Chapter 88 88: Justice.......

Short chapter... I really liked the idea , so I couldn't resist making it long. ------------------------------ If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. ------------------------------- POV member of the cult of Verena Sommerzeit-10,2489 IC "Can you believe it? This is a unique opportunity... We'll be among the youngest judges the Empire has ever had, and in Reinsfeld of all places!" exclaimed one of my companions, overflowing with enthusiasm. "Who would have thought that being assistants at the entrance of the temple would lead us here..." I responded, still incredulous, as I adjusted the buckle of my tunic. "I never would have imagined it," added another aspirant, catching the same fervor. The young man from Reinsfeld, Albrecht von Reinsfeld, was a constant topic of conversation in Altdorf. At his young age, he had gained fame for his political cunning, and, according to rumors, for being a brilliant commander. Unlike other nobles, he didn't seek out the old scholars of the Cult of Verena: he wanted new blood. He specifically requested young members from the temple, well-versed in laws and logic, to fill positions in the new courts of his city. It was a matter of fortune, or perhaps one of those ironies that the goddess so cherishes, that the servant who came to the temple to deliver the request found himself exactly where several of us were working cataloging and filing. We were apprentices, aspiring librarians, or minor scribes. And we met the one requirement the Graf asked for: youth. Almost all of us present were chosen, much to the silent disdain of the higher-ranking temple members, who, curiously, had not been informed of the offer in advance. Some accused us of being opportunists. Others, more quietly, of betraying the hierarchy. But Verena teaches us to seek truth and justice, not to blindly obey outdated customs. In less than a week, our names were officially accepted, and we were informed that we would be traveling to Reinsfeld to serve judicial functions on behalf of the Cult. We were embarked on a river journey towards Merxheim, one of the Graf's possessions, where we would make the transfer to the city. The trip, though brief, left us stunned. Not by the movement of the boat—though several suffered from seasickness—but by the surprising number of workers boarding with us. Dozens of them, perhaps hundreds, all laborers with tools slung over their shoulders, heading to the same destination. The boats filled with rough men from various provinces. Many came from Averland, Stirland, even from the north. We spent the journey talking about our good fortune and speculating about the Graf. They said he was tall, imposing, but better known for his brain than his sword. For most of us, this was our first time outside Altdorf. Leaving the capital for a city in deep Reikland might have seemed like madness... if not for the fact that it meant a direct promotion within the Cult. Merxheim received us with rusticity. The port was new, improvised. Newly placed planks still unvarnished. Even so, the ships began to dock in an orderly fashion, and the crew disembarked shouting orders. First, the workers disembarked, then some architects dressed in colorful tunics that clashed with the dust of the place. Finally, we were called. A servant of the Graf, dressed in blue red livery signaled for us to follow him. He pointed to a tall figure covered in full armor that gleamed under the sun. We approached respectfully. The knight slowly removed his helmet. The face he revealed seemed sculpted from marble deep blue eyes, pale blonde hair, and a strong jaw that inspired authority even in silence. He took a step toward us. "Greetings, Graf. We are—" He didn't let me finish. He simply looked away toward someone beside him. "Otto, these are your colleagues," he said firmly, addressing a hunched man, with a gaunt face and deep bags under his eyes. "Yes, they are," Otto responded without bothering to greet us. The tone he used with the Graf would have warranted punishment in any court... but the young noble barely seemed to notice. "Perfect. Follow me. We have much to discuss." The Graf shook hands with each architect respectfully, took them with him toward the village... and left us there, in the middle of the bustling port, standing like statues. It took him quite some time to return. "Are you from the Cult of Verena, or am I mistaken?" asked the Graf, not raising his voice, as his cold, calculating gaze scanned us. "Yes, honorable noble of the Empire. We are servants of the goddess Verena, protector of knowledge and justice," I responded with the expected manners, bowing slightly. "Good. Follow me," he said curtly, turning immediately to walk into the forest. We exchanged confused looks among ourselves. Without an explanation, the Graf spoke to some of his men, who immediately formed an escort behind us. We walked in silence, entering the trees. "Excuse me, my lord," I said after a few minutes, raising my voice with some apprehension. "Why are we walking into the forest? Shouldn't we be going to the city?" The Graf did not stop. His tone was low, but as firm as steel. "I want to make something clear from the beginning. I know how the Cult of Verena works. I know about veiled alliances, favors disguised as jurisprudence, judges who sell themselves to the highest bidder or bow to witch hunters out of fear. I will not tolerate that on my lands." I didn't know what to answer. The silence that followed was as dense as the humidity in the forest. That was when we heard it: a guttural, grotesque grunt, full of rage. Something was moving between the trees. We turned toward the sound just in time to see an abominable creature emerge: a Beastman, muscular, covered in scars and filthy hair, with twisted horns and a huge piece of sharp iron as a weapon. Some of us tried to step back, but the Graf's guards held us by the arms. Not violently, but firmly. They wouldn't let us escape. The beast roared and charged toward the Graf. The young noble, without a word, drew a sword that gleamed with a faint metallic glow. He didn't dodge the strike: he anticipated it. He stepped aside almost elegantly, and in one fluid motion, he cut off the creature's arm. Blood gushed, splattering him. One of the apprentices fell to her knees, vomiting. The Graf didn't stop. He delivered a brutal punch to the creature's chest, the crack audible, followed by another dry blow to the throat. The beast staggered, its eyes bulging, gasping as though drowning. Then, the Graf grabbed it by the neck with both arms and began choking it, walking slowly toward us. The smell was unbearable. The stench of blood surrounded us. The creature writhed, hit, tried to free itself... but the Graf didn't yield. His muscles were tense, his face showing pure concentration, his demeanor... it was like watching a statue of Sigmar. "This," he said in a deep voice while the creature gasped for breath, "is a beastman. Perhaps many of you have never seen one. Well, here you have it." The monster kicked with less force. Its eyes began to roll back. Still, the Graf didn't loosen his grip. "If any of you... any of you... dares to accept a bribe, manipulate a judgment for political favors, or betray the balance of my courts by obeying fanatics or witch hunters, I swear by Sigmar that I will break your arms and legs myself. And I will leave you here, in the forest, to be devoured by things like this while I watch. Is that clear?" With a swift twist of his arms, the final crack echoed. The beastman's neck snapped with a horrific sound, and its body fell to the ground like a sack of dead meat. Some of us stepped back. One companion started crying. Another pissed himself. The Graf stepped forward, covered in blood. "Is that clear?" he repeated, this time raising his voice with a thunderous authority that seemed to shake even the leaves on the trees. "Yes! Yes, my lord!" we answered almost in unison. "Take them to the city... they now understand what will happen," the Graf ordered while wiping the blood from the beastman with a piece of linen handed to him by one of his men. He didn't say anything else. He turned and disappeared into the trees, leaving his soldiers the task of escorting us. We were still trembling. No one spoke. The fear hadn't gone away; it had settled in our chests like a cold stone. We were loaded onto transport carts, drawn by well-fed horses. No one asked where we were going, though we knew: to Reinsfeld. The journey wasn't long, but it felt eternal. Some cried in silence. Others murmured prayers to Verena, not even raising their voices. No one looked back at the forest we had come from. When we arrived at Reinsfeld, the first thing that struck us was the planning. It wasn't just a simple rural settlement: it was a city in expansion. We were led to a new district, with straight streets and orderly facades on the buildings. Not far away, the towers of the Graf's castle loomed, always visible, as though watching over every street from above. "With some luck," whispered one of my companions, "we might be able to run to the castle if anything goes wrong." One by one, the soldiers handed us keys and papers. Each of us was assigned our own residence. Slate roofs, thick oak doors, windows with iron shutters. Mine looked like it came straight from the high quarters of Altdorf. As soon as I crossed the threshold, all I wanted was to take off my clothes, wash my hands, and forget about the day. I entered. The house was furnished. In the main room, in front of a small fireplace that was still unlit, there was a statue of Sigmar, polished, without a speck of dust. It seemed out of place. I reached out toward the statue... and in that instant, the door slammed shut behind me. I spun around suddenly. My heart was pounding. A figure emerged from the shadows of the hallway, walking steadily. He wore a long black leather coat, crisscrossed with straps. The wide-brimmed hat partially covered his face, but his voice was unmistakable. "Blessed Sigmar... the world drowns in corruption. Your Empire cracks under heresy. The faithful die while the wicked multiply... Blessed Sigmar, grant me the strength to purge the corrupt, to bring hope where hope has lost." Only then did I see his face. It was a man with angular features, weathered by years of war. He had scars on his jaw and neck. A witch hunter. "Blessings of Sigmar, servant of Verena," he said, moving closer. "Jonas Krüger, captain of the witch hunters assigned to Reinsfeld."Before I could speak, he placed his leather-gloved hand firmly over my lips. "I'll be clear," he said. "In Reinsfeld, you are under the protection of the Graf. Within its boundaries, I cannot touch you. But outside... you are at my mercy. And I am a patient man."His words were soft, but his tone was loaded with threat. "I have been assigned to protect this city not only from heretics but also from my own brethren. Those who, blinded by fanaticism, punish the innocent while the true evil mocks them from the shadows." He came even closer. I could smell the leather of his coat, the gunpowder from his weapons. "There are certain cases... baseless. Empty accusations. I need you to dismiss them tomorrow. Do not investigate them. Just let them be free. And if you don't..." He paused. "If you don't, when you take one step outside this city... no one will ever know of you again. No one." He turned, opened the door, and left. From the threshold, he threw one last look at me. Only then did I notice I wasn't the only one. At the doors of the other houses in the district, more witch hunters were also leaving. One for each house. One for each judge. Our companions emerged horrified, pale, their lips pressed tight. We looked at each other... and understood that we had all received the same visit. The same warning. ------------------------------ If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. -------------------------------