Chapter 10: The Chain of Judgment
The capital, Illyrion, shone like a crown atop the cliffs of Tarenvale. Its marble spires reached toward the heavens, its streets paved in golden stone and centuries of secrets. The city was built not just to rule—but to endure.
Jean Luther entered it cloaked in common gray, her sword wrapped and strapped across her back, Whitney shadowing her through the alleys.
But even disguised, she could feel it—eyes on her. The weight of power pressing down like a second sky.
Here, she was not a warrior.
She was prey.
---
They passed under the gaze of the Judicator Spires—seven towers surrounding the central court, each named after one of the Empire's virtues: Law, Honor, Mercy, Silence, Sacrifice, Flame, and Faith.
In the heart of them all sat the Hall of Verdicts, where rulers and rebels alike met their end.
This was where the next chain lay hidden.
Not in the dungeons.
Not in the throne.
But in the very laws that held the Empire together.
Veylan's scroll had said it clearly:
> "The Chain of Judgment is not metal—it is oath. Seven truths woven into one lie."
---
Jean moved swiftly through the lower courts, bribing clerks, exchanging coded phrases learned at the Academy. Slowly, a pattern emerged:
Seven founding judges.
Seven sacred doctrines.
And an eighth doctrine, sealed away—the "Unspoken Verdict."
She tracked the Unspoken Verdict to the Archives of Silence, where parchment was stored in ink that could only be read in moonlight.
By night, she broke into the tower with Whitney's help.
They found the page.
Only one line remained:
> "In times of great peril, the Emissary shall be judged not by gods—but by man."
Jean's breath caught.
"The judgment is on me."
Whitney's tail lashed. "They'll make you the enemy."
Jean nodded. "Unless I turn the trial on them."
---
The next morning, a summons arrived—sealed by the High Judicator himself.
She was to appear before the Imperial Court, charged with consorting with forbidden powers and bringing a cursed relic into Imperial territory.
They knew she was here.
The trial would be public.
Broadcast to the seven provinces.
It was a trap—but also the only way to reach the chain.
She accepted.
---
The Hall of Verdicts was packed.
Magistrates. Nobles. Spectators. Every eye trained on the lone figure in gray standing at the center of the marble ring.
Jean spoke first.
"I am Jean Luther. Emissary of Celeste. I carry the sword of Serah the First. And I come not to defend myself—but to challenge this court."
Gasps.
The High Judicator, a thin man with sapphire eyes, raised a hand.
"Careful, girl. Your pride may outpace your wisdom."
Jean unsheathed the sword.
Light spilled across the chamber.
"The judgment I face was designed by gods," she said. "But your laws have replaced their voice."
She turned slowly, meeting the eyes of each judge.
"This court is the eighth chain. The final seal that keeps the Empire obedient. You don't protect the people. You contain them."
Whispers rose to a storm.
The High Judicator stood. "Do you claim the right of Truthfire?"
Jean nodded. "I do."
---
Truthfire—a forgotten rite, burned from lawbooks, but bound in the original founding scripts.
If she spoke lies beneath the flame, she would burn.
If she spoke truth…
The court would be judged.
They lit the brazier.
The flame turned white.
Jean stepped into it.
And she spoke:
Of the cults. The Vault. The drowned city. The broken chains. Her brother. Her father. The hidden gods. Celeste. And finally, of the lie that bound the Empire in golden chains.
The flame did not burn her.
Instead, it bent toward the judges.
And howled.
---
Panic erupted.
The chamber trembled.
One of the seven spires cracked down the center—Mercy.
A chain broke.
The Chain of Judgment was undone.
But Jean had not done it.
The people did.
The crowd, once silent, roared in fury and awe.
The court was no longer sacred.
The law was no longer absolute.
---
In the chaos, Jean and Whitney fled through the underground catacombs, chased by guards loyal not to truth—but to power.
As they reached the exit, a cloaked figure intercepted them.
Tall. Wounded. Familiar.
Ascen.
He held a bleeding wound at his side, but his eyes still burned with purpose.
"You did it," he said. "You turned their sword on them."
Jean stared. "Why are you here?"
He handed her a sealed message.
"I found something worse than broken chains. Something that wakes between them."
She opened the letter.
It bore the mark of a chained flame—and a single name:
"The Devourer of Dawn."