The First Casket of Order The Judge's Breath inspired by Legend of the Seeker

More about The First Casket of Order The Judge's Breath inspired by Legend of the Seeker

No one knew who had built it. Yet whispers lingered in the ancient streets of Mevelyn that it once stood on the desk of an angel who had lost his heart to justice. The First Casket of Order was crafted from dark walnut, with metal edges that felt like cold morning frost. Atop the lid sat an eyeless judge—a skeleton in a wrinkled cloak, one bony hand raised in judgment, the other holding a scythe whose edge shimmered gold. No one had ever dared to touch it. Marcen, an outcast librarian of the Lost Academy, found the casket beneath a dusty velvet curtain in the display case of the antiquarian Seld. Seld had never sold it—not out of respect, but out of fear. "The lid knocks three times when a demon hears the verdict," he said in a croaky voice. "Then you must decide whether to forgive or consume." Marcen just smiled. He had nothing left to lose—no home, no friends, no names. Only one vow: to restore the order that the demon fire had reduced to ashes. He carried the box with him, as others carry a dagger. It breathed softly in the night, like a chest full of dreaming shadows. The lid never opened—except when someone lied who was not allowed to lie. Or when a demon appeared who had not been summoned. The first encounter came in the ruins of Sirvant. The walls still burned with the invisible flames, and shadows lay on the stones, moving even though the moon stood still. A girl with bloodstained hair stepped out of the darkness. Her eyes were black as the Well of Thiral. She spoke: "I am only a child." The lid of the box rapped once. Then twice. Then a third time—muffled and final. Marcen opened it. A beam of light shot up, cold as the judgment of a forgotten god. The figure screamed, transformed, disintegrated. Where the girl had stood, there now lay a thin veil of ash and a broken demon's tooth. Marcen knelt down. Not out of reverence—out of exhaustion. But the box fell silent again. From then on, whispers spread through the cities of the night: a judge was on the way. Not a king, not a priest, not an executioner—but one who would bring order where chaos once reigned. But the box wanted more. In the sixth week, it spoke in dreams. Not words, but memories. Of things that had never happened—a city of pure light, a woman with a glassy voice, a promise spoken only when all justice had passed. Marcen understood: the box was not just a weapon. It was the memory of order. And it was not alone. Two other boxes existed. One is said to be locked deep beneath the ash library of Carn—guarded by a demon who has forgotten himself. The other, it is said, rests in the heart of a human yet unborn. Whoever possessed all three, it was said, could rule not only over demons—but over guilt, over truth, over the end itself. Marcen closed the First Box again. The Judge slowly lowered his hand. The scythe trembled slightly. The day drew near when the Second Box would answer. And when it did, the world might be rewritten. Or erased.