The doors of the Sanctum slammed shut behind him.
The Crimson Warden stood at the center of the once-holy hall, now corrupted by red wax seals, parchment charms, and slow-moving shadows that slithered like fog. The city outside groaned, but the real danger was already here — with him.
The Judge of the Hollowed Court stepped forward from behind the throne. Her robes shifted with an unnatural rustle, like a thousand whispers written on dead trees. Her eyes burned red, not with flame — but with conviction.
"You are persistent," she said. "But broken men always are."
"I'm only broken because I remember," the Warden replied.
"Then let's test your memory."
She raised her hand.
Dozens of wax-covered puppets fell from the walls. Their limbs cracked like twigs. Their faces were blank scrolls, but on their chests were ink-written vows — old promises the Warden had once made as protector of Glaivenreach.
"These are your sins," the Judge whispered. "Sworn and shattered."
The Warden didn't flinch.
He raised his cane. It shimmered into a dual-form: half-glaive, half-ribbon-blade. His stance shifted — wide, controlled, waiting.
"Then let them judge me."
The puppets charged.
They didn't scream. They didn't even run. They swarmed — fast and chaotic, limbs twisting unnaturally.
The Warden moved like wind and shadow. His cane slashed in arcs of gold, violet, green, and blue — all four Echoes burning through the weapon. He cut not just through bodies but through the space between attacks, bypassing angles no human could defend.
He summoned six razorbill spirits. The birds shot through the air, diving into puppets and exploding in crimson flame.
Wax melted.
Ink burned.
Still, they kept coming.
From the balcony, the Judge watched.
"You fight like a man desperate to rewrite the past."
"No," he said, breath steady. "I fight to finish what it broke."
A puppet leapt from behind — this one different.
Its parchment chest bore Alira's name.
The Warden hesitated for one second.
The puppet struck.
It drew blood from his shoulder before he crushed it under a crescent blade swing.
"Good," the Judge whispered. "You can still feel."
She descended the stairs slowly. The air thickened with each step. As she walked, her skin peeled — not in pain, but in transformation.
Parchment gave way to raw, living flesh — muscles laced with text, veins pulsing with ink. Her hands twisted into claws. Her eyes became inkwells, brimming and overflowing.
"This is what the Court makes of truth," she said. "Pain, rewritten. Grief, repeated. Identity, erased and transcribed."
"You call that justice?"
"We call it the end of confusion."
The Warden lunged.
He struck with full power — the cane now wrapped in spiraling glyphs, space warping around it.
She caught the blow.
Bare-handed.
The stone beneath them cracked.
"You want to protect the world," she said. "But all you've ever done is cut it open."
She slammed him into the floor.
Dust exploded.
His mask cracked further. His breath caught in his chest.
Still, he stood.
The Judge summoned memory-spires — spears of solidified vows, forged from old promises he had broken. She launched them like arrows.
He spun, slicing through the air — using his cane to carve gates in space, redirecting some of the attacks, swallowing others. A few grazed him — slicing through coat, through skin.
He bled.
Red against red.
He called the birds again — this time, ten of them.
They circled above, screamed, and dove in coordinated strikes. One of them cut through the Judge's shoulder — ink splashed across the floor.
She hissed.
"You bleed truth," he said.
"So do you."
The battle shook the Sanctum.
And then...
Silence.
Both stood in the center, bleeding. Breathing.
The Warden's coat was torn. His cane was scorched. His chest ached with the weight of all four Echoes burning.
"You think this ends with me?" the Judge rasped.
"No," he said. "You're just the beginning."
"Then tell me, Warden... why crimson?"
He looked at her — eyes cold, firm.
"Because I bled first."
"Because I made the choice no one else would."
"Because when the city fell — I was the one who stood in front of it."
He stepped forward and drove the cane into her chest.
Not through flesh.
Through identity.
The runes along the cane lit up, cutting not just her body — but the sigils that bound her to the Court.
She screamed — her form fracturing into smoke, light, and pages flying in every direction.
"You cannot undo us," her voice echoed. "You can only delay judgment."
"Then I'll hold the door until my last breath," he said.
The Sanctum collapsed.
The citizens outside collapsed with it — not dead, but released.
The red glow in their eyes vanished.
The air cleared.
And for the first time in years...
Glaivenreach was quiet.
The Warden walked through the city, cane at his side.
Children watched from alleys. A woman wept. A man whispered a prayer not to a god — but to him.
He didn't answer.
He simply kept walking.
"Crimson Warden," someone whispered. "The protector returns."
"No," he muttered to himself. "The reckoning begins."
End of Chapter Eight
Next: Chapter Nine – Echoes in the Hollow Tower