JUDICATOR JANE 6 - CHAPTER 14 (Patreon)

Elsewhere

Inside yet another cramped hideaway, Dyle sat in silence, eyes locked on the hatch overhead. For days now, he, Anith’s band, and the freed slaves had moved south in fragments—splitting into smaller groups, slipping from one hidden shelter to the next. This one was a little more generous than the last: stocked with supplies, spare clothes, and a few thin mats stretched across the packed dirt. Not comfortable, but survivable.

At the moment, it was just him, Anith, and a handful of rescued slaves sharing the space. He cast a glance toward Mera, who was curled against the wall, asleep or trying to be. She was doing better now. Still thin, still quiet, but no longer flinching at every sound. How a woman from the highborn Diamondsfield family ended up in chains on a Trader ship was a puzzle he didn’t have the pieces for.

“Alright,” Anith muttered, rubbing at his temples. “We’ll move out in a few hours.” He leaned back against the wall with a tired grunt. “By the Maker, I’ll be glad to be free of this cursed land.”

Dyle winced as a sudden pulse stabbed behind his eyes. A moment later, a wave of nausea rolled through him.

“That the discordance again?” he asked, swallowing the bitter taste rising in his throat.

Anith nodded grimly, his eyes on the hatch. “Aye. Means one of those gold-masked freaks is nearby.”

He didn’t speak much, but Dyle had gleaned bits and pieces over the last few days. Anith was a former mercenary from Arcadia who’d apparently become a slave-rescuer after hijacking a Trader ship. It had sounded like a suicide mission—sailing across the Green Sea to free people nobody else would risk saving. Dyle had asked questions, but Anith and his crew didn’t like to talk about the past. He could respect that.

“So,” Dyle said, keeping his voice low, “you’re sure someone in these… Free Lands will know about a Demonologist?”

Anith snorted. “Free Cities,” he corrected. “And I’m not sure of anything. But it’s the best shot you’ve got. Better than digging around in the Mandalas—unless you want to end up as a foot soldier in some noble’s private slave army.”

The tension in the room began to ease. Dyle felt the discordance fading, the sense of wrongness lifting. Whoever was hunting had moved on. Anith exhaled and sat down again, eyes momentarily closing.

After a beat, he opened them and leaned forward, pulling a dagger from his belt. He dragged the tip through the dirt floor in a wide circle.

“We’re here,” he said, tapping the center. “Right in the heart of the Mandala of Beauty.” He carved a jagged line southwest, then two smaller circles. “These are Boktcha and Dahl. Both Free Cities. One’s coastal, the other hugs the border. If you’re lucky, you’ll find someone who knows of your Demonologist. If not, at least you’ll be out of reach of the collars and chains.”

Dyle frowned. “I’m not looking for safety.”

Anith gave a dry chuckle. “Easy to say when you’re not the one who’s been shackled. Look at them.” He gestured toward Mera and the others. “Arcadian slaves are rare here. They were probably meant for noble households. Better treatment than most. Cleaning linens, pouring wine, keeping out of the way. But you? Fighting stock like you wouldn’t last a week before getting picked up and sent to the front.”

“Fighting who?” Dyle asked. “The Free Cities?”

Anith scoffed and spat onto the dirt. “Don’t flatter them. The Mandalas couldn’t care less about the Free Cities. And that’s exactly why they’re your best bet.”

He paused, glancing sideways. “I won’t lie. I could use you on the road. Lost too many of my own getting this far.” His voice grew quieter. “They… lost their resolve.”

Dyle didn’t answer right away. He leaned back against the cool wall, folding his arms behind his head. He didn’t care about the politics of this land—its Mandalas, nobles, or old grudges. He had a woman to find and a realm far more terrible to reach. But if the cities of Boktcha or Dahl gave him a lead to a Demonologist—that was reason enough to follow along for now.

Eventually, hours later, Anith stood and motioned to the others.

“Up, all of you. Next hole is a half-day south. We move now or not at all.”

One by one, the survivors gathered their packs and rose toward the hatch, silent and swift.

The journey continued.

***

Nyxor hurried to keep pace with Fascia, one hand clutching the edge of his white robe while the other anxiously adjusted the golden mask affixed to his face. The streets of Garontal were thick with smoke and heat, a constant haze rolling from forges and smelters that lined the city’s iron-clad arteries. After escaping the valley—and the nightmarish demons that poured forth from the Terrazene Labyrinth—they’d spent days traveling south, slipping through wildlands and nameless villages until finally reaching the fortified capital of the Mandala of Power.

Fascia moved ahead with crisp determination, her steps confident despite the oppressive air and the weight of hundreds of armored soldiers moving in formation all around them. The city clanged and thundered like a living war engine.

Nyxor leaned closer, keeping his voice low. “What’s going on? It seems like they’re preparing for battle. Do they already know about the demons?”

Fascia didn’t slow, though a flicker of uncertainty crept into her tone. “How should I know? But if anyone can help—it’s them.”

The very streets underfoot were reinforced with riveted iron, and the surrounding structures bristled with steel girders and battlements. Everything felt armored. Alive. Intimidating. Nyxor had never seen a place so deliberately built for conflict.

And the Culls—there were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, marching across every intersection and entryway. Hulking figures draped in well-used armor, each appearing more terrible than the last. They were nothing like the friendly Culls from the valley. Nyxor could barely believe there were so many in a single place.

Ahead, two Culls blocked the path, locked in a heated exchange.

“Say that again, Tangor,” growled one, voice like grinding stone. “I’ll break you like kindling.”

“I’d love to see you try,” the other replied, hand drifting to the hilt of a massive blade at his hip. “My blade Vishraku is thirsty.”

The tension crackled in the air, almost visible through the smoke. But as soon as they noticed Fascia approaching, both Culls fell silent. Without a word, they stepped apart and dropped to one knee, heads bowed in sudden reverence.

Nyxor’s breath caught as he followed her between them, eyes lingering for a moment longer. What kind of place is this?

They continued on, winding deeper into the metallic maze until at last they reached it—a towering structure of stone and steel that rose like a monolith into the haze-choked sky. The front gates were thick slabs of blackened iron, guarded by two of the largest Culls Nyxor had ever seen. These were different—higher level, and more specialized. Their armor was engraved with intricate designs, and their weapons gleamed with the soft burnish of use rather than ceremony. Nyxor couldn’t begin to guess what classes they might hold. Certainly they weren’t Farmers like in the valley.

Fascia didn’t falter.

The guards tracked her approach with quiet intensity, but neither moved or spoke.

“Announce to your Master that two emissaries from the Mandala of Fortitude have arrived,” she declared, voice calm but confident, as though she had done this a dozen times before.

Nyxor swallowed hard. The silence dragged for a beat too long, and just when his nerves threatened to get the better of him, one of the guards snapped a salute and turned, vanishing through a smaller gate with military precision.

He leaned closer to her, whispering under his breath. “How did you know what to say?”

“I read about it in the library,” Fascia murmured softly. “That’s why you don’t skip your studies. It’s the formal protocol used during the Choosing.”

Nyxor blinked. The Choosing. That was the ceremonial offering of new acolytes from the various Mandalas to the Mandala of Fortitude—an ancient rite meant to confirm the bonds of old. But as far as he knew, the next cycle wasn’t supposed to occur for several more years. As a child he barely remembered when he himself had been chosen.

Moments later, the gate creaked open.

From the shadows emerged a tall figure clad in a deep crimson and black robe, his form statuesque and still. A gold mask—identical to the ones worn by Nyxor and Fascia—shimmered beneath the lantern light, hiding his face entirely.

Nyxor’s breath hitched as he instinctively triggered his General Identification skill.

Basra (Level 152)

“You’re early,” the man said, his voice low and rasping, like metal scraping stone.

Fascia didn’t answer. From where he stood, Nyxor could see the faint tremble in her hands, just barely noticeable beneath her sleeves. Her composure remained intact, but something about this figure unsettled her—and that unsettled him even more.

The masked man regarded them for a moment longer, unreadable behind the golden facade. Then, without another word, he turned and strode into the tower, his crimson-black robes trailing behind him like a slow-burning shadow.

“This way, then.”

***

Nyxor struggled to steady his shaking knees as he stood before the blackened Arcanite throne. Though dulled by age, its surface still shimmered faintly—like dying starlight trapped in stone. The windows along the high chamber walls stood open, bathing the room in the golden-orange light of the setting sun. Shadows stretched long across the smooth floor, turning the throne room into a place of quiet dread.

Their guide, Basra, now stood to the side in silent deference, hands clasped behind his back. All attention was drawn to the figure before the throne—a towering beast of a man clad head to toe in Arcanite armor, its intricate plating etched with crimson veins that pulsed faintly beneath the surface. In one hand, he held a massive black blade, planted tip-down into the stone floor. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was a warning.

And more startling than the weapon, or the presence he radiated like pressure in the air… was the fact that he was unmasked.

A knot of fear twisted in Nyxor’s stomach. He hesitated—then triggered General Identification, even as part of him screamed not to look.

Ristharak (Level 245)

Dragonkin

Nyxor swallowed hard, his gaze drifting to the Culls lining the chamber walls. Dozens of them stood motionless in loose red and black cloth—silent, watchful, unnerving. Going unmasked in front of them was forbidden. Unthinkable. And yet, Ristharak stood bare-faced before them without a hint of concern.

Beside him, Fascia shifted uneasily. She noticed too.

“Is your resonance holding?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Nyxor gave a tight nod. The melody of Power hanging in the air was omnipresent, pressing against his own Fortitude like the weight of the sky. It tested him constantly, probing for weakness. But after all the rigorous training in the valley, he held. Just barely.

Then the man atop the throne spoke.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” Ristharak said with a voice that was almost pleasant—but his eyes, pale and flat, held none of that warmth. “Aren’t you both a little young to be wandering around unchaperoned?”

Fascia stepped forward, voice steady but formal. “We come bearing grim tidings. The Portal of Promise has been breached. The Terrazene Labyrinth overcome. They who cannot be named walk the face of Alur once more. Even now, demons pour into our world by the thousands.”

A heavy silence followed.

“Demons?” Ristharak rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his expression sharpening. “What game is that old codger Viagdu playing now?” he muttered, more to himself than to them. His hand gripped the hilt of his black blade, knuckles whitening. “Has Pindish finally gotten into his ear? Or is it Alyxstrazia?”

The mention of Elder Viagdu brought memories surging back—blood, death, the broken bodies of his fellow acolytes and friends piled haphazardly on the labyrinth floors. Nyxor’s throat caught. The words burst from him before he could stop them.

“The Elders… all of them… they’re dead—”

A sharp elbow jabbed his ribs.

“Shut up, you idiot,” Fascia hissed through clenched teeth.

Ristharak’s gaze snapped back into focus. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Fascia answered quickly, smoothing her voice. “He’s just overwhelmed. The city is… a lot to take in.”

Ristharak stepped forward, leaving his sword behind. As he moved, his armored silhouette loomed taller than ever, over seven feet of muscle and malice. Backlit by the sun descending through the western window, he looked like a figure carved from war itself.

“And what exactly is it you want from me, little ones?”

Nyxor froze, the air suddenly heavy. He didn’t need to see the man’s Harmony stat to feel its crushing weight. The air itself seemed to warp around Ristharak, suffocating and electric. His own resonance of Fortitude flickered, barely holding under the pressure.

Thankfully, Fascia didn’t falter.

“We don’t want anything,” she said. “We came to warn you. The demons are real. They’re coming. If we don’t band together, they’ll sweep south and destroy everything. This is the end of the world we’re talking about!”

Ristharak watched her in silence for a long moment. Then, abruptly, he turned away.

“Do you hear that, Basra?” he called back, amused. “The demons are here. Can you imagine that once our ancestors were afraid of a few Hellguards?” He chuckled lightly and faced the window again. “Go peddle your fairy tales elsewhere. Those old stories don’t carry weight here.”

“It’s not a fairy tale!” Nyxor shouted, fists clenched. “I saw them!”

“Did you now?” Ristharak said, raising a brow. Amusement flickered at the corners of his mouth. “So let me guess… you’re planning to run from Mandala to Mandala, spreading word of these… demons?”

He wandered over to the southern window, staring out over the smog-drenched skyline of Garontal. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought. The light framed his profile, all sharp lines and hardened scars.

“Well,” he said at last. “I won’t stop you. In fact, I think it’s a noble undertaking.”

Nyxor blinked. “Y-you do?”

“Indeed.” Ristharak turned, a shadowed grin spreading across his face. “And be sure to tell the others that the Mandala of Power has given you its full support.” His voice oozed charm now. “Do you need provisions for the road? Perhaps a few Culls to ease your burdens?”

Fascia glanced at Nyxor, her instincts clearly screaming.

“Provisions would be appreciated,” she said carefully. “But we’d prefer to travel alone.”

“Of course, of course,” Ristharak said, waving a hand. “Basra, see to it our friends from the north are well taken care of. They have quite the journey ahead.”

Basra bowed and stepped forward. “This way, then.”

As they turned to follow him, Nyxor let himself glance once more at the Culls lining the walls. He hadn’t dared take a close look before, but now—now the urge was too great. Something was wrong, they were too still. Too quiet.

And then, as the setting sun cut a shaft of golden light across one of their faces, he saw it. The reason Ristharak didn’t appear to care who saw him unmasked.

His stomach dropped. His breath caught in his throat.

Their eyes.

They were missing.