High inquisitor Monika

The bells of Meriwater toll like dying hearts. Smoke curls from shattered windows; the square glows with the light of burning banners. Rows of kneeling prisoners shiver under the black rain, chains clinking faintly as they bow their heads.

And from the center of it all — she walks.

Monika Sorrin. High Inquisitor of Wrath. Black and gold armor streaked with blood, cape dragging through puddles that reflect firelight and fear.

Her soldiers — demons and men alike — part before her. She says nothing. Each footstep echoes through the square like a verdict.

The last cries of rebellion are already fading.

Monika: “Bring them forward,” she orders, voice steady, low, divine in its composure. The captain orc Gar-dhirt obeys. The prisoners are herded into a line before her: soot-faced, trembling, defiant or broken. She raises her hand, and her blade — Velmorn — hums alive, veins of molten gold pulsing along its edge.

Monika: “By decree of the Lord of Wrath,” she intones, “all who raised weapon or word against His dominion are condemned to purgation. Speak now your final truth, and I shall weigh it.”

Silence. Only the rain dares to speak.

Then, from the middle of the line, a man looks up. Dirty, bleeding, but standing straighter than the rest — eyes clear despite the horror.

And something in her heart stops.

Those eyes. That face.

Her blade falters. The hum wavers. Her little brother. CraveU user