Toulouse, 1234 AD
The inquisitor's chamber was clean, spare, and smelled of ink and beeswax. There was no dungeon stench here, only the chill of bureaucracy. Enki, present as a notary required by canon law, watched as Brother Arnaud recorded the testimony of a cobbler accused of Cathar beliefs.
The cobbler, a man named Pèire, trembled, his words a desperate, tangled confession of his simple, dualist faith. Brother Arnaud's quill scratched steadily, his face a mask of serene detachment. He did not rage. He did not threaten. He cataloged.
"Count seven: belief in two principles. Count eight: rejection of material sacrament. Count nine: refusal of oath..."
When the transcript was complete, signed, and sealed, Brother Arnaud looked up. "The evidence is sufficient. The sentence is remittance to the secular arm for punishment." He said it with the same tone he might use to order more vellum. Two guards entered. Pèire began to sob.
As he was led away, Brother Arnaud made a final, neat notation in his ledger. Pèire, cobbler. Heresy. Condemned. Assets forfeit. He closed the book. The system was clean. The process was orderly. The soul was a data point, and the deviation had been efficiently deleted.
Scrapbook Entry: "The Lawgiver's perfect world is here. A universe where every soul is catalogued, every sin is quantified, and every spark of un-approved belief is efficiently incinerated. This is not faith. This is celestial accounting, and the bottom line is always written in blood."