Judgment?"
The word rolled off her tongue with enough sarcasm to poison a river.
Umazo: "Look at you. Singing his praises like he's some divine prophet sent down from the heavens."
She placed a delicate hand over her heart before sighing dramatically.
Umazo: "Honestly, does that man even possess a real name anymore? Or are we doomed to call him 'The High Prosecutor' until the end of time?"
Mock sympathy dripped from every single syllable she uttered.
Umazo: "I pity his family. His head is so stuck up his own ass that he can't even seem to concern himself with anything beyond First Ones' royalty and his own self-importance.
It's honestly depressing."
Silence followed.
Brief silence.
Until… a chuckle.
A very small chuckle. One that rapidly grew larger. And larger. And larger.
Eventually, Luken was openly laughing.
The sound echoed throughout the chamber as he doubled over slightly within his throne, clutching his stomach while tears threatened to form behind ruined eyes.
Across from him, Umazo rolled her eyes so aggressively it looked painful.
Luken lowered Leifhöken against the silk floor before lifting a hand toward his face.
Luken: "A-Are you finished?"
He theatrically pretended to wipe away a tear.
Luken: "What a remarkable tangent, Madame. A thoroughly dreadful one, mind you. But entertaining nonetheless."
Umazo smirked.
Umazo: "You find our leader's incompetence entertaining? Good. It appears we've finally discovered common ground, dear."
Luken immediately shook his head.
Luken: "Oh no. Not at all. What amused me was your speech."
He folded his hands neatly together once more.
Luken: "Of course the High Prosecutor possesses a name. But the purpose bestowed upon him by the Balance surpasses something as trivial as a name. He is Judgment. He is our High Prosecutor."
His sweet, gentle smile widened.
Luken: "Without him, this empire would've descended into chaos centuries ago. Surely you know that already, Madame."
He paused momentarily before speaking up again.
Luken: "Or perhaps you simply don't care."
Umazo stared at him. Her celestial pupils focused upon the empty scars where eyes should have been.
She remained silent.
Studying him.
Searching.
She then threw her head backward, groaning for the millionth time. Her hands disappeared into her lavender hair as she dragged her fingers through the long strands.
Umazo: "You know something, darling? You may genuinely be the most boring person I have ever met."
She raised a finger.
Umazo: "You lack personality."
Another finger.
Umazo: "Perspective."
A third.
Umazo: "And presence. Honestly, I'd rather spend an evening listening to Thor Sword ramble about honor than sit through another one of your sermons."
Then Umazo paused.
She thought to herself, thinking of an… idea.
A mischievous grin slowly spread across her face. She lowered her gaze, quiet giggles escaping her lush lips.
Umazo: "Although…"
Her feet began swinging beneath her throne.
Umazo: "Your jealousy does amuse me."
A tiny movement.
A twitch.
Almost invisible. Yet undeniably present.
The twitch of Luken's practiced smile.
Luken: "J-Jealousy? You must be mistaken, Madame. Who exactly would I have reason to envy?"
Umazo's grin widened. She slowly lifted her teacup, her dark-purple lipstick brushing against the porcelain rim.
Umazo: "Everyone."
The single word echoed softly.
Umazo: "The other Dictators."
Sip.
Umazo: "The First Captain."
Sip.
Umazo: "Judgment."
Sip.
Umazo: "The Prince. You're jealous of every single one of them."
The Witch tilted her head.
Umazo: "Because no matter how desperately you try, they possess something you don't."
The grin on her face became unbearable.
Umazo: "More power. More influence."
She paused again, weighing the weight of the words before speaking.
Umazo: "You've spent a century maintaining that adorable little goody-two-shoes façade. You almost had me convinced there was absolutely nothing beneath that smile of yours."
Then the knife finally struck.
Umazo: "Until Kaiser became a Dictator."
Luken froze. He went completely still, as solid as a rock.
…
Luken: "…Excuse me, Madame. I don't believe I heard that final part."
Zoom.
The chamber exploded with wind. Millions of silk threads shuddered violently as a savage gust swept across the abyss.
The first throne was empty.
Thick beads of sweat immediately formed along Umazo's forehead.
The razor-sharp tip of Leifhöken rested against her throat. A thin line of scarlet slowly emerged where the lance kissed flesh.
Luken stood before her.
Motionless.
Silent.
The heir of the Mountain King looked less like a man and more like a glacier shaped into human form.
Every trace of warmth had vanished.
Even his smile was gone.
His voice arrived as little more than a whisper.
Luken: "Would you mind repeating that for me…?"
Step.
???: "That's enough."
A sharp breath escaped Umazo's lips.
She immediately raised her fingers toward her neck, pressing them against the narrow vermillion line stretched across her flesh. The wound glowed faintly within the world of nothingness, a fragile ribbon of scarlet painted across otherwise flawless skin.
The Witch clicked her tongue.
Her violet eyes narrowed upward toward the first throne.
Toward Luken.
The Heavenly Steward had somehow already returned to his seat, his lance resting peacefully across his lap once more.
His smile remained exactly where it had been before.
As though nothing had happened.
As though he hadn't nearly slit his comrade's throat mere moments ago.
Luken: "Oh my, Madame. It seems the air has grown rather sharp today."
His perfect smile broadened.
Luken: "Sharp enough to cut, even."
Umazo: "You wretched boy…!"
Step.
Step.
The argument died instantly.
Step.
Step.
An overwhelming pressure surged throughout the hidden chamber.
Reason.
Discernment.
Judgment.
The sensation swallowed the secret sanctuary whole. Every silk thread. Every obsidian throne. Every breath.
Step.
Step.
One of the Five Champions of the Celestial Butterfly had returned from his royal duties.
Step.
Step.
The Incarnation of Judgment.
Prince Lisaz's Personal Advisor.
Master of the Snow-Stalker's Pin.
Step.
Yoheim Xyles.
THE HIGH PROSECUTOR.
Frost-white curls lashed through the frigid air as a vast ocean-blue mantle billowed behind him like the crest of a storm-tossed sea. Draped across its shoulders rested the ivory pelt of Rimfari—the Fearless Wolf—its pristine fur shifting softly with every movement of the massive man beneath it.
The powerful footsteps of a giant echoed throughout the chasm.
A seven-foot titan.
A man who had endured more than two centuries beneath the gaze of the Balance.
Each step reverberated through the chamber's infinite darkness. Each impact seemed to travel farther than sound itself.
His porcelain skin bore countless tiny scars.
Fragments of old wars.
Ageless Wars.
His eyes glowed with the cold brilliance of two colossal icebergs drifting through an endless polar sea.
Within each pupil sat a sacred emblem.
A blade.
Sharp and unyielding.
Buried deep within his frozen heart, a steel sword protruded through his black armored chestplate.
The wound should have killed him centuries ago.
Instead, shimmering ice essence continuously leaked from the injury, spreading through his veins and freezing his very blood before death could ever claim it.
A punishment.
A miracle.
Perhaps both.
Two First Ones' banners hung from his elbows like sacred standards carried into battle.
Trailing behind him was a gigantic steel hammer. Its enormous head scraped across the woven silk pathways below, producing a low metallic growl that rolled throughout the chamber's depths.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Halt.
The High Prosecutor stopped before his subordinates.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Yoheim slowly lifted one weathered hand toward his face. His thick white mustache shifted beneath calloused fingers. A few strands of beard brushed against his thumb.
He exhaled heavily.
A dense cloud of frosted breath escaped his pale lips, the mist rolling forward like winter itself.
And when he finally spoke, his voice thundered through not only the hidden chamber—but the entire tunnel system beneath the First Ones' Kingdom.
The High Prosecutor: "For over two weeks… my nightmares have ceased to exist."
A dreadful silence fell over the room.
The High Prosecutor: "All thanks to the absence…"
A pause.
An agonizingly long one.
The High Prosecutor: "…of Jerry Windfield."