"I–It's not me! I swear by the stars of twilight—it's not me!"
A broken voice echoed down the cold hallway. The boy struggled in his chains, his dim amethyst eyes wide, bloodshot, and brimming with terror. "How could someone like me—so weak, so frail—fight anyone? I just... woke up! Master Gareth is blessed by the God of Stars, how could I possibly counter him?!"
He was no older than fifteen, his small body covered in dirt, bruises, and dried blood that was not entirely his own. Two tall guards, armored in silver and obsidian plates engraved with celestial runes, dragged him forward. The clinking of his chains filled the silence between their footsteps.
One of the guards, his voice deep and void of emotion, finally spoke.
"Quiet down, slave. Indeed, you can't. That's why you're here—to be examined."
He gave a cold sneer, his star-shaped pupils faintly glowing. "Don't waste your tears now. You'll need every drop to stay alive in there."
The boy trembled as they descended deeper underground. The air grew thick—cold, heavy, and sharp with the scent of iron and ash.
Then the chamber opened before them.
A vast hall—ancient and echoing—bathed in a flickering green light from enchanted lanterns that floated freely, untethered, like lost souls. The walls were carved with runes that pulsed faintly, whispering in a forgotten tongue.
But what drew the eye first was the statue.
It stood in the center, kneeling, its stone hands open as if in eternal offering. The face—male, serene, yet hollow—was cracked, half missing. The remaining half was dominated by star-shaped eyes, carved with such realism it almost felt alive. From its back unfurled four colossal wings of stone, folded inward as if embracing itself, each feather etched with divine sigils long eroded by time.
In its hands rested an obsidian altar, veins of green light crawling across it like living veins.
The boy's knees buckled as he was dragged before it. The guards forced him to kneel, his chains rattling as they locked into the altar's base.
And then—voices.
From above, nine thrones lined the circular hall, high and distant, casting their shadows upon him. On each seat sat a figure cloaked in darkness, their faces hidden—but their eyes, those terrible, blazing star-shaped eyes, gleamed like dying suns.
The Council of Kaelor.
The True Born.
Judges of divine purity.
A voice thundered through the hall.
> "Temple slave... speak."
"Explain yourself."
The sound reverberated through the boy's bones. He flinched, shivering uncontrollably.
"I–I didn't do anything," he whispered.
No one replied.
The silence pressed down on him like a weight, suffocating. He raised his tear-stricken face to the council above—his voice cracking with raw desperation.
"I don't remember anything! I swear it wasn't me! I–I woke up and they were all dead! Everyone was dead!"
The figure in the center throne leaned slightly forward. When it spoke, the voice was calm. Too calm.
> "So... you claim innocence. And yet the gods themselves turned their eyes toward your blood."
The boy froze. His chains trembled.
"I–I don't understand—what do you mean?"
No answer came. Instead, the green light of the lanterns dimmed, flickering erratically—then brightened, bathing the hall in a sickly glow.
From the statue, a low hum began to echo, deep and resonant, as cracks glowed faintly along its wings.
One of the judges spoke again, his voice distorted like it was spoken from both within and beyond the hall:
> "You have been touched by something that should not exist... and for that, judgment shall decide your truth."
The boy's breath caught. "W–What judgment?"
Chains tightened around his limbs, digging into flesh. The altar beneath him pulsed like a heartbeat.
And from the hollow stone eyes of the statue—something moved.
Slowly. Silently.
> "Let the God of Stars bear witness."
The room darkened to black.