(Filed under the Authority of the Imperial Adjudicatory Dais)
The doors sealed without a sound.
No herald announced their closing. The chamber did not still—it had never been alive enough to stir.
A ring of pale stone was set into the floor. Inside it stood the defendant, unbound. His wrists were bare. His posture was not. He held himself stiffly upright, as though rigidity might serve as armor.
When the High Adjudicator entered, the assembly rose as one.
Not by command.
By recognition.
"The High Adjudicator," they said—some whispering, some shaping the words without sound.
Kaelreth Valenor ascended the dais. Dark robes fell about him like a shroud. At his throat, a seal gleamed briefly before fading into shadow. His staff struck the stone once—clean, measured, final.
"Begin the record."
From the dimness behind him, the Shadow Deputy lifted a hand. A lattice of glyphs spun into being, aligned, and hardened into a steady glow. The air grew taut, as it does before an oath is sworn.
The High Adjudicator did not look at the man inside the circle.
"Name."
The defendant swallowed. "Alwin Loriel."
"Status."
"Recognized noble of the Empire. Third son of House Loriel."
A page turned. The sound was dry, deliberate.
"This status is under review. Do you confirm?"
A pause, brief and unplanned. "I confirm."
Only then did the High Adjudicator's gaze rise—not to Alwin's face, but to the space between them, as though reading from an unseen scroll.
"You are accused." His voice was level, cool.
"First: engagement in an illicit relationship with a consecrated servant of the Church.
Second: continuation of said engagement after reaching maturity, with full knowledge of ecclesiastical vows.
Third: causing irreparable harm to the Church's integrity upon exposure."
Alwin's breath caught. "It began when I was a boy. He was my guide. He told me it was—he called it devotion—"
"Do you deny the acts occurred?"
"…No."
"Do you deny their continuation?"
Alwin's eyes flicked toward the benches. Faces were turned away, hands folded, eyes fixed elsewhere.
"No," he said, the word tight.
Thud.
The staff struck stone.
"Recorded."
Behind the dais, the glyphs pulsed once.
"He used me," Alwin said, quicker now. "My family sought favor. He said it was God's will—"
"The ecclesiastical party has been dealt with internally."
"Dealt with how?"
No answer.
"Is he still—"
"This court convenes to classify, not to punish."
"Classify?" Alwin's voice frayed at the edges. "Then why am I here?"
"Because you are recognized," the High Adjudicator said. "The unrecognized require no adjudication."
"I was coerced!"
"Coercion is a circumstance. Not a category."
"You have evidence—testimony—"
"I have a record."
Thud.
"You are not here to be heard. You are here to be placed."
Silence followed—not emptiness, but a void.
"He said I would ruin my house if I refused," Alwin said, not pleading now, but stating. "He said God watches the obedient."
From the gallery came the faint click of a ring against wood. Then stillness.
The High Adjudicator's gaze did not waver.
"Do you dispute that the relationship continued?"
"I tried to end it. He threatened—"
"Answer."
Alwin's jaw trembled. He did not let the tears fall. He knew what tears were worth here.
"No," he said. "I do not dispute it."
"Recorded."
The glyphs turned silently in the air.
"House Loriel," the High Adjudicator read, "is charged with failure of oversight. Failure of restraint. Failure of containment."
"Containment?" Alwin whispered, as though the word belonged to animals.
"Your continued designation poses a risk to institutional stability."
"My… designation?"
"Your name," the High Adjudicator said. "Your status. Your place in the ledger of what the Empire chooses to acknowledge."
Alwin stepped forward, halting at the ring's edge. "If I am not to be punished… what is being done to me?"
Thud.
"Existence," said the High Adjudicator, "is not a right. It is a permission."
He did not raise his voice for what came next.
"The designation 'Alwin Loriel' is hereby voided."
Thud. "House affiliation revoked."
Thud. "Name struck from the registry."
Thud. "Bloodline annotation expunged."
Thud. "Legal personhood withdrawn."
Alwin stood very still. For a moment, he seemed not to understand. Then understanding came, slow and bitter.
"You cannot," he breathed. "I am—"
"Alive," the High Adjudicator finished, without cruelty. "Yes."
"What becomes of me?"
No answer came.
Then the dam broke.
"You do this to shield them!" Alwin's voice tore through the chamber like shattered glass. "You treat with the Church behind closed doors, yet erase me openly! Once the law has scraped away the last trace of my name… the Church will leave nothing of me to bury!"
A soft intake of breath from the benches. Not sympathy—appraisal.
The High Adjudicator's eyes shifted slightly.
"Your conclusions are irrelevant. You no longer possess standing."
"I do not—" Alwin began, then choked. He understood. His knees shook, but he did not kneel. The refusal was instinct, the last muscle-memory of a self being unmade.
The High Adjudicator turned his head toward the shadow.
"Confirm the record."
The Shadow Deputy's voice was flat, devoid of inflection. "Confirmed. The stripping protocol is satisfied. The seals hold."
"Court is adjourned."
No gavel fell. The staff simply rested, and the chamber obeyed.
Two attendants emerged. They did not touch him. They stood at the circle's edge, bodies angled toward the door—the same posture used for an honored guest.
Alwin took one step, then another, leaving the ring behind. At the threshold, he stopped and looked back, eyes wide, mouth agape.
"One question," he rasped. "The one dealt with internally… will he continue to serve?"
The High Adjudicator did not turn.
"That inquiry lies beyond your designation."
"My lord," Alwin tried again, softer, as though gentleness might penetrate stone. "If I do not exist, then what—"
The High Adjudicator lifted his staff. Not to strike, but to sever.
"You have been placed."
The doors opened.
Alwin Loriel passed through, and the corridor swallowed him whole.
The doors closed without a sound.
Within, the chamber exhaled. A low murmur rose—not of outrage, but of administrative relief. A problem had been classified. A name removed. Stability preserved.
The High Adjudicator remained standing a moment longer than needed. Behind him, the Shadow Deputy's glyphs dimmed from pale blue to deep crimson, weaving themselves into a final, intricate seal.
Without turning, the High Adjudicator spoke.
"Mark this case."
"Category?"
"Non-citable."
"Reason?"
The High Adjudicator's eyes rested on the closed doors. "The public prefers sinners," he said, "not victims."
The crimson glyphs flickered, etching the words into air.
"Mark applied."
The High Adjudicator took up his staff and moved to leave. At the edge of the dais, he paused—so slightly that only the Shadow Deputy might have noted it.
"Add an addendum."
"Content?"
"Status of the subject beyond registry: Unknown."
The glyphs rotated once.
"Recorded."
Kaelreth Valenor walked out.
The court remained.
The record remained.
What happened to a man after his name was unmade was not the court's concern.
It was no one's concern.
Not anymore.