"Wake up, heretic," a man fully clad in metal commanded, his gruff voice cutting through the haze.

The heretic's eyes fluttered open, his gaze landing on a massive metal door. It loomed over him, its surface etched with intricate depictions of battle. Soldiers clashed in frozen chaos, their weapons locked in eternal struggle. Towering figures crowned with fire and wings of steel presided over the scene, their regal expressions cold and unyielding. At the center of the door, a polished emblem—a serpent devouring its own tail—gleamed faintly, untouched by time.

The hinges groaned as the doors began to part, their deliberate movements like a pronouncement of judgment. Light spilled through the widening gap, fractured beams illuminating motes of dust suspended in the air. A rough tug on his chains forced him forward.

Beyond the threshold lay the grand hall, a space so pristine it mocked his grimy state. Marble floors gleamed like still water, reflecting gilded columns that rose to a vaulted ceiling adorned with murals of kings and dragons locked in eternal combat. At the far end of the hall, atop a dais of black stone, stood the throne. Its sharp, angular design resembled a blade piercing the shadows above.

The air bristled with hostility. Nobles lined the hall's edges, their whispers sharp as daggers, their glares unyielding. Some sneered openly; others watched in cold silence, their judgment more cutting than words.

The guards released his chains but lingered close, hands hovering near their swords. Their postures spoke a clear warning: one wrong move, and it would be his last.

The heretic shuffled forward, the clinking of his chains echoing through the chamber. Though his head remained bowed, he felt the weight of countless eyes pressing down on him like an oppressive fog.

Near the throne, advisors stood in a tight cluster, their elaborate robes shimmering under the hall's light. One of them, a hawk-eyed man with a pointed nose, leaned toward the throne's occupant, murmuring inaudibly. His sharp glances betrayed his intent.

The figure upon the throne raised a hand, silencing both his advisors and the murmuring crowd with a single gesture. Draped in robes of deep black accented with gold, he sat motionless, an aura of authority radiating from him. A veil of jet-black cloth concealed his face, leaving only the faint glint of his eyes visible through the intricate weave. Unlike the nobles, he exuded no open hostility, only an unnerving calm.

The prisoner stopped at the base of the dais, sinking to his knees. Silence blanketed the hall, heavy with expectation.

"Vaylen," the emperor began, his voice deep and steady, resonating throughout the chamber. "Blood vigilante. Falfenhir's last child. Tainted hero of sacrifice. Do you understand the weight of your presence here?"

A ripple of unease swept through the room, the tension growing palpable.

"I do," the heretic replied, his voice quiet but firm.

The emperor's gaze lingered on him before turning to the assembly. "This hall bears witness to judgment," he declared. "And it will decide his fate."

Rising from the throne, he descended the dais, each step measured and deliberate. Reaching the prisoner, he lifted the veil concealing his face. His unblemished features, sculpted and serene, seemed almost divine.

"Do you repent for your atrocities?" the emperor asked, his tone devoid of judgment or mercy.

The heretic's hands trembled, but his voice remained steady. "I refuse."

Gasps erupted from the crowd, their whispers swelling into a wave of outrage. The guards tensed, their hands gripping their weapons.

"Silence," the emperor commanded, his voice cutting through the clamor like a blade. The hall fell into immediate stillness.

He stepped closer, his gaze piercing. "Do you truly have no will to live left?"

Vaylen's head dipped lower, his voice breaking as he answered. "I have nothing left to live for. My beliefs were false, my life a lie, and my purpose meaningless." Tears traced lines down his face, but the crowd remained unmoved.

The emperor regarded him in silence before donning the veil once more. Ascending the dais, he motioned toward the shadows. A maid emerged, her steps precise, carrying a golden goblet engraved with intertwining vines. She offered it with a bow, and the emperor accepted it wordlessly.

He raised the goblet, its crimson liquid catching the light like molten rubies. "Death," he murmured, his voice low but piercing, "is too light a punishment for the likes of you."

The air hummed faintly as arcs of white lightning danced across his hand, crawling over his wrist and coiling around the goblet. The liquid inside began to boil, steam curling into the air as its crimson hue darkened to molten silver.

The emperor tilted the goblet, letting the molten liquid pour onto the marble floor. It pooled and shifted, solidifying into a long, sharp blade—a weapon forged from lightning and wrath.

He lifted it for all to see, its silvery surface refracting light into dazzling patterns. "Your punishment," he said, "will not be an end. It will be a beginning. You will rise from this hall, but you will not find freedom. You will carry the burden of your sins. You will restore what you have broken and protect what you once destroyed."

Murmurs swept through the room as nobles exchanged looks of disbelief.

The emperor ignored them, lowering the blade until its tip hovered inches from the heretic's bowed form. "Should you fail, judgment will find you again. But should you succeed, only then will you earn the right to beg for forgiveness."

He plunged the blade into the ground before the prisoner, its impact reverberating through the hall. "Do you understand your sentence?"

The heretic stared at the blade, its surface glowing faintly. His lips parted, but no words came. Slowly, he bowed lower. "Yes," he whispered, his voice hoarse but resolute.

The emperor leaned back into his throne, the weight of his decree settling over the room. "Rise," he commanded. "And begin."

The guards stepped forward, releasing the chains. As they clattered to the ground, Vaylen stood, trembling under the weight of exhaustion and expectation.

"Go," the emperor said, his voice calm once more. "Prove yourself, or let the world swallow you whole."

The grand doors groaned shut behind him as Vaylen left, casting one last glance at the throne before stepping into the unknown.