The second path leads to a courtroom.

Grand and terrible, it stretches into infinity. The gallery is filled with shadow-figures, silent observers passing eternal judgment. And at the center, chained to the scales that once defined him, is Aldric.

The Scales here are wrong. Massive, corrupted, their balance skewed so that one pan always hangs lower than the other. And on that lower pan: Aldric’s soul, weighed against an impossible standard.

“Guilty,” he mutters. “I was always guilty. I judged others, but who judged me? Who found me wanting?”

“Aldric.” Seraphine’s voice catches. “Brother, no…”

“Seraphine?” His eyes focus, then fill with tears. “You came. You’re here. But it doesn’t matter—the scales have judged. I failed. I let Varek—I should have seen—”

“The scales are wrong,” you say. “Look at them. They’re corrupted. Varek twisted them.”

“Twisted?” Aldric shakes his head. “No. They show the truth. They’ve always shown the truth. And the truth is I was a fool who thought justice could be weighed like gold.”

You step forward, drawing out his Scales—the real ones, pure and balanced. “Then weigh yourself with these.”

He stares at the relic. “I don’t… I don’t deserve…”

“No one deserves judgment from a broken scale.” You place the Scales in his chained hands. “You taught generations about fairness. About balance. About seeing clearly without bias. Now see yourself the same way.”

The real Scales begin to glow.

The corrupted ones shatter. The gallery of shadows screams and dissolves. The chains around Aldric’s wrists snap like paper.

He stands, breathing hard, his eyes clearing.

“I remember,” he says. “I remember what justice was supposed to be. Not punishment. Not condemnation.” He looks at Seraphine, at you. “A path toward something better.”

Seraphine embraces him. For a moment, two founders reunite.

“One more,” you say gently. “Thornwen’s waiting.”