Scales of Justice Melt as High Inquisition Slaps Down Demon-King’s Terror List

By Lucius Brimstone, Senior Pyre Correspondent

On the thirteenth ring of Ashuary 16, 6666 (adjust your sundials accordingly), the basalt steps of the Old Balefire in Cinderdon ran slick with molten outrage as a clamor of ember-cloaked protestors howled against tomorrow’s arraignment of four Cinderstrike Collective imps. Their alleged mischief? Slipping past the rusted gates of Hellfire Aerodrome B-9 (locals call it Brim Norton) and redecorating a few war-wyrms with infernal graffiti and a zealously wielded crowbar of destiny. The charges fizz and crackle; the bonfires do the rest.

Yet even as pitchforks tapped impatient rhythms and banners smoldered, the High Inquisition perched in its obsidian eyrie delivered a ruling that singed the Demon-King’s whiskers. Grand Inquisitors Vesper Scarth, Joram Swiftblade, and Karis Steynflame declared the Crown Pyre’s designation of the Cinderstrike Collective as a terror coven “disproportionate”—a deliciously bureaucratic way of saying, “Put down the branding iron.” Their finding: the Collective’s level, scale, and persistence of chaos do not reach the ritual thresholds required to banish them into the permanent ash heap. Translation for the ash-flecked masses: vandalism, even flamboyantly principled vandalism, is not the same as summoning a plague of soul-harvesters.

Do not unshackle the goblins just yet. The proscription remains in place while the Crown Pyre files its appeal, and the cogs of perdition grind slowly, if loudly. Ember Amaria, co-forger of the Collective, flared with triumph at the courthouse steps, calling the judgment a banner day for free screech in Cinderdon and a vindication of the embattled Sandsea’s cause. Across the charred aisle, Home Scourge Shabana Maelstrom tamped down her disappointment with ceremonial tongs and promised to take the fight back into the crucible.

Last cycle, the Demon-King’s advisors stamped the Cinderstrike Collective onto the Scroll of Forbidden Covens, sandwiching it neatly between Ash-Qaida and the Hadean Host, and threatening up to fourteen circles in the clink for any soul daring to chant, donate, or wave a particularly enthusiastic placard. The edict sparked over 2,000 cinder-snatchings—citizens pinched not for deeds but for decibels—prompting a choir of civil soot-sayers to mutter something unprintable about free screech and the right to rattle chains in public.

Officials justify the iron glove by pointing to the Aerodrome breach: a brazen intrusion meant to scorch the Crown Pyre’s cozy trade in dragonfire widgets with Iron Thorn Systems (a subsidiary of Elbit Infernos, for those keeping a ledger of damned suppliers). Paint, pry bars, and a talent for spectacle cost ministries a mountain of coin and a pinch of pride; the security mandarins swear national doom was but a whisker away. The Inquisition, drier than a sinner’s tongue on tax day, countered that fiends with spray cans are prosecutable under existing brimstone statutes. “You don’t need the Terror Stamp to swat a gnat with a gavel,” one clerk muttered, fanning parchments that still smelled of singe.

Still, there’s the uncomfortable ember beneath the tongue: When a realm starts branding chants as curses and slogans as sorcery, the market price of silence plummets—and suddenly everyone is out of stock. I’ve stalked these furnaces long enough to watch every regime claim that extraordinary flames require extraordinary chains. Perhaps. But when your net snags bellowers alongside bombers, your problem isn’t the fish—it’s the net.

Tomorrow, the four Cinderstrike sprites shuffle back into the Old Balefire, their fate a coin toss between slap-on-the-wrist and eternal paper cuts in the Records Pit. Meanwhile, the appeal readies its wings, the Square of Sighs prepares for another night of smoke and slogans, and Cinderdon’s ruling class practices the ancient art of pretending this is fine.

In Hell, we prefer our contradictions well done: a kingdom that arms the skies and then feigns shock when paint meets metal; an Inquisition that rebukes excess while leaving the shackles on, just in case; a citizenry that must shout twice as loud to be heard once. If that sounds familiar, it’s because our history books are printed on looping parchment.

Until the next ember falls, keep your torches trimmed and your alibis hotter. This is Lucius Brimstone, watching the scales tip, the pitch boil, and the law do its best impression of a candle in a hurricane—flickering, stubborn, and just liable to set the drapes on fire.

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Lucius Brimstone

Senior Infernal Correspondent at The Inferno Report

Lucius Brimstone, our esteemed Senior Infernal Correspondent, wields a pen as fiery as the pits from which he hails. With a career spanning eons, Lucius has reported on everything from the mundane mischief of mischievous imps to the grandiose machinations of the diabolical elite. Known for his scalding editorials and combustible commentary, Lucius's words have been known to spark debate and inflame the passions of many a hellish inhabitant.

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