Elias Ward didn't sleep.
He sat in the corner of his apartment—robe still damp from rain, the lights off, his hand still burning. The sword leaned against the wall beside him, wrapped again in the old parchment it came in, though it pulsed faintly through the cloth.
His hand—it hadn't stopped glowing. Not brightly, but enough. A symbol seared into the palm, like a branded covenant. The shape shifted subtly if he stared too long, as if reality didn't quite know how to hold it.
And then there was the whisper.
Not a voice. Not even words. Just a pressure that circled his thoughts like a hawk above a corpse.
"The first night is yours."
What did that mean?
He should've felt panic. Should've gone to the hospital. Or a priest. Or turned the sword over to the police.
Instead, he waited.
He waited like a man on death row. Or worse—like the executioner sharpening his axe.
The first mark came at 2:13 AM.
A vibration passed through his chest—subtle at first, then rising like a current. He stood up without meaning to. His body moved as if guided, not controlled. The sword glowed, faintly humming behind its wrappings.
His hand twitched.
And then he saw it.
On the wall opposite his desk, a shadow had appeared—one that wasn't his. It flickered like candlelight, tall and misshapen. The figure in the shadow moved. And where it pointed, a glowing thread snaked through the air… out the window.
A direction. A pull.
The guilty were calling.
He followed the thread on foot.
The city was slick with rain, its streets half-abandoned, trash bins overflowing, neon signs flickering through mist. The deeper he moved into the southern industrial district, the more he noticed the silence. Not peace. Emptiness.
The thread ended at an old auto shop—closed for years. Windows blacked out. Steel shutters rusted in place.
And yet… the door was open.
Inside: a single lightbulb swung from the ceiling, casting wild shadows over bloodstained concrete and torn plastic sheeting.
There was a man.
Elias recognized him immediately.
Robert Lane.
Ex-police captain. Accused of rape, coercion, and trafficking evidence. Cleared of all charges two years ago. And yet… Elias had always known.
The sword unsheathed itself.
No sound. It simply appeared in his hand, warm and cold all at once.
Robert turned around—slowly, confused.
"Who's there?" he said.
Elias stepped from the shadows.
The moment their eyes met, everything changed.
The room snapped away.
Walls melted into smoke. The ceiling fell upward. And suddenly, Elias stood in a courtroom of ash—grey skies above, rows of faceless figures seated in pews of bone. Robert stood frozen in the center, his mouth opening in a scream that made no sound.
Elias raised the Scalesword. The balance at its hilt tipped—one side glowing bright gold, the other soaked in black oil.
The symbol on Elias's palm lit up.
The sword whispered a question inside his skull:
"Guilty or innocent?"
His voice came out like thunder wrapped in silk.
"Guilty."
"The sentence?"
Elias raised the blade.
"Fear. Let him feel what his victims felt—until the day he dies."
Back in the real world, no time had passed.
Robert Lane collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest, eyes wide. He screamed—not in pain, but in absolute terror. He saw things no one else could. Felt hands closing around his throat. Heard the cries of those he thought were buried.
He scrambled out the door like a broken animal.
Elias didn't follow.
He didn't need to.
The sentence had been passed.
Later that night, Elias stood on the rooftop across from the courthouse.
The city didn't feel different. It was still broken. Still full of rot.
But something had changed.
The Mandate had tasted blood.
And it was hungry for more.