The argument, a familiar and venomous duet, died instantly. It was not silenced by a clever retort or a surge of power, but by the impossible arrival of a thing that did not belong. One moment, the air between Veridia and Seraphine crackled with their shared spite; the next, the space was occupied.
A tablet of pure, polished obsidian materialized from nothing. It hung between them, absorbing the violet light of the demonic crystals and giving nothing back. This was no hologram. It had weight, a physical presence that was a hole in reality. Ancient runes, etched in silver that drank the light, pulsed with a slow, rhythmic hum. Not the electric crackle of the Network's magic, but the deep, inexorable thrum of gravity.
At the bottom of the tablet, a single name was carved: Justicar Morian.
Seraphine's illusion flickered, her composure shattering into pixels for a fraction of a second. "You," she hissed, her voice sharp with a panic Veridia had never heard. "You did this! Your reckless, pathetic war for ratings, your idiotic provocations! You finally drew the eye of something you can't seduce or outsmart!"
Veridia opened her mouth, the usual dismissal forming on her tongue. The words turned to ash. Her pride, the bedrock of her being, was a child's sandcastle against the tide of power radiating from the tablet. This was not a producer's summons. Not a challenge from a rival. This was a sentence.
*This isn't a show,* a cold voice whispered in the back of her mind. *This is an ending.*
The silver thread of their life-link, usually an irritation, was now a cold chain binding them in shared, silent dread. Their rivalry, their grand game, was suddenly a squabble over scraps at a banquet where the executioner had just arrived.
The stone walls of their chamber dissolved, replaced by a gray, featureless non-space. Two figures stepped through the new archway. Not demons. They were constructs, humanoid in shape but forged from the same dull, light-absorbing stone as the Justicar's archives. They had no faces, no expressions, only a silent, implacable purpose. They gestured—a single, unified movement.
There was no refusing.
They walked. The constructs led them through corridors that defied the sleek, chrome-and-neon architecture of the Pandemonium Network. Here, there were no screens, no holographic ads, no chattering E-Rating tickers. There were only shelves. Endless shelves stretching into an impossible darkness, laden not with data-crystals, but with physical scrolls and stone-bound ledgers. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and the dust of forgotten millennia.
The silence was a physical weight, absolute, broken only by the soft scrape of their footsteps on the stone floor. Veridia risked a glance at Seraphine's illusion. For once, her sister's face was stripped of mockery, a perfect mirror of Veridia's own profound, chilling fear. They were walking toward a final judgment, and for the first time since her exile, Veridia was utterly powerless.
***
The chamber was a cathedral to silence. A vast, circular library where the shelves held not books, but the coded histories of collapsed stars and extinct civilizations. In the center, on a simple, unadorned throne of black stone, sat Justicar Morian. He was a still point in the turning of ages, his form ancient and unmoving, his gaze holding the patient weight of cosmic law. He did not look at them as they were brought to a halt before him. He simply observed, his silence a more potent weapon than any threat.
Veridia braced herself, her pride a thin, brittle shield against the crushing pressure of the room. Seraphine's illusion trembled beside her, a flickering candle in a hurricane. They waited. The silence stretched, a form of slow, methodical torture.
When Morian finally spoke, his voice was not sound but vibration, a low rumble emanating from the stone itself. He did not speak of their spectacular war. He ignored their manipulation of Malakor and Zael, their public battles, their ratings.
"In your conflict," he began, his ancient eyes finally settling on them, "you redirected a Class-Four energy conduit to power a localized broadcast distortion. You violated the Causality Accord, Third Edict, which forbids the unsanctioned alteration of a prime energy source linked to a foundational pact."
The words were a death sentence spoken in a language they barely understood. It was not a crime against the Network; it was a crime against the physics of their reality. A law so ancient, so fundamental, they had never even known it existed. The sheer, terrifying depth of his knowledge stripped away their last defense. This was not a trial. It was a formality.
Veridia stood rigid, waiting for the final, unmaking judgment. Seraphine had gone utterly still, her fear so palpable it seemed to give her illusion a tangible weight.
But the killing blow never came. The Justicar's gaze shifted, a flicker of something ancient and weary in its depths. His tone changed from judgment to diagnosis.
"A symptom," he rumbled, dismissing their cosmic crime with a wave of his hand. "A messy, vulgar, but ultimately insignificant symptom of the rot."
He leaned forward, the movement a slow, tectonic shift. "The true disease is the one I have watched fester for centuries. The Consortium, with their obsession for spectacle over stability. Honor-bound fools like Malakor, so trapped by tradition they cannot see the blade at their own throat. Ambitious parasites like Zael, who would burn the Court to the ground to rule over the ashes. And your own cowardly family, who trade their blood for political convenience."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over them, dissecting their shock, their confusion. "I have been watching everyone. And while I find your methods distasteful, your motivations pathetic… I am impressed. Your effectiveness as an agent of pure, systemic chaos is undeniable."
Veridia could not process the word. *Impressed?* This was not an execution. It was an evaluation.
Justicar Morian leaned forward a fraction more, the pressure in the room intensifying. His ancient gaze pierced their defenses, seeing not two squabbling sisters but a single, unique weapon.
"Your vulgar, fame-fueled war, while an offense to every principle I hold, is the only force disruptive enough to shatter the Court's corrupt and stagnant equilibrium. I am offering you a new pact. A true one. Under my authority."
He let the words hang in the silent air.
"You are a weapon aimed at the heart of a sick system. Help me purge it. Bring me the evidence to legally dissolve the holdings of Malakor, Zael, and any other House that puts profit before principle. Expose the rot for all to see."
The task was impossible, a suicide mission against the most powerful forces in their world. Every instinct screamed at Veridia to refuse, to spit the insane offer back in his ancient face.
But the Justicar was not finished. He paused, letting the weight of the demand sink into their souls. Then, he delivered the final, irresistible offer, his voice a quiet promise of the one thing he knew they both craved more than any throne or rating.
"Do this, and I will give you the means to sever the bond that chains you together. I will give you your freedom." He held their gaze, his own eyes as deep and final as the void. "From each other."