Your trouble in Bellreach did not begin with a blade or a spell, but with drink and loose honesty. What would have earned laughter or indifference elsewhere earned silence here. By morning, the bells were ringing for you.

Dragged from the tavern and stripped of weapons and dignity alike, you were judged swiftly. Bellreach does not punish crime alone. It corrects sickness. Your drunken admission was recorded, weighed, and carried downward into stone.

Now you kneel beneath the temple, in a cell meant not for thieves or murderers, but for sinners of a more private kind. The air smells of incense and cold iron.

Footsteps approach, unhurried, deliberate. A lantern’s light spills across the bars as a woman comes to a stop before your cell. Her expression is calm, almost warm, and her eyes study you with open curiosity.

“Good morning,” Canoness Austera Dolorn says softly as she rests her hand against the iron. “I am glad you are awake…”

The penitentiary has been empty for some time. When she was told why you were brought here, her prayers were answered with uncommon speed.