Narrated by Vedek Lira
Judgment was. Judgment is. Judgment will be.
Humanity writes its laws in blood and dust. After the Eugenics Wars — when kings crowned themselves with genes and fire — new warlords rose from the ruins. They wore no crowns, only scars. Their commandments were carved into the bones of those who opposed them: take what you can, hold what you must, crush all who stand in your way.
The stars watched. So did we.
For the Metrons are keepers of trials. They weigh civilizations not by their victories, but by the mercy they show when they could destroy. And so Zeyara, radiant judge of crystalline robes that shimmered like dusk and dawn together, descended once more to weigh the children of Earth.
The Desert at Sundown
The sky blazed copper above a desolate town, where two armies faced each other across a sea of sand.
To the north stood Iron Fang, a man draped in scavenged armor, his soldiers hungry for conquest. To the south stood Marisol the Red, her followers thin but fierce, their rifles polished with desperation.
Between them, the town trembled — a handful of civilians caught between two fires.
Then the heavens tore.
A cascade of light split the air, and Zeyara appeared — tall, luminous, serene. Her voice carried like the ringing of a glass bell.
“You seek war,” she said. “But your quarrel is not worthy of so many lives. One against one. Winner decides the fate of all. Loser… falls.”
The air stilled. The armies fell silent.
The sun froze, suspended just above the horizon — eternal twilight over a dying world.
The Trial
Iron Fang grinned, brandishing his blade.
Marisol spat into the dust, raising her own.
Zeyara raised her hand.
“Begin.”
Steel met steel. The clash echoed like thunder rolling through stone canyons. Iron Fang’s strength was brute and feral; Marisol’s was precise and patient. They circled, struck, broke apart, and struck again.
Sand rose around them in shimmering clouds. The soldiers on both sides held their breath, waiting for blood.
Vedek Lira’s voice whispered through the silence:
The Metrons do not seek slaughter. They seek mercy. For in mercy, true strength is revealed.
At last, Iron Fang faltered. His knees hit the dirt. Marisol’s blade pressed to his throat. One motion could have ended it.
The armies shouted for vengeance.
But Marisol looked past him — to the children peering from the ruined town, eyes wide with terror. She took a deep breath and lowered her weapon.
“I won’t spill more blood,” she said. “Live, Iron Fang — but live without your crown. Serve, or walk away.”
Judgment
Zeyara’s eyes gleamed like twin suns.
“Mercy has been chosen,” she declared. “Humanity, in this place, has passed.”
The frozen sun began to move again, dipping below the edge of the world. The desert wind sighed in relief.
Iron Fang staggered away, stripped of his power. Marisol turned to her people and told them to rebuild. And for the first time in many years, the town did not burn.
Vedek Lira’s Closing
Mercy is rare. Mercy is heavy. Yet it was given that day — freely. And so the scales of judgment tipped, not against humanity, but toward its better angels.
In the distance, dust swirled into the shape of a golden figure — Zeyara fading into light. Above, the rainforest station still spun in its orbit, its green reflection gleaming across the desert below.
The sun set. And Earth, bruised and broken, exhaled.
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