"Every story about balance ends with a fire. It's the only honest way to measure weight." — The Fool
They run, and I laugh.
Not because it's funny — no, no. I laugh because it's inevitable.
Two fugitives from the Ordo Arcanae, soaked in rain and guilt, stumble through the veins of a dying city. Above them, the sky coughs lightning. Below, the sewers hum with the echoes of prayers never meant to be heard.
Jake Faust, the boy who would hold the world steady by breaking it.
Liora Kaine, the woman who mistook redemption for rebellion.
And me, the Fool, the echo between their heartbeats.
Oh, children. You don't know it yet, but I built this stage for you.
---
They find shelter in the undercity — a forgotten cathedral turned upside-down by time.
The pews cling to the ceiling, the crucifix dangles like a question mark. Water drips from the rafters in a rhythm only I understand. Each drop is a heartbeat, a reminder of the lives that once thrived in this sacred space, now reduced to crumbling stone and shattered faith.
"What is this place?" Jake asks, his voice small against the cavernous dark.
Liora lights a flare, illuminating the dilapidated space. "Sanctum Subversum. One of the heretic shrines. The Ordo pretends it doesn't exist."
Her flame casts flickering shadows against the walls, revealing mosaics too old for language — the Arcana depicted as monsters, saints, and martyrs all at once. Images twisted beyond recognition, their meaning obscured by the passage of time and the obscenities of the past.
Jake stares at the mosaics. "They look like people."
"They were," Liora replies cryptically. "Before the symbols consumed them."
He reaches toward the mosaic of *The Hanged One*, his fingertips brushing its cracked face. It's a haggard visage, one that speaks of suffering and an ancient sorrow.
"Why does he look sad?"
Liora doesn't answer. I do.
"Because he understands the joke," I whisper, though neither hears.
"Balance isn't justice. It's just the universe holding its breath before the next fall."
---
They're not alone.
From the far end of the cathedral, footsteps echo — slow, deliberate, accompanied by the clink of metal. The atmosphere thickens with tension.
Liora instinctively draws her pistol, the flare trembling in her hand, casting an uncertain glow.
A voice calls out with a calm authority:
"Holster that toy, Kaine. If I meant you harm, you'd already be balanced."
Out of the dark steps a figure in a rusted Ordo cloak. His left eye glows faint blue — not magic, but machinery. A sigil burned into his throat pulses faintly with every heartbeat, its sinister light illuminating the eerie scenario.
"Name's Oran Vale," he says, his tone both casual and threatening. "Former Magister. The current corpse they forgot to bury."
Liora stiffens, eyes narrowing. "You're supposed to be dead."
He smirks, a wry smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You're supposed to be obedient."
I like this one. He laughs without smiling — a sign of real intelligence, the kind that understands the absurdity of their situation.
Vale's gaze shifts to Jake. "So this is the new vessel."
Jake steps back, uncertainty flooding his expression. "Vessel?"
Vale's metal eye whirs faintly, a mechanical reminder of his past. "For the Suspensum. For the one who hangs. You think you're still just a boy with strange dreams? The moment you said his name, you became the rope that holds him to this world."
Liora lowers her weapon slowly, the adrenaline fading as curiosity takes over. "Then what happens if the rope snaps?"
Vale shrugs, an unsettling nonchalance in his demeanour. "Ask the world what happens when gravity stops caring.
He turns to Jake, his expression softening for the first time. "You hear him, don't you? The one that pities you."
Jake hesitates, grappling with his confused thoughts. "Sometimes. And… another voice."
"Ah," Vale chuckles, a low and eerie sound. "The Jester too. Where there's the Hanged, there's always the Fool. Two ends of the same thread, don't you see?"
He steps closer, his hand raised like a benediction, the pale light flickering across his features. "You have to choose, boy. The path of pity or the path of laughter. One will make you a martyr. The other will set you free."
Jake's voice is barely a whisper, laden with apprehension. "Which one did you choose?"
Vale's response is grave. "I didn't. That's why I'm still here."
---
I watch them from the shadows of the ceiling, dangling from my own reflection, grinning upside-down. The irony of their plight is delicious. Ah, mortals — such endearing contradictions. Always mistaking suffering for meaning, rebellion for freedom. They cling to their ideals, even as those very ideals become chains.
But still, I pity them.
Even I do.
Because what's coming next is no longer my joke — it's theirs.
Outside, the first flames begin to rise from the city's edges, tendrils licking at the sky. The Ordo burns what it cannot control. Their fire is a desperate act, a means of silencing dissent, of trying to re-establish a balance that has long been lost. They fear chaos, yet it is the very chaos that gives rise to new possibilities.
As the flames dance and the smoke spirals upwards, I can feel the stirring of something ancient, something powerful. Somewhere in the firelight, a new Arcana stirs, yawning in its sleep, awakening to the call of change. It's time for transformation, for destruction to pave the way for rebirth.
I clap once, softly, like a proud parent at a tragedy's midpoint, savouring the weight of the moment.
"Let the pendulum swing," I whisper. "Let him learn why mercy always costs blood."
And just like that, the stage is set. The flames rise higher, casting long shadows that twist and distort the figures of the fleeing fugitives. Jake and Liora stand at the precipice of choice, at a defining moment that will echo through time.
In this dimly lit sanctuary of forgotten beliefs, they must confront the monsters painted on the walls, embodying not only the fears of what they might become but also the ghosts of those who came before them. Here, in the heart of chaos, they will have to choose — not just for themselves, but for a world that is burning, yearning for renewal amid the beautiful destruction that awaits.
"What will it be?" I ponder silently, the arbitrary judge of their unfolding fate. "Will they rise from the ashes, or will they be consumed?"