The street was noisy.
Vendors shouted.
A bard tuned a harp wrong three times.
But Aether—Eclipse—stood still beneath a fig tree.
Staring into a memory that had waited centuries to resurface.
The crack in that mask.
Not a copy.
A scar.
One you'd made yourself.
⸻
"When was it?"
"How many wars ago?"
"What was his name?"
⸻
And suddenly—
It returns.
⸻
The skies were shattered then.
No sun.
Just light peeling through cosmic scars like a divine wound.
You stood in a valley where the earth refused to let gods touch it anymore.
Where even time bent sideways to avoid being blamed.
The False Tribunal had gathered—
Three godlings who'd declared themselves the New Order.
Their decree:
That justice had grown obsolete.
That power alone would govern the multiverse now.
You arrived late.
You always did.
Because you believed in letting mortals choose first.
⸻
But when you appeared?
The wind stopped.
One godling spoke:
"Eclipse Raven. Why do you come now? You denied the Call."
And you answered—
"I didn't come to answer your call."
"I came to write your names down."
"So they won't be forgotten when you fall."
⸻
They laughed.
Then they attacked.
⸻
What followed was not battle.
It was unmaking.
You severed Time's voice.
Silenced the Second Sun.
Bent Gravity like a ribbon around a forgotten star and let it crush the Tribunal's armies without touching the mortals below.
But it wasn't wrath.
It was just… balance.
Justice didn't scream.
It breathed.
⸻
Among them was the masked priest.
He wasn't a god.
Not even close.
Just a man with a vision.
Claimed he saw your truth reflected in a well.
He begged the Tribunal to surrender.
Then tried to shield a dying child with his own body.
You remembered the crack.
How your shield had failed.
How he died anyway.
How his mask fell beside the body,
burned into the earth with the scent of blood and mercy.
⸻
Now?
You'd seen it again.
On a face that was not his.
⸻
Back in Veldenhar, the world returned with the sound of a sneeze.
Aether blinked.
The fig vendor was offering him a piece for free.
"You alright, lad?"
"Just… remembering."
"Good or bad?"
"Depends how many people survive the remembering."
*
Veldenhar, Eastern District – Nightfall
A page tore loose from a scribe's archive.
It bore no title.
No author.
Just an emblem—half-faded—of a scale flanked by stars.
The historian in the mask took it with shaking hands.
"The Trial was real," he whispered. "They erased him, but not perfectly."
He didn't say the name.
Because names have power.
And this one still had teeth.
⸻
South Courtyard, Palace Grounds
Saela stood by the garden torches, reading the intercepted text.
"…and in the age before laws, when the gods still bled, the Eye above Scales passed judgment upon the Tribunal of Flame."
She looked to Mara.
"You're sure this wasn't forged?"
"Paper dates to the Fourth Collapse. Ink's divine."
Saela exhaled.
"Then whoever this Eclipse was… he wasn't forgotten by accident."
⸻
Northwest Quarter, Vorentin Estate
Lady Imyre lit a red candle in the dining hall's hearth—
then turned to the cloaked visitors seated around the broken marble table.
"The Queen grows bolder," she said. "But she cannot see beneath her own throne."
The map on the table showed troop positions.
Roads with hidden stockpiles.
Smugglers paid to poison wells if needed.
"We don't need an army," she said.
"We just need chaos. Enough to split her control."
A diplomat from the outer provinces nodded slowly.
"And the cult?" he asked. "The ash symbols?"
"Distraction," she replied. "Let them chase ghosts while we cut the strings."
⸻
Dustpetal Inn, Back Room
Aether burned the ancient coin in a dish of salt and oil.
The flame turned blue.
Then white.
Then hissed and vanished.
"Not fake," he murmured.
"Just not from this version of reality."
He stared at the cracked shard beside it.
The same symbol.
Over and over.
Pushing into this timeline through dreams, lies, and broken memories.
The mask.
The Tribunal.
The priest who died in vain.
Someone was trying to reconstruct a truth that was never supposed to survive.
"And now the nobles are doing the same," he muttered.
"But with greed instead of grief."
⸻
In the distance, church bells rang.
Not for worship.
For order.
Because something had shifted again.
And the people didn't know yet…
But justice was about to blink.
*
The trial was short.
Three days after the failed attempt to split the palace guard, Lady Imyre Vorentin was arrested inside her own estate.
No blood spilled.
No resistance.
Just a quiet tap on the shoulder by a steward dressed too plainly.
"Her Majesty would like a word."
⸻
She was taken not to a dungeon.
Not to a cell.
But to the courtroom, dressed in its full banners.
The throne high.
The nobles summoned.
The common folk allowed inside.
Because this judgment?
Was meant to be witnessed.
⸻
Saela entered last.
No crown.
No cape.
Only steel-threaded black, her gloves folded neatly in one hand.
The courtroom quieted before she spoke.
She didn't pace.
She didn't shout.
She simply stepped to the dais and looked down at Imyre.
"You conspired with foreign agents."
"To restore the strength of the noble class," Imyre replied.
"You forged military documents."
"To keep balance between regions."
"You attempted to poison wells and bribe my commanders."
"To remind you that power lies in legacy."
Saela paused.
"No. It lies in the people."
She raised her voice—not in anger, but in finality:
"And they chose me."
⸻
Then she turned to the court.
And the nobles.
And the crowded balconies.
"Let it be known," she said coldly,
"that Veldenhar's throne is not inherited. It is earned."
"Nobility is not the source of law."
"It is the result of royal mercy."
"And that mercy ends today."
⸻
Imyre didn't cry.
Didn't beg.
She simply said:
"Then we both know you've become exactly what you once rebelled against."
Saela replied:
"No. I became what you were too afraid to be."
⸻
The execution was public.
Clean.
Swift.
Brutal only in message.
A royal blade.
One clean cut.
Her body burned that night.
No tomb.
No title.
⸻
Three noble families fled the city the next morning.
Seven others swore oaths of absolute loyalty by dusk.
And a child in the streets whispered:
"The Queen blinked once and a house vanished."
⸻
At the Dustpetal Inn, Aether sipped a steaming cup of tea and watched the smoke curl higher.
"Efficient," he said.
"Very clean."
The innkeeper glanced at him.
"What's that?"
"Nothing."
*
The "historian" walked the old cemetery now.
Just outside Veldenhar's walls.
No one followed.
No one noticed.
He stopped before a crumbled statue with no name.
Its hands were broken.
But beneath its feet—
A sigil.
The eye.
The scale.
The circle.
⸻
"It's still here," he whispered.
He pulled a parchment from inside his coat.
Not a map.
Not a prayer.
A prophecy.
One you never wrote.
⸻
"And in the age when balance breaks, the Shadow of Justice shall walk again, wearing the face of mercy and the name of the forgotten."
⸻
Back at the inn, Aether stirred honey into tea.
And paused.
Because suddenly—
He remembered the final day of that war.
⸻
The Tribunal had fallen.
The stars were still shivering from the echoes.
You walked through a valley of ash and judgment—
and found the masked priest's body.
Not buried.
Not mourned.
Just there.
Broken.
Hands still reaching toward the child he tried to save.
You bent.
Closed his eyes.
And whispered,
"I wish I could've saved you from them."
"You were the only one who believed without asking anything."
You left his mask by his side.
Never touched it again.
⸻
But that was centuries ago.
So how did it return?
⸻
You knew the answer now.
It wasn't the man.
It was the faith.
A fragment of his soul—bound not by power, but by purpose—had survived.
Not as a ghost.
Not as a memory.
But as an idea.
A mortal will so strong…
it imprinted on reality.
⸻
And someone, somewhen, had found it.
Picked up the mask.
Called themselves Velrin.
But they weren't him.
They never would be.
They only wore the face.
Not the meaning.
⸻
Back in the cemetery, Velrin knelt.
"They've forgotten you," he whispered.
"But I haven't."
He didn't hear the wind shift.
He didn't hear the footstep behind him.
But he felt the presence.
Vast. Silent.
*
The cemetery stood still.
Grey mist curling around shattered stone.
Velrin—the masked historian—knelt at the unmarked statue, eyes closed as if praying.
But it wasn't prayer.
It was summoning.
Of memory.
Of meaning.
Of something long buried.
⸻
In his hand was a fragment of the original tribunal scroll—
burned and scarred, but still humming faintly with divine ink.
He placed it at the statue's base, then whispered:
"I am your vessel now. I will carry your voice. The world forgot your god… but it won't forget your will."
⸻
Behind him, soft footsteps.
Then a voice:
"You don't speak for him."
Velrin turned.
Aether.
Standing alone.
Calm.
Hands folded.
Unarmed.
Unthreatening.
"You've felt it," Velrin said. "The stir. The cracks. The memory."
"Yes," Aether said. "And I buried it for a reason."
Velrin stood, slowly.
"You're him. You are. Eclipse Raven. You watched the Tribunal fall. You passed the sentence."
"And you're not him," Aether said softly. "You're a shadow pretending to cast light."
⸻
The silence after that was long.
Velrin reached into his coat and drew out the mask.
Held it like an offering.
"He died for you."
"He chose to die for someone else," Aether replied. "That's why I remember him."
"Then honor him."
"I do. By not letting you wear his face."
⸻
Velrin faltered.
"I just… I wanted to bring it back. The idea of justice that doesn't bow to gods. That stands above."
"That wasn't an idea," Aether said. "That was a man."
"And he's dead."
"And you are not him."
⸻
Aether raised one hand.
Didn't speak.
Didn't command.
Just closed his fingers slightly—
and the mask in Velrin's hands turned to ash.
No flame.
No sound.
It simply ceased to be.
⸻
Velrin gasped, stepping back, ashes spilling through his fingers.
"What did you do!?"
"I remembered," Aether whispered.
"And memory is stronger than mimicry."
⸻
He stepped forward.
Placed a single finger on Velrin's forehead.
Not to harm.
To show.
And Velrin saw:
The war.
The real one.
The gods screaming.
The priest shielding a child.
The weight of judgment passed without pride.
And the grief that followed.
⸻
When the vision ended, Velrin fell to his knees.
Tears streaked down his face.
"I didn't know," he whispered.
"I thought I was helping."
"You were," Aether said gently.
"Until you stopped listening."
⸻
He turned.
Walked away.
Didn't look back.
⸻
The next day, Velrin was gone.
Some say he left the city.
Some say he joined a monastery near the ruined coast.
A few say he took a vow of silence—
to honor a god whose name no longer needed to be spoken.
⸻
And the mask?
It never returned.
Not in dreams.
Not in stone.
Not in war.
It had served its purpose.
And justice had no use for echoes anymore.
*