The Long Road to Judgment
Chapter 15 Law & Order (By Law and Flame)
Previously: When Aelwyn freezes mid-task in the sheriff’s estate kitchen, Heather witnesses her sudden divine transformation as the goddess Despoina manifests through her. Declaring Aelwyn her new soul-speaker, Despoina charges her with helping Balgair communicate with the dead. Ananke arrives to soothe Heather and affirm the sacred choice. With Despoina’s spark now within her, Aelwyn and Heather teleport to Balgair’s side. In a sanctified vault, Aelwyn performs her first rite, calling forth the spirit of a murdered woman. The woman confirms her child—Matthew—is alive and asks Balgair to protect him. Balgair realizes Matthew is already in their care. That night, Balgair, Heather, and his bhanna—Amelie and Nell—formally embrace Matthew as their son, sealing their bond in grief, love, and divine purpose. Aelwyn, now radiant with purpose and peace, vows to restore Despoina’s rites in Eola. In the hearthlight, a new family is born—blessed by the gods and bound by choice.
Later that day, the resolute patrol and their weary captain reached the north gate of Eola. Snow drifted down in silent sheets, cloaking the world in stillness, muting the jingle of bridles and the clank of shackles.
The patrol halted just outside. The gate creaked open on well-oiled hinges, revealing a bundled guard wearing the dark-trimmed tabard of the Sheriff’s authority—a symbol freshly restored to the town’s protectors.
“Welcome back, Captain Rydell,” the guard called, saluting briskly. “Are Deputies Fada-Siubhalair and Telumë Mírya Nandëo with you?”
Rydell shook his head, the weight of command still heavy on his shoulders. “Telumë said he was visiting the massacre sites. Fada-Siubhalair went along for the ride, I think.” He leaned down, armor groaning softly. “What’ve I missed?”
The gate guard gave him a conspiratorial grin. “Nothing big. Just a blood sacrifice and a goddess descending in someone’s kitchen.”
Rydell blinked. “That so?” His voice was dry, but his interest piqued.
“I’ll find you at the Black Swan,” the guard said. “It’s quite the tale. Starts with a wandering mercenary. Ends with a Sheriff.”
“Can’t wait.” Rydell glanced back at his men. “Let me get these bastards in chains where they belong.”
“You're cleared to enter, Captain. The jail's waiting.”
With that, the gates opened wide. The patrol passed through, boots crunching over frost, the wind swirling past like a whisper of all that had changed while they were gone.
McRadie and Tackett huddled near the open dock door, breath fogging in the bitter air. Snow had crusted the railings and wooden slats, and ice curled along the hinges like creeping veins.
The big Caledonian blew into his hands, trying to warm them before offering a half-salute.
Rydell dismounted, armor creaking under the weight of a long patrol. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” His breath came out in clouds. “I’ve got six prisoners. Bandits. The kind you’ve been hoping for.” His voice had the weight of cold steel—frostbitten and tired.
“We are indeed waiting for those black-hearted killers,” Tackett replied, signaling down the corridor to the bundled jailors standing near the warmth of the hearth.
“Bring ’em in, men,” Rydell called back, his voice catching on the wind. He pulled a bundled stack of parchment from his coat, the string brittle with frost, and handed it over. “The report.”
Tackett tucked it into a pocket of his armored coat. “I’m sure the Sheriff won’t mind if you wait till morning to debrief.” His smile thawed the moment slightly. “You’ve earned some rest, Captain.”
Rydell gave a grateful nod, his shoulders sagging as the adrenaline drained. He turned to watch his men usher the prisoners inside, their manacles clicking in rhythm with weary boot steps.
The look of fear on Payine’s face as he crossed the threshold was worth every sleepless night and frozen mile.
As the iron doors slammed shut behind them, the sound echoed like a verdict passed. The heavy clang reverberated down the stone corridor, muting all thought. Cold air slithered around ankles, coiling through the hallway like death's breath. The six prisoners shivered—not from the chill, but from the sudden weight pressing on their souls.
Freedom, that fragile illusion, cracked and faded. For Payine, it shattered entirely. Every step forward was a step away from power, away from the illusion of control.
"Come on, you black-hearts," Tackett barked, his voice striking the air like a gavel. "We’ve a ways to go before you get to sleep."
McRadie chuckled from beside him, the sound low and grim. "Don’t ye worry, laddies. 'Til the headsman finds his edge, you’ll get three meals and a clean cot. Better than most bandits can hope."
The prisoners shuffled forward as McRadie gave Payine a shove between the shoulder blades. Chains rattled and clanked like bells tolling for the condemned.
"On we go—yarite, yarite, yarite, left, right," McRadie sang out in cadence. Jailors matched their steps to the rhythm, boots thudding like a war drum. Each footfall marked the transition from men to inmates.
They passed through a succession of sterile chambers, each colder than the last. In one, they were stripped of their clothing. In another, their charms and effigies—tokens of gods and lovers—were catalogued and boxed. Long hair and braids were hacked away with indifferent shears. Showers sprayed ice-cold water, washing away the last smells of forest and fire.
The final room clothed them in identical uniforms of coarse grey wool, scratchy against skin, heavy with shame. Their bare scalps glistened under torchlight. Gone were the names whispered in back alleys. Here, they were numbers, assigned and logged.
Manacles and leg-irons jingled an eerie counterpoint to their silence.
Two hours passed before the processing ended.
McRadie faced them, arms folded across his barrel chest. "Listen up, you maggots. Here, I’m judge and jury." He walked the line, eyes hard and unflinching. "You attack one of mine, it’s the hole. You disobey, it’s the hole. You raise a hand to another prisoner, and I’ll see to it you never leave it."
He stopped in front of Payine, staring him down.
"Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir!" they chorused, voices hollow with exhaustion and dread.
McRadie gave a single, grim nod. Behind him, the corridor stretched deeper into shadow.
No longer men of na Rointean Mora, they were now ghosts in grey, marked for judgment by masters colder than stone.
Deep within the jail, where silence clung like mildew, former Mayor Willems stirred at the sound of an iron door clanking shut. He rose, peering through the narrow slit of iron bars that looked out into the dim hallway.
He didn’t know it yet, but he was about to have company—among them, one face, he knew all too well.
“Come on, laddies, move along.” McRadie’s voice echoed like a gavel down the stone corridor.
Willems watched as six prisoners shuffled past in shackles, shadows dancing under the cold blue glow of draodeil lights. Each man was placed in a cell identical to his own—ten feet by ten feet, iron-bolted bunks, reinforced chairs, and a single, flickering rune in each corner humming with containment spells.
Then came Payine.
The enforcer’s shoulders sagged. The scar that once made him fearsome now looked like a fissure in crumbling stone. He didn’t meet Willems’ eyes. He didn’t meet anyone’s.
Willems recoiled, a sickness blooming in his gut. He sank onto the cold bunk, its steel frame creaking beneath him, and stared at the wall for a long moment.
Then, slowly, like a man remembering how, he folded his hands and began to whisper.
“Forgive me... if you still can.”
Outside the jail, yet within the walls that sheltered Eola, peace fell like the snow—quiet, gentle, and terribly thin.
Beneath eaves and beside hearths, the people slept, cradled by warmth and woven blankets, unaware of the rot that writhed beyond the gates.
Beyond the town, Chaos stirred in the hollow places. The spider of madness spun threads between forgotten bones, and the lady of rot whispered her poison into hollowed hearts.
But for tonight, hearth, home, and family curled together like a cat around a bowl—safe, for now.
All too soon, darkness would descend again, as it always had.
And once again, Law would meet Chaos beneath the watchful eyes of distant gods—who, for now, only watched.
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