In Praetoria, relics don’t become legendary because they’re elegant.
They become legendary because they’re impossible, inconvenient, and—at least once—because someone used them in public and the whole arena had to pretend it didn’t see what it saw.
That’s how the Mighty Shaft of Truth earned its name.
It isn’t a sword. It isn’t a staff. It isn’t even technically a weapon. It’s a perfectly smooth rod of dark metal—warm to the touch, heavier than it looks, etched with tiny runes that refuse to be read unless you’re being brutally honest with yourself. It hums faintly, like it’s judging you.
And it has one ridiculous property that makes it both sacred and deeply embarrassing:
When you pluck a hair from it, it blasts out aura.
Not metaphorical aura. Not “good vibes.” Actual, visible, weaponizable Praetorian aura—bright, pressurized, and loud enough to rattle banners. A clean, shimmering jet that smells like ozone and old spells, leaving a sparkling residue on stone that takes three days to scrub off and six months to stop talking about.
Nobody knows why it works that way. Scholars claim it’s “a sympathetic enchantment tied to follicular conduits.” Summoners call it “hair-trigger discharge.” The Chaos Legion calls it “the funniest thing ever made.”
The origin story changes depending on who’s lying.
The Life splinters insist it was forged as a divine lie-detector: a tool that punishes deception by forcing truth into the air, literally. The Death splinters say it’s a prison shank for a god. The Fire splinters don’t care what it is as long as it’s loud.
And the Chaos Legion? They swear it was built during the Great Overprinting—when reality was so bloated with copies and excess that the world started leaking strange side-effects.
They say some forgotten artificer looked at Praetoria’s exploding supply of everything and said, “Fine. If nothing has value anymore, I’m going to make something that cannot be faked.”
So he crafted the Shaft of Truth with a core of compressed aura—raw essence packed so tightly it became solid. The catch was stability. Pure aura wants to move. It wants to flow, swell, explode, perform.
To contain it, the artificer needed a living anchor.
He bound the Shaft to hair—not because hair is mystical, but because hair is stubborn. Hair grows. Hair persists. Hair is a quiet, petty rebellion against entropy.
Every filament on the Shaft became a tiny seal. A tiny plug in a pressure vessel of truth.
And if you ever yanked one out?
Well.
The truth came out with it.
The first recorded incident happened at the Bronze Arena, during a Chaos Legion exhibition match that was supposed to be “friendly” and quickly became “unpleasant.”
A Summoner named Jorren Vale—famous for two things: winning with cheap cards and talking like a prophet—strode into the ring carrying the Shaft as if it were a holy banner.
He raised it high. The crowd booed. The crowd cheered. The crowd threw a half-eaten meat skewer.
Jorren didn’t flinch.
“Praetoria is sick,” he declared. “We’ve flooded the world with copies until the meaning drained out. We’ve printed glory until it turned into wallpaper. And now you ask why your rewards feel empty?”
He jabbed the Shaft toward the stands like an accusation.
“You want truth? You want real aura? You want something that still has pressure behind it?”
He reached down, pinched a single hair—fine as spider silk, almost invisible against the dark metal—and pulled.
The arena lights flickered.
For half a heartbeat, everything went silent.
Then the Shaft answered.
A bright lance of aura erupted from the rod’s tip—pure, concentrated, screaming with the sound of reality being forced to confess. It blasted across the ring, carved a glowing line into the stone, and detonated against the far wall in a spray of glittering spell-dust.
The crowd went feral.
Some people screamed. Some people laughed. A few immediately started shouting offers to buy the relic for sums that were definitely illegal. The official judges, trying to keep their jobs, announced the discharge was “within acceptable magical variance.”
Jorren Vale turned, face illuminated by the lingering glow.
“That,” he said, voice calm now, “is what honesty feels like.”
And from that moment on, the Shaft of Truth stopped being a rumor and became a problem.
Because once people learn there’s a relic that can produce aura on demand—real aura, the kind Summoners crave and factions weaponize—everyone wants it. Not to worship. Not to study.
To use.
The Order of the Radiant Keep tried to lock it away in a sanctum with ten locks and twelve vows. The Death splinters tried to steal it and replace it with a cursed replica that screamed insults when touched. The Fire splinters tried to see if it could ignite a whole battlefield in one shot (it could, briefly, before the battlefield politely declined to exist).
But the Chaos Legion was the worst about it.
They didn’t want to secure it. They wanted to turn it into a tradition.
They began holding little midnight gatherings beneath the Citadel—right near the Great Unknown Plow shrine, because of course they did. They’d bring the Shaft, place it on an altar, and chant their favorite kind of prayer: the kind that sounds holy until you realize it’s mostly heckling.
“TRUTH!” they’d shout.
“VALUE!” they’d shout.
“LIMITED SUPPLY!” they’d shout, and everyone would cackle like hyenas.
Then someone would pluck a hair, and the relic would fire off a jet of aura into the cavern ceiling, painting the stone with shimmering runes like a divine graffiti tag.
Over time, the Shaft developed rules—because all powerful things do.
It won’t fire for liars.
If you’re trying to impress someone, if you’re putting on a show, if you’re pretending you’re more confident than you are, the hair snaps like dead fiber and nothing happens. The Shaft just hums, disappointed.
It fires harder the more the truth hurts.
Confessing something small produces a polite little flare. Confessing something that makes your stomach drop? That makes your hands shake? That makes your pride beg you to stop? The aura comes out like it’s been waiting its whole life to leave.
It remembers.
People who use it too often start feeling… exposed. Like their thoughts are lit from the inside. Like they can’t hide from themselves the way they used to. Some call it enlightenment. Most call it “uncomfortable” and then immediately go try it again.
The most famous modern keeper of the relic is a neutral Summoner named Sera Quill, who travels from arena to arena offering “Truth Duels” to anyone who thinks they’re unbeatable.
Her rule is simple:
“You may fire the Shaft once,” she says, laying the relic on the table between you like a dare. “One hair. One discharge. But you must speak one honest sentence first—something you’ve been avoiding.”
The duel doesn’t test your deck.
It tests your nerve.
And in Praetoria, that’s the rarest currency left.
Because everyone says they want truth—until it’s time to pull it out of the relic one hair at a time, feel the pressure build, and watch the aura blast into the open air like a confession the world can’t unsee.
If you want, I can write a follow-up scene where a Chaos Legion priest tries to use the Shaft during a pre-battle sermon… and the relic refuses to fire until he admits what everyone already suspects about the Great Unknown Plow.