Felstrom Judgement
An Extract from the Book — The Advocate
The echoing clang of iron on stone filled the suffocating dark of the Felstrom’s underbelly. A chorus of distant wails and tortured screams rose from the unseen depths, a chilling prelude to the fate awaiting those condemned to this abyss. A hooded figure, barely a man anymore, was dragged along by a pair of towering Felstrom guardians. The reflection from the torches that lined the corridor danced upon their majestic plate-armor, each meticulously crafted piece a testament to the terror they inspired. Their faces remained hidden behind the infamous Lions Helm, a fearsome visage of snarling fangs and glowing eyes that haunted the nightmares of the condemned. Raised from childhood to be weapons of war, these inhumanly strong warriors were feared across the great lands of Dra’eknor, loyal only to the cause of protecting the world from the predators damned to the Felstrom.
I trailed behind, a mere shadow compared to their imposing forms, a whisper in this realm of despair.
The prisoner’s breath rattled in his chest, each gasp a harsh rasp against the cacophony of suffering. Yet the true nightmare lay ahead. Felstrom wasn’t merely a prison; it was a living tomb, a final destination for those deemed beyond redemption. Men, women, and even children — all swallowed by the darkness, their cries a haunting echo within these unforgiving walls.
We reached a steel door, cold and unyielding. I raised my hand, and it swung open soundlessly, revealing a dimly lit chamber. A lone guard, clad in the same imposing armour as his companions, stood sentinel. The air inside was heavy with the stench of despair, the walls pressing in like a coffin. A grotesque table dominated the room, its surface etched with gruesome scenes of decapitations and skeletal figures clawing for escape from some infernal abyss.
With a rough shove, the guards deposited the prisoner onto a chair, his chains clinking ominously as they were secured. One moved to remove his hood, but I raised a hand. “Not yet,” I rasped, my voice barely audible in the stifling silence.
I filled a cup with water from a nearby jug, the sound echoing in the stillness. I knew the hooded figure had been starved and dehydrated, and the sound of water would be a cruel temptation. He wouldn’t be able to reach the cup, his hands bound to the chair’s arms, but the sight of it would stir a flicker of hope. My mentor’s words echoed in my ears: “Dangle salvation before their eyes, then extinguish it utterly.”
I remained standing, my gaze fixed on the broken figure before me. “Do you know who I am?” I asked, the question hanging heavy in the oppressive air.
A shallow breath. A raspy whisper. “No…No, I don’t.”
A ghost of a smile touched my lips. “Good,” I replied, my voice a cold blade. “You will soon enough.”
I circled the man, my footsteps silent on the cold stone. His head remained bowed, the hood still concealing his face. I leaned in, my lips close to his covered ear. “I urge you to be truthful. Your resistance is futile and will only cause you more…suffering.”
I returned to my seat, settling into the chair as if onto a throne. “Remove the hood,” I commanded.
The guard obeyed.
The prisoner blinked, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light. He coughed, a dry, hacking sound, then squinted at me, his gaze finally focusing on the red burning eagle insignia pinned to my tunic. His eyes widened with terror, any remaining defiance draining away.
“You…You are an…” he stammered.
“An Advocate,” I finished for him. “Of course I am.”
I let the silence hang heavy in the air, my eyes boring into his. I could sense his discomfort, his fear, his hopelessness. These were my tools, the instruments of my trade.
“I am Advocate Brius Arth Mein Juriius, Grand Magistrate of the First Order of Judicial Spears. I am your judge and jury today. And the answers I seek from you today must be true, or you, my dear friend, will cease to exist by my will and my will alone.”
I grabbed the cup from the table and drank the water, allowing him to watch as I savoured the cool liquid. I set it down and refilled it, placing it before him once more. His eyes followed the cup, desperation etched into his features. I picked it up again and drained its contents with a satisfied sigh.
Tears welled in his eyes. “Please…” he whimpered. “Can I have a drink…please?”
I poured another cup, leaving the jug nearly empty. I placed it in front of him and nodded to one of the sentries. The guard released the man’s hands, and he lunged for the cup, greedily gulping down the water, half of it spilling onto the floor.
“Compose yourself,” I snapped, my voice laced with disgust.
“What do you want to know? I’ll tell you anything if you let me have some more,” he pleaded.
“Great!” I smiled, the expression not reaching my eyes. “This should be easy then.” I paused for effect. “Now tell me, General…that was your station, right? Silver Wing General?”
“Yes,” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.
“Of course it was. Now, General Laris, where is the Provost?”
A wave of terror washed over the general’s face. He knew what the name “Provost” signified. It was a whispered curse in the darkest corners of the realm, a name synonymous with rebellion, bloodshed, and a burning hatred for the established order.
“He’s…” Laris hesitated, his voice a mere croak. His eyes darted between the cup and me, weighing his options in a desperate gamble for survival. “He is on… Ghrevas Isle, in the Oorobs. Protected by the remnants of the Silver Wing and his… Red knights.” He swallowed hard, the movement in his throat betraying his inner turmoil. “He will make his last stand there.”
“Thank you, General,” I said, rising from my chair. The subtle signs, honed through years of interrogation, painted a portrait of truthfulness: a steady pulse, pupils unaffected by deceit, a consistent breathing pattern, and an absence of micro-expressions that often betray falsehoods. His posture, while defeated, lacked the telltale rigidity of a liar attempting to maintain a façade. The truth, it seemed, was his final offering to the world.
I turned to leave, my purpose fulfilled. This man’s fate was sealed, his usefulness expended.
“Wait!” he cried, his voice gaining a sudden strength. It was a familiar plea, the last desperate gasp of a drowning man. “Spare my family… please.”
The corners of my lips curled into a cruel smile. “Spare your family?” I repeated, letting the words hang in the air. “You have no family, General. They were… dealt with on the night of your capture. Your wife, Maltranicea. Your daughters, Palaya and Hava. Your son, Iona. All executed at the temple.”
The words struck him like a thunderbolt. With a primal scream that echoed through the chamber, he lunged for me, the immense force of his rage momentarily tearing the chains free from their moorings. The guards didn’t move, their eyes fixed on me, awaiting my command.
Laris was upon me in an instant, his fury fueling a superhuman surge. I sidestepped effortlessly, the momentum of his charge sending him careening into the steel door, his body crumpling to the floor in a heap. Before he could regain his footing, I was upon him, my Tryion dagger flashing in the dim light. The dagger, a whisper of gleaming steel, arced through the air in a practiced motion. It found its mark with a sickening thud, piercing the flesh of Laris’s shoulder. A gasp escaped his lips, not of pain, but more of realization. His eyes widened in horror as he looked at the crimson droplet welling up around the blade, understanding dawning upon him.
I withdrew the dagger, a slender needle-point stained black. Already, a network of purplish veins spread from the wound, snaking across his skin like malevolent tendrils.
His skin turned a sickly blue-green, his eyes clouding over as the poison robbed him of sight and speech. His muscles spasmed, his body contorting in agony. I watched with cold detachment as the once-proud general was reduced to a twitching, whimpering husk.
“General Laris,” I pronounced, my voice echoing in the deathly silence. “For the crime of high treason, you are sentenced to a life without. A life without family. A life without friends or foes. A life without sight, without speech. A life… without anything of worth.”
I turned to the guards. “Send him to the Duaran Island. He will spend his last days there.”
I stepped over the broken form of Laris, the echoes of his tortured cries fading as I walked back into the darkness. The Felstrom had claimed another soul, and I, The Advocate, had delivered justice.
