"The Empire does not punish the guilty.It defines guilt, and leaves the punishment to us."— Motto of the Trialmask Unit
Location: Vandral, 5th Sector Watch Tower – 36 hours after Kael's escape
Perspective: High Inquisitor Velk
Rain hissed across the redglass of the Watch Tower like a swarm of insects trying to claw their way in.
High Inquisitor Velk stood motionless at the viewing deck, his hands behind his back. His robes were pure black, but the fabric shimmered with embedded glyph-threads — signs of his mastery of Veyla, twisted into the Empire's own warped theology.
A pale reflection stared back at him in the window: a face half-buried behind a porcelain mask, carved with seven vertical lines. One for each interrogation survived. He hadn't earned the eighth. Not yet.
Behind him, a junior officer stammered through her report.
"Subject Verrin... escaped under veil breach conditions. Layer 2 was destabilized by unknown interference. Layer 3 has gone dark.""You lost two executioners?""Yes, Inquisitor."
A pause.
"And the girl?""Unknown. But... we detected Khaon signatures. Distorted gravity pulses. The architecture was warped.""A Veilwalker.""That's what we believe. Possibly Trialmask rogue."
Velk didn't sigh. He never sighed.
He simply turned.
"Send word to the Hollow Cathedral. I want the Third Choir activated."
The officer hesitated. "Sir... the Third Choir hasn't been deployed since the Heretic Bloom in—"
"I know exactly when," Velk snapped.
Then softer, almost amused:
"Let's see if the little firefly remembers what the inside of his mind looks like."
The Trialmask Unit
Created after the failure of the Aith Accord, the Trialmask were meant to replace truth with obedience. Each member underwent neural fusing — their original names, thoughts, and emotions erased, leaving only roles, voices, and purpose.
They did not speak without permission.They did not sleep. They only sang during interrogation.
The Third Choir was a special subset: Operatives embedded with corrupted Aith-constructs, purpose-built to collapse enemy will by simulating their own memories against them.
Living weapons of gaslit memory.
Meanwhile: The Underground Veinline (Layer 3, Depth Unknown)
Kael's breathing had evened out. Sarai could hear it now, barely audible over the echo of dripping stone.
He was healing. Slowly. Too slowly.
She crouched near him, sharpening a blade of black steel — one she'd shaped hours ago from a melted rail spike, charged with the last of her energy.
But her fingers trembled.
Not from fear.
From the way the air had started singing.
Only one group she knew did that. Only one group used memory as a weapon.
"They're sending Trialmasks," she whispered to herself.
And suddenly, a flicker of memory:
Her brother, face blank, voice flat—Singing someone else's lullaby with someone else's eyes.
Sarai stood.
"Kael. Wake up."
"Why?" he muttered.
She looked down the tunnel.
"Because the Empire's sending ghosts that know your name."