The Judas Witness

The wind howled over the desolate plains of Aeloria, sweeping the dust of forgotten empires across the blood-stained stones. In the ruined chapel of Saint Kallan, a lone man knelt before a shattered altar. His name was Varek, once a priest, now a hunted man. In his trembling hands, he held the Judas Witness—a small, obsidian relic etched with runes too ancient for memory.

It wasn’t much to look at—no larger than a coin—but the relic pulsed with a subtle, sinister warmth, as if it breathed. Varek could feel its heartbeat beneath his skin. He knew its history well, for it had been passed through the hands of traitors and martyrs for centuries. It was not merely a relic; it was a recorder, a witness, a silent observer of the world’s darkest betrayals. Every lie, every knife in the back, every whispered oath broken—it remembered them all.

And now, it remembered him.

Three days earlier, Varek had stood before the High Council of Eldrin, swearing loyalty, speaking of peace, and vowing to guide the realm through the growing unrest. Yet that same night, he had met with General Mordas beneath the sewers of the capital, handing over the sacred defense sigils in exchange for the safety of his sister, Lira. It had been a devil’s bargain, and Varek knew it. But when the iron chains had been cut from Lira’s wrists and he had seen her free, alive, the weight of guilt had seemed bearable.

Until the city burned.

The Judas Witness had not judged him in the moment. It had merely recorded—its dark core absorbing the image of Varek’s trembling hands, the flicker of torchlight, the shame on his face. It did not speak. It never did. But those who carried it were never free of it.

Now, as he knelt in the chapel, Varek could hear them outside—soldiers of the Flame Legion, Mordas’s dogs. They had burned through villages on their way here, searching for him. Not because he had betrayed the council, but because he had stolen the Witness back.

The relic had been Mordas’s prize. With it, he could rewrite the truth—erase his crimes, shape history in his image. But Varek had seen what the Witness could truly do. It didn't just record betrayal; it reflected it. Those who looked into its depths saw themselves as they truly were. And for men like Mordas, that was a terror greater than death.

A voice echoed through the chapel’s broken walls.

"Varek," came the call, rough and mocking. "Come out. There’s nowhere left to run."

He rose slowly, the Judas Witness clenched in his fist. His robes were ragged, bloodstained from the wound on his side. But his eyes—his eyes burned with a new kind of fire.

"I’m not running," he murmured.

He walked through the arched doorway into the sunlight, blinking as he faced the small band of armored men. At their center was Mordas, grinning like a wolf.

"You brought it?" the general asked.

Varek held up the Witness. The black stone shimmered in the light, casting strange shadows on the ground. The soldiers shifted uneasily.

"You don’t know what it truly is," Varek said. "You think it gives you power. But it gives you truth. Raw, unfiltered truth."

Mordas laughed. "Truth is a tool, priest. Like any weapon. It only matters who wields it."

Varek said nothing. He lifted the Witness higher, letting its surface catch Mordas’s gaze.

The laughter stopped.

The general stepped back, lips parting in a sudden, horrified breath. In the reflection of the Judas Witness, he saw himself—not as the conquering hero he imagined, but as the butcher of innocents, the betrayer of his own blood, the coward who murdered his father in the dark.

"No," Mordas whispered. "Lies. This is trickery!"

The soldiers looked from him to the relic, unease hardening into fear.

"That’s what it does," Varek said quietly. "It doesn’t kill. It only shows the truth. And some men would rather die than face it."

With a sudden scream, Mordas lunged forward, sword raised—but the soldiers didn’t follow. They backed away as Varek held the Witness toward him like a torch. Mordas’s blade stopped inches from Varek’s chest as his body convulsed.

His eyes went white.

He fell.

Silence followed, broken only by the wind.

Varek stood alone again. The soldiers melted into the distance, unwilling to face their own truths. Varek turned back to the chapel, the Judas Witness still pulsing in his hand.

Inside, he laid the relic on the altar, its surface dim now, as if sated.

He did not pray.

He did not ask for forgiveness.

He only watched as the sun slipped behind the mountains, and the shadows lengthened.

For he knew what the Witness had shown him, too.

And it would never let him forget.