Shackles of Judgment

Chapter 2: Shackles of Judgment

The clang of the metal door slamming shut in the echoing hollowness of Asher's new home was deafening. Lost were the lavishness of the Sanctum of Awakening surrendered to harsh, bleak steel and overwhelming weight of magically repressive runes seared into every surface. Asher Reeds lounged on a spindly bed in the rear of the cell, his own body still shuddering with the seizure's shock. Every burn scar on his flesh, a reminder of the divine bonds that had previously held him, pulsed with a pain both corporeal and spiritual.

The eyes, accustomed to the light paleness, slowly adapted to the sterile desolation. Magic in this environment was altered—tempered, self-consciously dulled to drain from it any trace of the divine might he'd unleashed scant moments ago. As he tried to sit up, memories of the Sanctum's sacred halls and the terrified confusion of his waking flooded his mind. His heart pounded in rhythm with his thoughts.

For what felt like hours or perhaps only minutes, time didn't matter to him anymore Asher lay there, the only sound his rough breathing. His mind spun with questions. Where had this gift come from that had chosen him? How could something so inexplicable be the product of a power that was unknown to the gods they respected so highly? And most of all, why had the very people who were meant to uphold order turned on him in an instant, one so crushing?

He pressed his palms against the frozen wall of the cell, feeling the magic in the runes that throbbed weakly beneath his fingers. They were designed to suppress divine energy, to ensure that no "aberration" could pass beyond the control of the Paragons. And as much as he yearned to test the boundaries of his power, he was caught not only by metal and magic but by the sheer knowledge of the judgment that lay in wait for him.

As he struggled with himself, a gentle voice awakened in the recesses of his mind the same voice that had spoken during the ceremony. It was a whisper, barely audible, but insistent:

*"Remember me, child of darkness and light."*

He couldn't tell if it was the echo of his own fear or something far older that resided within him. The voice didn't give answers, only a cryptic promise that what he had witnessed was merely the beginning.

Well out beyond the walls of his cell, in a high, windowless chamber hung with old tapestries and new monitoring gear, a group of Paragons had gathered. Their golden robes and bright auras had lost luster before the forbidden energy Asher had unleashed, and now their faces were set with fear and doubt.

The High Arbiter, his features tense and somber, addressed the assembly in a hushed tone. "We have witnessed something… unprecedented. The power that courses through Asher is not the divine spark to which we have grown accustomed—it is a vibration of a forgotten power. A power that has been lost to the ages.".

A stern-faced Paragon with steel-cold eyes stood up, "He is a threat to the order. His power goes against what sustains our whole society as balance is maintained in gifts from the gods and not gifts from devils.".

But consider the opportunity, a third whispered softly, smoother of tone but with concern, "that his power would be a aberration—a new limb of the divine we haven't learned about. Wouldn't we at least be wise enough to examine it before condemning him?

The case simmered, a delicate blend of awe and fear. For generations the Paragons had been the arbiters of fate in New Eden, their decision final and irrevocable. But now, faced with an entity outside their categorization, doubt stole into even the firmest hearts. Nevertheless, prevailing judgment was to hold it in check—fear, as they said, was a powerful goad.

"Keep him locked up," the High Arbiter commanded curtly. "He will be interrogated, his potential studied. If his gift is an aberration of the divine design, he will be taken care of."

 **Within the Cell**

In his own cell, though, Asher's world contracted to one desolate duality: the harsh physical reality of his confinement, and the wild inner landscape of his mind. The occasional tendrils of that black, pent-up power twisted across his skin like a spark eager to be teased into flame. Here, though, in this purgatory of enforced silence, the esoteric runes kept it down.

He fell back onto the cot, drawing his legs up tight against his chest. His mind flashed back over the memories of New Eden—its lights burning bright, the promise of destiny and order that had seemed so inevitable. That all was now tainted with betrayal. The Sanctum, a place of hope, had been where he had fallen.

Lena's face haunted him. Her gentle eyes, full of conflict, flashed before his mind's eye. "I'm on your side," she had whispered. But the very next moment, she had become the harbinger of his downfall. Was it truly a choice? Had she been forced to act, or had she embraced the role dictated by the Order? The uncertainty gnawed at him, leaving behind only questions that stung like fresh wounds.

Time dragged in the cell. Every minute was an eternity of agony and self-reflection, punctuated by the far-off hum of machinery and the occasional muttering from down the hall. He tried to focus on his breathing, the sensation of cold, smooth metal under his palms. But his thoughts never stopped returning to that moment of consciousness—the jolt of forbidden strength, the whisper that had come from beyond, and the name that had been seared onto his very essence. He was unable to shake the image of that twilight-visited ruin, nor the solitary figure standing on the edge of creation. That unnamed god—whose name burned into his brain alone—was a mystery. Its significance was as evasive as it was terrifying. He had no answers yet, only the burden of a power that set him apart from all that he had ever know

As the hours melted into a disorienting fog, something new began to smolder within him—a cautious spark of determination. The isolation, the pain, and the endless questions might have broken him, but they also kindled a quiet voice of determination. He would not allow himself to be defined by fear or by the chains that bound him.

He stretched out his mind, testing the edges of his pent-up power. There was a subtle quiver beneath the level of his consciousness, a hint that the evil within him was not fully asleep. The runes on the walls pulsed in response, their magic clashing with the wild energy he harbored. For a moment, he dreamed of breaking loose, feeling the whole thrill of his power as it coursed unchecked through his veins.

But then reality crashed home—the cell was not one of liberty but captivity. The runes were to render him manageable, and until he understood what he actually was, that might be for his own safety.

He closed his eyes, stimulating his mind to some semblance of order. He recalled the dreams of his youth—the hushed promises of a life more than adequacy, the private hope that perhaps, only perhaps, he might be something more than a common New Eden citizen. The recollections hurt now, flavored with the sour irony of what was now his fate.

If only he could remember why he had always tolerated the Paragons. They had once been a sign of justice, a sign of hope. But now, he was living contradiction: a man whose strength was born of a mysterious, forbidden power, suspended between the promise of godhead and the stern disapproval of an order that feared straying from the path. 

Suddenly a muffling noise intruded upon the lonely thinking—a soft clank as though a key traveled through a lock a great distance away. His own eyes opened explosively. Through the thin cleft of illumination by the ceiling, he spotted the pale silhouette of a presence in the passage. The form lingered for a moment and Asher crawled to overhear a single word, one hint at what was occurring.

Whispers sounded on the other side of a thick, barred door. He could distinguish words—a mixture of authoritative command and anxious argument.

*"He is dangerous. His ability is outside our control."*

*"But what if it is not evil. What if it is just. different?"*

The voices were indistinct, but the urgency was palpable. Clearly, a decision was being made about his fate—a decision that would determine his future, for better or worse.

The runes on the door pulsed gently, a reminder of the enchanted walls between him and the world outside—and and any hope of rescue. But within that prison, a spark of defiance smoldered. If they were so determined to understand and rule over him, then perhaps there was something worth being won through this struggle.

Even now, as he sensed the weight of the runes and the weight of his incarceration, he resolved to learn the truth regarding the secret power that had chosen him. He would not be ruled by ignorance or fear. In the darkness of his prison cell, he resolved to learn the truth hidden in the shadows of that ancient voice.

Lying on the cot, Asher shut his eyes. The darkness provided no comfort, only a canvas for the spinning images of his recent past. He viewed the bright, hopeful lights of New Eden, the stern visages of the Paragons, and the moment when all had changed. Each flash was succeeded by the searing pain of betrayal—the cold, calculating efficiency of those who had once revered him turned against him.

And then, the voice. That enigmatic whisper, a noise that defied explanation. It was as if the power within him had its own consciousness, a remnant of an era and a force that had been driven out of human consciousness. The voice provided him with more questions than answers, one word echoing in his mind: the name of an ancient god—a name that contained wonder and terror within it. 

"KHAELOS"

He knew the coming days would be filled with interrogation, skepticism, and perhaps further betrayal. But for the moment, within the secrecy of his imprisonment, he could indulge in a temporary sense of peace within the interrogation process. Each answer he wanted, each revelation he wished to discover, lay behind a set of secrets deeply buried by the Order.

As the suffocating quiet of the cell wrapped itself around him, Asher searched deep inside himself. He embraced the pain, the fear, and the nagging hope that someday he would understand the nature of his gift. Even if his tormentors saw him as an aberration—a disruption to the conventional order of things—he would not let it define him. Rather, he would let his questions be his guiding light.

For at the core of his despair, a quiet determination was taking shape. If the energy in him was not a perversion but a communication from a forgotten era, then he would learn. He would learn who, or what, had given him this malevolent gift. And with it, he might discover a way to circumvent the Order that had killed him so promptly and mercilessly.

Far away, beyond the barricaded door and the whispers of condemnation, life in New Eden continued unabated. The city's neon light, once a beacon of hope, now was a bitter reminder of the world that had rejected him. And yet even here, in this one moment of imprisonment, the hope of tomorrow—that of answers, of redemption—was not lost forever.

Asher closed his eyes once more, summoning all the pieces of courage he could muster. The road ahead was perilous, paved with question and pain. But in that final, quiet instant, while the blackness of his cell mingled with the buzz of his inner voice, he vowed in silence. He would not crack. He would not be sized up by the handcuffs that confined him or the verdict that sought to crucify him.

Somewhere in the distance, outside the walls of his imprisonment, was the solution to the riddle of his power. And one day, when circumstances dictated it, he would stretch out and grasp it—no matter what the price.