60. Unraveled
Unraveled
The Commons were unusually silent for the late hour as Auryn crept through their streets with Lu’ma at her side.
Though Curfew was still hours away, few Crafters had set up their stalls to trade.
House doors and windows were barred. Temple stairs lay empty, their shining black marble mirroring the fading morning light.
No matter. Auryn had not come to these streets to spend Gleams on silks and ores.
She'd snuck out of the Lattice with a specific purpose this day, pushing through her aching body and depleted reserves to carry out a vital task.
She touched the necklace at her throat, the Roanwood's magic tingling at her fingertips.
Though she'd set certain secret plans into motion months ago, she'd put off this project for too long, choosing her role as Sokar over her place as Kailorien's Bonded.
But with the Resh'Agar set to depart for his Campaign in less than three months, she could not delay her research any longer.
In the wake of the Dissolution, the city had adopted an unnatural hush.
The Council hid in their Lattices, making excuses, unwilling to hold any sessions in the Axis Hall.
Perhaps afraid to show their faces. To be associated with Sevrion and his corruption.
Or because they knew that if the Sokar spoke once more at the Circle of Rule, she would formalize the Mandate of the Unbroken Shields and shake the foundations of the Doctrine forevermore.
Not that they were whole. Not anymore.
The Law of Eight had broken with Zeera's death, and the Companions had gone back to their homes in their respective districts.
Hiding. Or biding their time, perhaps, until they could start over and conspire again.
With the highest-ranking Companion deceased and no available vessel to take her place, Thalune had been named Chosen.
Though, rumor in the Lattice spoke of Liora gaining favor and moving up in rank to take her place.
For better or worse, the gap in power would be filled.
Whether it was one Companion or another, it wouldn't make a difference.
Once Estar was abolished, they could rot in their perfumed halls, drinking tea and basking in the sun for the rest of their days.
Quite cold of you, emberling. Did you not pity them once?
Vargrún's voice surprised her. He'd been eerily silent the last few days—spent from fighting against Kailorien, or also biding his time for the perfect opportunity to uncover a new weakness in them both.
‘Your Radiance,’ Lu’ma signed when they paused at a crossroads. ‘Your hood is loose. Allow This Nameless to help’.
“Lu’ma, remember what we spoke about? Please do not refer to yourself like that anymore,” Auryn frowned, taking Lu'ma's hands in hers. "You are yourself, and you are far too dear to me."
The Attendant nodded, her dark eyes focused as she adjusted her Host’s hood and cloak, ensuring no silver hair spilled from beneath.
Beneath her neutrality, however, Auryn sensed her discomfort.
Approaching Lu'ma about this shift was too soon.
She wasn't ready yet. But Auryn couldn't stand to watch her erase herself anymore.
“I feel naked without Veilpiercer,” Auryn said, rolling her shoulders to change the topic. “But I could not risk being seen today. Not after…everything.”
Lu’ma nodded, satisfied.
‘Your Radiance, This—’ she stopped, started the signs again. ‘I still do not believe this is wise. The city is full of unrest. What could be so important that Your Radiance would risk your safety? And without telling His Quintessence?’
“Much like so many of my other endeavors, this one is more theory than substance. What I am crafting may end in failure,” Auryn said. “I do not want to give him hope where there is none.”
They pressed on, moving towards the more shadowed areas of the district. Here, even in the deepest hours of night, the streets hummed with life—the clatter of carts, the low murmur of trade that never truly ceased. In recent months, those same streets carried a different rhythm.
The alley widened as they turned the final corner, and the Veiled Bazaar came into view.
More than a year ago, the Han had burned in the wake of the Blightsphere's explosion.
Countless had taken shelter in the Cataclyss.
But those who clung to their Batchers and the Doctrine stayed.
Left without a place to toil their craft, many had turned to the Bazaar.
Once, this place had been little more than a winding corridor of hidden stalls—merchants trading in rare artifacts, unsanctioned runestones, networks dealing in illegal Light, and fragments of ancient craft that the Council would confiscate without hesitation.
But with the tragedy of the Han, this shadow of Krystopolis had spread like moss over wet stone.
Rows upon rows of stalls stretched through the darkness.
Rare ores.
Runic fragments.
Banners representing various Crafter Houses hanging over stalls and dilapidated buildings.
The People had found a way to survive, even if doing so meant pivoting from traditions and routines they'd held for centuries. The sight gave her some hope that perhaps Krystopolis was not lost after all. That perhaps, given time, she could reshape it.
Auryn kept her head lowered as she and Lu’ma slipped through the narrow alleys, their boots splashing softly through gutters that ran dark with condensed moisture from the Cycle's lingering heat. As they passed through, too many eyes lingered on their backs. Lu’ma walked half a pace behind her, wrapped in similar shadowed robes—no violet or gold in sight.
Her friend did not speak again, but Auryn knew all too well the glare boring into the back of her hood.
Disapproval. Concern.
Yet, despite this, Lu'ma still helped in every way she could.
In this case, by keeping Auryn's focus on the destination.
Every time a fascinating trinket or unfamiliar magical device caught her Host's gaze, Lu'ma tapped her shoulder or tugged on her elbow to help ground Auryn once more.
Thanks to her friend, Auryn moved through the winding rows of stalls until she reached a narrow passage tucked deep between two leaning Polis crystal walls.
No lantern hung above it. No merchant signed from within.
A child stepped forward when she approached.
A young apprentice with flowing black hair and green eyes.
No older than twelve years at most. His eyes flicked once to the hood shadowing her face before dropping respectfully to the ground.
From beneath the stall’s cloth, he produced a small wrapped package.
“For the Veilweaver,” he said quietly.
Auryn slipped a hand into her robes and withdrew a shining pearl.
A Gleam.
The boy’s breath caught as she pressed it into his palm. No further words were exchanged. He disappeared beneath the cloth just as quickly as he had appeared.
She pried open the parchment on the box and lifted the lid.
Inside, resting on cushioned wool, lay two identical ruby gems. Deep within their depths glinted a rune.
Shar’vel—for spacial magic. The same one carved into the dagger Kailorien used to summon portals through his blood.
Auryn turned away, tucking the parcel into her sleeve.
A weight shifted within, and her heart skipped in anticipation of bringing it back to her study in the Sokar’s half-constructed wing.
‘Is this what Your Radiance needed this day?’ Lu'ma signed.
Auryn nodded.
‘Good. Then let us return swiftly, but not the way we came. We cannot be seen twice.’
Lu’ma took the lead as they threaded back through the Bazaar’s shadowed paths.
Neither of them spoke until the sounds of trade faded behind them.
Auryn glanced down the alley ahead. It curved toward a narrow dead-end passage—one she knew well from hundreds of previous visits to this part of the city.
Empty. Shielded from most sightlines.
Safe enough to use her key sigil and summon a portal home.
“Here, no one should catch the magic if we are quick.”
They turned the corner.
And stopped.
The scent hit her first—ancient mana soaked in ritual.
Like stone that had witnessed more centuries than morning could recall.
A massive dark figure came into view. The scrape of talons on crystal.
The shadow ahead grew, swelling into a familiar, terrifying shape.
A pair of black wings colossal enough to blot out the sun.
And his eyes, gleaming like mirrors reflecting the light.
Long elegant tail feathers moved behind him, the bone trophies on his waist, and the beads threaded into his hair clicking with each motion.
Before she could stop herself, the word slipped from her lips.
“Ro…”
As though in response, he set the end of his glaive in the ground. The thud rattled her knees.
Behind her, Lu’ma shifted and stepped forward. But Auryn held up a hand.
Just like before.
Because this creature did not forgive excess motion, and she did not know why he had come or what would set him to violence.
The Riven stood at the far end of the passage—a statue carved from stoneflesh—his towering frame blocking the only exit. His dark wings folded tight against his back, the long feathers brushing the cracked crystal walls.
“You’ve returned,” she said, raising her chin, shoving down her terror, summoning her Sokar’s visage in its place.
Her voice sounded far steadier than she felt.
Ro’s expression did not change.
“We were not finished,” he said in clear Krystopolitan.
“There is nothing more to be discussed,” she replied coldly. “If you are after trinkets in a satchel, you’d best be on your way, for I have none to give.”
The beads threaded through his braids clicked again as he tilted his head.
Watching. Measuring.
Auryn’s heart dropped into her stomach.