The next morning came with brighter light and less mercy. Avalon's white roofs caught the sun early, and the Church district responded as if the city itself had been summoned into formation. Bells rang over narrow streets, clerks crossed courtyards with sealed packets under their arms, priests moved between chapels with attendants trailing behind them, and carriage wheels cut steady lines through the street noise as nobles, officials, brokers, and petitioners began another day of polite ambition beneath holy stone. In the private study of Cardinal Aurevan's residence, Noctis stood before the table with the two coded lists from the previous day unfolded beneath his hand.
The lists looked harmless. One seemed to concern repair metals, glass lining, hinge stock, old bearings, tone bronze, and ward cups. The other looked like training supply notes: field tablets, pale markers, banner rods, blank command plates, casing blanks, and testing frames. Anyone glancing at them without context would see a high templar preparing to inspect common market goods after a public auction. That was exactly what Noctis wanted them to see.
The real list sat in his mind. The Aurelian Inheritance Needle, Bloodline Rejection Mirror, Seraphic Compatibility Chalice, White Thorn Reliquary, Caldris Frame, Hollow Chapel Ward Seed, Siege Signal Bell Matrix, Cracked Battlefield Formation Core, and Fractured Halo Gear had turned a market trip into something precise. He needed repair materials, testing supplies, projectile research components, formation tools, and any trace of Vellum & Ordis Rotational Works. Solmire Relic Row was no longer an interesting district. It was a map of missing pieces waiting to be searched without revealing which pieces mattered most.
Noctis dressed fully as Ren Arclight. The white-and-gold high-templar armor settled around him with restrained elegance, its polished plates carrying enough wear to suggest field use rather than ceremony. His hooded mantle draped over his shoulders, casting a shadow along the upper half of his face, while the cross pendant rested at his chest and the false holy presence around him remained steady, controlled, and irritatingly clean. His silver-white hair framed the disguise with the severity Avalon expected from a dangerous Church warrior. Nocturne and Ruin remained hidden in Blood Storage Space, far from any inspection that might notice what a high templar had no reason to carry.
Sense Pulse moved through the residence one more time. Aurevan was already awake, speaking with a steward in the lower hall. Servants carried trays, a clerk opened the outer correspondence cabinet, and two guards at the gate changed positions without any unusual tension. No auction officer had arrived. No new ward pressed against the guest wing. The residence was ordinary, and in enemy territory, ordinary was useful.
Aurevan entered after a quiet knock, waited until Noctis had checked the hall, then lowered his voice. "Master, will you need attendants?"
"One," Noctis said. "Someone quiet who knows the market streets and will not ask questions."
Aurevan nodded once. "Brother Tovan can serve that role. He is a household clerk, not a priest. He knows the lawful repair stalls and is used to carrying purchase records."
"Good. He comes as far as the outer market. If I dismiss him, he leaves without arguing."
"I will tell him that." Aurevan hesitated only long enough to make the next concern clear. "Some materials on Solmire Relic Row are watched by quantity. Not banned, but recorded."
"I am not buying saint cores in the open."
"I know. I am saying the inspectors look for patterns, not only forbidden goods."
"Then I will avoid giving them one."
Aurevan accepted that without trying to explain what Noctis already knew from his blood memory. "Your cover?"
"Front-line equipment repairs. A damaged command signal piece, reliquary maintenance, and training supplies."
"That is believable."
"It should be. Front-line equipment breaks."
The cardinal's expression stayed controlled, but his eyes moved briefly over the armor before returning to Noctis's face. "Do you want me to send word ahead to any stall?"
"No. A warning changes how people act. I want to see what they try to sell when they think I am just another buyer with money and rank."
"Understood."
Aurevan withdrew, and a few minutes later Brother Tovan arrived at the study door. He was a narrow-shouldered young man in simple household clothing, with ink stains on two fingers and the tense posture of someone who knew enough not to stare at a high templar for too long. A leather document satchel hung at his side, and he held himself with the careful stillness of a clerk assigned to a dangerous errand. He bowed without speaking until Noctis gave him permission.
"You know Solmire Relic Row?" Noctis asked.
"Yes, High Templar. The main legal repair stalls, shrine-supply counters, and several older component streets."
"You are here for directions and purchase records. Do not recommend anything unless I ask."
"Yes, High Templar."
"If a seller asks why I am buying repair goods, what is the answer?"
"Front-line equipment repairs," Tovan said. "You are inspecting legal materials personally because field repairs failed to meet standard."
Noctis looked at him for another second. "Good. If I dismiss you, you return here."
"Yes, High Templar."
Tovan was nervous, but not stupid. That made him usable. Noctis took the coded list, folded it into his inner armor pocket, and left the study with the calm stride expected from Ren Arclight. The residence staff lowered their eyes as he passed. No one asked where he was going. A high templar under a cardinal's roof did not need to explain a morning market inspection to servants, and anyone curious enough to wonder would assume the Church had its own reasons.
The streets outside were clean, bright, and already busy. Avalon in daylight had a way of making itself look less dangerous than it was. Sunlight flashed over chapel roofs, polished windows, gold trim, and water channels cut along the streets to guide runoff toward the lower districts. Priests in pale robes moved between civic chapels, apprentices pushed carts full of wax, incense, paper seals, and minor ritual goods, and Church guards watched intersections with the bored alertness of men who expected trouble only from people lower than themselves.
Tovan walked half a step behind and to Noctis's left, close enough to guide without pretending equality. He did not chatter, which improved Noctis's opinion of him. When they left the high Church residences behind, the streets narrowed, the stone grew older, and the smell changed. Incense remained, but oil, solder smoke, hot metal, wet stone, old wood, and powdered crystal joined it until the air felt less like worship and more like work.
Solmire Relic Row revealed itself gradually rather than grandly. It was not a single polished avenue like the auction district. It was a tangled market artery running through old stone lanes, side passages, covered alleys, workshop courts, shrine-supply counters, relic-repair stalls, pawned estate shops, secondhand scripture dealers, and component brokers who watched every passing buyer without seeming to move their heads. Shop signs hung from iron brackets shaped like halos, hammers, bells, reliquaries, anchors, feathers, shields, and broken swords. Some signs had been repainted over older names so many times that the old letters showed through like ghosts.
Church inspectors were visible at intervals, but not everywhere. Two stood near a saint-glass supplier recording larger purchases. Another leaned beneath a wall shrine while pretending not to listen to a dispute between a relic polisher and a noble servant. Most of the market operated legally because Avalon preferred profitable order to open corruption. Sellers knew which goods required papers, which could be sold by weight, which should be described as decorative, and which needed to stay under the counter until the right buyer asked the right way.
Noctis liked it immediately. Not because it was safe, but because it was honest in a way the auction hall had not been. The auction had dressed greed in velvet, applause, and polite bidding. Solmire Relic Row smelled like old repairs, failed mechanisms, cautious fraud, practical knowledge, and shops that survived because someone always needed broken holy things made useful again.
Tovan led him toward the first legal supply stall without being asked. The sign above the door read Marren's Reliquary Supply in dark blue letters bordered by tarnished silver. Inside, the shop was narrow, organized, and deeply uninterested in impressing fools. Spools of thread sat behind glass according to purity and use. Small rods of reliquary silver were stacked in locked trays. Hinges, pins, sealants, glass linings, and minor anchor fittings filled labeled drawers. The air smelled of clean metal, wax, and a bitter stabilizing oil that clung to the back of the throat.
An older woman looked up from behind the counter. Her hair was bound beneath a gray scarf, and one lens of her spectacles had been reinforced with a magnifying scripture ring. She saw Noctis's armor, noticed Tovan's household badge, and adjusted her posture without pretending fear. That alone told Noctis she had served enough Church buyers to respect rank without groveling before it.
"What are you repairing?" she asked.
Noctis placed the first part of his coded list on the counter, keeping his gloved hand over the lower lines. "A damaged reliquary frame and a command signal piece. I need active-use material, not display stock."
Marren glanced at the list, then at him. "Active-use reliquary silver costs more."
"I know."
"Some buyers say that until they see the price."
"Then they wanted decoration."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded as if the answer saved time. "How much pressure will the reliquary take?"
"Enough that cheap lining will fail."
"That is not a number."
"No," Noctis said. "It is a warning."
Marren did not smile, but her expression became slightly less closed. "Fair. For display pieces, I would sell third-grade reliquary silver and ordinary script sealant. For active use, you want second-grade at minimum, first-grade if the frame still holds residue. If there is old saint residue, do not use bargain solder. It looks fine until the first circulation."
Noctis looked over the trays she unlocked. The first set was bright, polished, and clean enough to please collectors. The second set had less shine but steadier internal rhythm. He used Omni Eyes briefly, not enough to summon a full prompt, only enough to see the grain, residue pattern, and inscription memory beneath the surface. Marren's better stock was genuine. The cheaper tray was not fake; it was simply weaker, exactly as she had said.
He pointed to the second tray. "That. Two narrow rods. Scripture-thread sealant from the active-use drawer. Common hinge pins, not decorative."
Marren reached for the items without argument. "Mercy pattern or thorn pattern?"
"Both."
This time she looked up more sharply. "Those are different repairs."
"I know."
"Do you have the frames with you?"
"No."
"Then do not let anyone sell you one solder for both. Thorn patterns tolerate harder joining. Mercy patterns crack if the solder bites too aggressively. You need saint-oath solder for mercy work and a cleaner reliquary silver for thorn channels."
Noctis filed that away. "Show me both."
Tovan kept his eyes lowered and wrote the legal purchase record while Marren set out the materials. Noctis checked each one privately. The saint-oath solder was not high grade, but it was honest. The reliquary silver rods matched the internal rhythm expected for active frames. The scripture-thread sealant carried no hidden fractures or diluted filler. The hinge pins were plain, stable, and not worth overthinking.
Marren added a roll of sanctified glass lining after Noctis asked for it. "Do not put this against angelic residue unless you know what is in the vessel."
"I am not using it blindly."
"Good. People hear 'sanctified' and think it solves every problem. It does not. Wrong lining makes a chalice read clean right before it burns the sample."
Noctis looked at her for a moment. "You see many bad repairs?"
"Enough to dislike confident idiots."
"That makes two of us."
Marren wrapped the purchases in plain cloth and sealed them with a legal shop mark. Noctis paid in enchanted gold coins without bargaining. Tovan recorded the transaction under front-line reliquary maintenance, which was vague enough to be useful and ordinary enough to be ignored. As they stepped back into the street, Noctis mentally marked Marren's Reliquary Supply as honest, or at least honest when given clear requirements. That was better than friendly.
The second stop found him before he chose it.
A man in a brown coat approached near a covered walkway lined with minor shrine suppliers. He had the smile of someone who practiced looking helpful in reflective windows and the hands of someone who did not make the things he sold. A thin broker's chain hung from his collar, carrying three small seals from component exchanges willing to admit they knew him. He bowed with enough depth to acknowledge a high templar and enough speed to avoid seeming desperate.
"High Templar, I heard you were inspecting repair goods. Pellen Vost. I arrange private component access for buyers who need better stock than public stalls display."
Noctis did not stop walking immediately. "Who told you what I was inspecting?"
Vost matched his pace. "The Row notices serious buyers."
"That is not an answer."
The broker's smile tightened, but he corrected quickly. "Your clerk's household badge and your first purchase were seen. Legal material only. I mean no offense."
Noctis stopped beneath the edge of the covered walkway. Tovan halted behind him and said nothing. "What are you selling?"
"Old workshop bearings, pressure rings, mirror backing plates, hinge stock, some rotational scripture parts. I heard you asked for active-use material, so I assumed you might not want collector-grade junk."
"Show me something worth stopping for."
Vost led them to a side counter tucked between a candle supplier and a cracked-statue restorer. The display cloth held several small components arranged under glass: silver-coated backing plates, scripture-thread bearings, polished crystals, tone pins, and three rotating collars marked as universal replacements for old scripture mechanisms. The word universal did most of the damage before Noctis even looked closely.
Vost unlocked the case and set a pair of bearings on a velvet square. "These fit most old rotational scripture assemblies. Good size, clean spin, fair price."
Noctis picked up one bearing and turned it between two fingers. Omni Eyes caught the problem immediately. The outer polish was clean, but beneath it the scripture-thread had been recarved over an older, weaker pattern. The rhythm staggered at two points where a repaired mechanism would place pressure during rotation. It would work long enough for a demonstration, then chew through the channel it was supposed to stabilize.
"No," Noctis said.
Vost blinked. "No?"
"These do not fit most old assemblies."
"They are standard size."
"The size is not the problem. The scripture rhythm is wrong."
The broker's smile faded by a careful inch. "You know repair work?"
"I know when a part will break something I am trying to keep intact."
Vost looked at the bearing again, then at the other pieces in his display. "Some buyers only need fit."
"Then sell to them."
The words were calm, but the broker heard the warning inside them. He took the bearing back slowly, his fingers less confident than before. "I may have better stock in storage."
"Is it better, or is it polished differently?"
Vost swallowed. "Better."
"Then bring that another day. Do not bring universal parts. Do not bring coated cracks. Do not bring anything recarved unless you tell me it was recarved before I touch it."
Tovan stared hard at his writing board, pretending not to hear the broker's humiliation. Vost's face colored, but he did not argue. That made him smarter than Noctis expected. A foolish broker would defend the goods. A useful broker would realize the buyer had seen through the table and adjust his approach.
"What are you actually looking for?" Vost asked.
"Honest parts."
"That is broad."
"No," Noctis said. "It is the part most sellers fail first."
Vost drew in a breath and lowered his voice. "There are old rotational pieces in the Row, but not many complete sets. If you are repairing something from a known hand, you need maker lineage. Vellum style, Ordis style, Marrec gearwork, old Solmire chapel engines, that sort of thing. Mixing families causes rebound."
Noctis watched him without moving. The broker had shifted from fraud to useful faster than expected. "Who deals in old rotational work now?"
"The Third Bell Workshop keeps some pins and bearings. Orlanth's counter has records, but he hates brokers and will overcharge if I send you. There are estate lots too, but those are messy."
"Which one has real parts?"
"The Third Bell. The owner is rude, but the stock is cleaner."
"Then you have done one useful thing today."
Vost bowed again, this time without the practiced flourish. "If you need introductions to estate lots, I can arrange them."
"I need honest inventory first. Bring proof before you bring introductions."
"Yes, High Templar."
Noctis left him under the covered walkway and continued deeper into the Row. Tovan remained quiet until they turned past a stall selling cracked saint-glass. Then he asked, voice low, "Should I record that broker's offer?"
"Record the name only. No purchase."
"Yes, High Templar."
"You saw the bearings?"
"They looked clean to me."
"They were clean enough to sell and wrong enough to fail."
Tovan's mouth tightened. "That happens often here."
"Then keep your eyes open."
The clerk nodded and did not ask how Noctis knew. Good.
The Third Bell Workshop stood in a narrower lane where the Row's public noise thinned into the steadier rhythm of craft. Small bells hung over the doorway, not for decoration, but for tone testing. Each one had a different size, metal blend, and inscription style, and the wind made them tremble without ringing fully. Inside, the shop smelled of metal dust, old oil, hot scripture ink, and the faint dry scent of parchment stored too close to machinery. Shelves carried rotation pins, pressure collars, cracked script plates, hollow rods, gear housings, hymn-carved crystal fragments, and old mechanism diagrams pinned beneath protective glass.
The owner sat behind a workbench with a magnifying lens strapped over one eye. He was elderly, broad-fingered, and sour in the face in the way only craftsmen and old soldiers perfected. He looked up, saw Noctis's armor, and sighed as if high templars were another form of weather.
"If you want blessed souvenir gears, the front stalls sell prettier lies," he said.
Noctis stepped inside. "I am not buying souvenirs."
"Everyone says that until the real stock costs money." The old man set down a pair of tweezers. "What broke?"
"A rotational scripture assembly."
"What part?"
"Outer ring is intact enough to identify. Central assembly missing."
The old man's stare sharpened despite his attempt to look bored. "Maker?"
"Possibly Vellum. Possibly Ordis."
Tovan looked at the floor. The shop grew very quiet around the hanging bells.
The old craftsman leaned back. "If you are repairing old Ordis work, do not use random parts."
"I know."
"Do you? Or did someone tell you that after selling you a broken ring?"
"The ring rebounded from failed activation without full assembly. Inner track scorched. Missing Central Spindle and Compression Cradle."
The old man stopped pretending not to care. "You have an outer circulation ring."
"Yes."
"Holy projectile cycling or ward compression?"
"That is what I am trying to determine."
"Then you are missing the dangerous half," the old man said plainly. "An outer ring only guides the pressure. The spindle decides how it turns, and the cradle decides where the compression settles. If either one is wrong, the ring will either tear itself apart or send the stored force backward."
"Can you supply the parts?"
"No."
"Can you identify the family rhythm?"
"Maybe. Not without seeing it."
"I am not carrying it openly."
"That is the first sensible thing you have said." The old man stood with a grunt and shuffled toward a locked drawer. "Vellum & Ordis built compact rotating scripture mechanisms before half the nobles in this city decided they were engineers because they could afford engineers. Their better assemblies were used for controlled repeated discharge, projectile cycling, ward pressure smoothing, and chapel engines that needed small bursts without rupturing the chamber."
"Why did the workshop disappear?"
"Which story do you want? The legal one says debts, bad contracts, and failed patents. The workshop story says nobles bought incomplete assemblies, ignored warnings, activated them for private demonstrations, and blamed the craftsmen when pieces failed exactly the way they were told they would fail." He unlocked the drawer and removed a shallow tray. "After that, creditors took storage, families fought over ledgers, apprentices scattered, and pieces turned into estate junk."
Noctis examined the tray. It held three rotation calibration pins, two worn scripture-thread bearings, a cracked pressure collar, and a small hymn-carved crystal fragment wrapped in thin paper. He used Omni Eyes quietly. Most pieces were old but genuine. One bearing had stress fractures too deep to use. One calibration pin carried a rhythm close enough to the Fractured Halo Gear that it made his attention sharpen.
The craftsman noticed where his gaze settled. "That pin is old Ordis hand. Not enough for a full restoration, but useful for calibration if the ring belongs to the same line."
"How much?"
"Too much for someone guessing. Fair for someone who knows what it is."
"Give me the fair price."
The old man named a number that was high but not ridiculous. Noctis did not bargain. Bargaining over a genuine rare part would only tell the man he cared more than he wished to reveal, and Ren Arclight had enough money not to haggle over pieces he considered necessary for field repairs. He added one genuine scripture-thread bearing and the cracked hymn-carved stabilizing crystal fragment after checking them. The fragment was incomplete, but its carving style matched the same family of work.
"Do you know Bellon Ordis?" Noctis asked after the purchase was wrapped.
The old craftsman looked at him for a long moment. "Knew of him. Never liked him."
"Alive?"
"Maybe. Old if he is. He handled storage disputes after the workshop collapsed. Some say he kept ledgers. Some say creditors took them. Some say his niece sold half the family crates to cover debts and did not know what was inside."
"Where would those crates go?"
"Estate counters. Pawned goods. Creditor auctions. Back-room lots. Places that sell labels after selling contents because fools like old seals." His mouth twisted. "Try Saint Ash Pawn if you want boxes from dead families and closed shops. Do not expect them to know what they have."
Noctis took the wrapped parts. "You said the damaged ring might send force backward if mismatched."
"It will," the craftsman said. "Not might. If you do not find the right spindle, leave the ring dead. Some broken mechanisms are safer as history."
"I am not looking for quick repair."
"Good. Quick repair is how people lose hands."
Noctis left the workshop with the first real pieces in hand and a stronger sense of the Halo Gear's danger. The old man had confirmed what the scan and the Failed Relic Repair Commentary already implied. The Fractured Halo Gear was not just useful because it might improve projectile cycling. It was dangerous because incomplete restoration would create backward force, rebound pressure, and probably an explosion shaped by holy scripture. The Central Spindle and Compression Cradle were not accessories. They were the heart of the missing assembly.
Outside, Tovan finally spoke. "Do you want me to record the workshop name?"
"No."
The clerk hesitated, then nodded. "Only the purchase category?"
"Old calibration hardware and bearing stock."
"Yes, High Templar."
Noctis looked at him for a second. "You understand when not to write something down."
"My work would be shorter if more people understood that," Tovan said, then immediately looked nervous, as if he had spoken too freely.
Noctis kept walking. "That was a reasonable answer."
The clerk exhaled quietly and followed.
A market inspector stopped them two streets later, near a shrine-glass awning where the crowd narrowed enough to make avoidance more suspicious than compliance. The inspector was a middle-aged man in white-gray civic robes with a Church seal pinned at his shoulder and a tablet under one arm. He looked at Tovan's satchel first, then Noctis's armor, then the sealed packages from Marren's and the Third Bell Workshop. His posture was respectful, but not timid.
"High Templar, I need to confirm purchase categories for repair goods leaving the Row."
Noctis stopped. "Confirm them."
The inspector glanced at Tovan. "Your clerk has records?"
Tovan opened the satchel and presented the legal sheets. "Reliquary maintenance material, command hardware, calibration stock, training markers, and minor repair goods. All from licensed stalls."
The inspector reviewed the entries. "Are these for Church equipment?"
"Front-line gear," Noctis said.
"For a private unit or temple assignment?"
"Field assignment under Cardinal Aurevan's residence during my stay in Avalon. The goods are legal."
"Some calibration hardware is watched."
"Then write the limit."
The inspector looked up. Noctis did not raise his voice, did not threaten him, and did not perform irritation for the street. He simply waited. The inspector checked the quantities, found nothing worth challenging, and tapped two lines with his stylus.
"You are below the reporting threshold. If you buy saint-grade cores, angelic residue, or restricted spindle assemblies, you will need additional papers."
"I know."
"Then there is no issue." The inspector returned the sheets to Tovan. "Keep the stall seals intact until you leave the Row."
Tovan nodded. "Yes, Inspector."
The man stepped aside. Noctis continued walking. No violence, no pressure, no dramatic exchange. Just law pressed lightly against disguise and finding no edge to catch. That was better than fear. Fear created memory. Procedure created paperwork, and paperwork could be guided.
Saint Ash Pawn and Estate sat near the lower bend of the Row, where the street widened around a stone basin that had once been a public purification fountain and now served mostly as a landmark for brokers who wanted buyers to find them without using official addresses. The shop's sign showed a small ash tree growing from a cracked reliquary. Its windows were crowded with old estate goods: broken reliquary frames, tarnished candlesticks, half-melted prayer plates, training rods, chipped saint-glass, cracked command plates, and sealed boxes with creditor marks still attached.
The dealer behind the counter was a square-faced woman with short hair, practical sleeves, and no visible patience for romance. She looked at Noctis's armor, then at Tovan's satchel, then at the packages they carried. "Buying or valuing?"
"Buying," Noctis said.
"What kind of goods?"
"Closed workshop lots. Rotational scripture pieces if you have them. Command plates, old bearings, training tools, casing blanks."
She did not pretend confusion. "Open shelf or sealed estate?"
"Sealed, if the labels are useful."
"Labels cost extra if you want to inspect before purchase."
"Then tell me the deposit."
The dealer named the amount. It was high enough to discourage bored collectors and low enough to be reasonable. Noctis paid without argument. She took the coins, marked a slate, and led him through a side door into a back room lined with crates, narrow shelves, and hanging tags. Tovan stayed near the doorway after she gave him a look that made clear she did not want clerks breathing over old seals.
"I have boxes from three closed workshops and two creditor seizures," she said. "None are labeled Vellum & Ordis on the front. If that is what you are hunting, I am telling you now."
"I heard you had old rotational lots."
"I have lots that might include rotational pieces. That is not the same thing."
"Show me."
She pulled out two shallow crates first. The first held cracked pressure collars, broken ward teeth, and several blank command-script plates. Useful, but not special. The second had old training tools: banner rods, shield-line markers, pale reflective stones, and several weatherproof field tablets. Noctis bought part of it because the items were on his list and easy to justify. The dealer watched him choose without interruption.
"You are not buying like a collector," she said.
"No."
"Collectors buy the thing with the best story. You are buying the things people forget to keep."
"Those are usually more useful."
"That depends on whether you know what they belong to."
"It does."
She gave him a brief approving look and pulled out a third crate from a lower shelf. This one had three creditor seals, two broken, one intact but faded. Inside were unmarked mechanism parts wrapped in old cloth, a warped pressure-collar, two cracked stabilizing rods, a small packet of casing blanks, and a bundle of tags that had been removed from larger crates. Most buyers would have looked at the metal first. Noctis looked at the tags.
Omni Eyes caught the mark beneath soot and age before his hand reached it.
Not a full label. Not the missing spindle. Not the Compression Cradle. Just a half-burned crate seal with old lettering pressed into the surviving edge.
Ordis Rotational Works — Storage No. 3
Noctis picked it up and let his expression remain unchanged.
The dealer noticed anyway. "Label interests you?"
"Maybe. Where is the matching crate?"
"Sold years ago or broken apart before I got the lot. Tags like that get separated. Sometimes the contents sell first, labels later. Sometimes creditors strip crates for inventory and dump the scraps together."
"Who handled the creditor sale?"
"I do not know from memory." She folded her arms. "I can check old ledgers, but not for free and not today."
"How far back?"
"Eight to twelve years, maybe. Some records are copied from older disputes."
"Was the Ordis name common in those lots?"
"No. That is why I remember hearing it once or twice. Rotational work, failed assemblies, debt arguments. Most of it meant nothing to me. People bring old names here every week and act offended when I do not worship their grandfather's tools."
Noctis set the seal beside the pressure-collar. "I want the seal, the pressure-collar, the casing blanks, the command plates, the training markers, and the field tablets."
"The pressure-collar is warped."
"I know."
"It may be useless."
"It is still informative."
The dealer narrowed her eyes. "You are tracing a mechanism."
"I am repairing field equipment."
"That was not an answer."
"It is the one I am giving you."
For a moment, she looked as if she might push. Then her gaze moved over his armor again, stopping at the cross pendant, the restrained holy presence, and the stillness that did not need raised volume to be dangerous. She made the practical choice. "Fine. I will check the ledger. If the old creditor entry still exists, I can send word through the Church residence."
"Do not send details through open hands. Say only that the old storage note was found."
"You think I want inspectors reading my ledger business?"
"No. I think everyone gets careless eventually."
The dealer huffed once. "Fair."
She wrapped the purchased goods separately. The Ordis seal went into a small folded packet with no identifying mark beyond the shop stamp. Noctis paid. Tovan recorded the legal categories: estate mechanism scrap, training tools, blank plates, casing stock. Nothing about Ordis. Nothing about Storage No. 3. Nothing about Vellum or missing spindles or compression cradles.
When they stepped back into the afternoon light, Solmire Relic Row had grown louder. Buyers argued over saint-glass purity. A child ran past carrying a bundle of banner rods taller than himself. Two craftsmen shouted at each other across a stall about whether a cracked ward plate could be stabilized or should be melted down. A priest inspected a tray of hinge pins with the grave expression of someone choosing a relic for a cathedral, while the seller beside him visibly wished he would either buy something or leave.
Noctis had enough for the first day.
He had purchased common repair materials without drawing unusual pressure: reliquary silver, scripture-thread sealant, saint-oath solder, sanctified glass lining, common hinge pins, tone bronze, blank command plates, banner rods, pale markers, field tablets, training tools, casing blanks, and low-tier support goods. He had acquired limited rare pieces: one genuine scripture-thread bearing, a partial Ordis-style calibration pin, and a cracked hymn-carved stabilizing crystal fragment. He had confirmed that Vellum & Ordis work was known, dangerous when mismatched, and scattered through old creditor disputes. Most importantly, he now held a half-burned seal pointing to Ordis Rotational Works Storage No. 3.
Not the answer. A path.
Tovan walked beside him as they left the lower bend of the Row. "Should we return to the residence?"
"Yes."
"Do you want me to prepare a clean purchase summary?"
"Only legal categories. No workshop names."
"Yes, High Templar." He hesitated, then asked the question plainly. "Are the workshop names dangerous?"
"They matter."
"That is not the same thing."
Noctis glanced at him.
Tovan's face tightened as he realized how close the words had come to sounding like a challenge. He corrected himself quickly, speaking with the direct worry of a clerk who handled records for people powerful enough to ruin him. "I need to know whether to avoid writing them because they are restricted or because you do not want attention on them."
That was a useful question. Noctis answered it. "Avoid writing them because attention changes prices, sellers, and inspectors. The names are not illegal by themselves."
Tovan nodded, relieved by the clarity. "Then I will keep the summary broad."
"Good."
They left Solmire Relic Row through a different street than the one they had used to enter. Noctis did not see the suspicious broker following. The market inspector did not return. Marren's wrapped materials remained properly sealed, the Third Bell purchases sat inside legal packaging, and the Saint Ash estate goods looked like exactly what the record claimed: scrap, training tools, and minor mechanism stock bought by a high templar with damaged field equipment.
By the time the Church residence came back into view, the afternoon sun had shifted across Avalon's white walls and made the city look bright enough to trust. Noctis knew better. The brightness only made the cracks harder to see from a distance. Solmire Relic Row had shown him the first layer beneath the polish: honest craftsmen, useful irritation, polished fraud, legal scraps, old debts, scattered mechanisms, and histories broken apart so thoroughly that sellers no longer knew which pieces belonged together.
Inside the residence, he dismissed Tovan with the purchase records and returned to the private study. Only after Sense Pulse confirmed the room was clear did he open Blood Storage Space and sort the day's gains into their proper categories. Common materials went with the relic repair group. Training tools went with the manuals. Casing blanks and microstock joined the projectile research pile. The Ordis-style pin, bearing, crystal fragment, warped pressure-collar, and half-burned Storage No. 3 seal remained separate.
Noctis unfolded the seal under the study light. The surviving letters were incomplete, but enough remained.
Ordis Rotational Works — Storage No. 3.
He placed it beside the memory of the Fractured Halo Gear's scan and let the pieces align without forcing them. Outer Halo Circulation Ring. Missing Central Spindle. Missing Compression Cradle. Old Ordis hand. Storage dispute. Creditor lots. Scattered parts. A ledger still possibly sitting in Saint Ash Pawn's back room or another creditor archive. The market had not given him the missing heart of the mechanism, but it had given him a way to keep searching without guessing.
That was enough for today.
Noctis stored the seal in Blood Storage Space with the Halo Gear and walked to the window. Beyond the glass, Avalon continued moving as if its markets had only sold repair goods to a high templar. It did not know that those goods would become fortress wards, relic vault systems, ammunition research, student drills, command protocols, and a path toward a forgotten holy mechanism that might one day reshape how Nocturne and Ruin carried sanctified force.
The Ordis lead was not a side road. It was one thread in the larger weave.
Noctis looked over the city until the late light touched the crosses in gold.
Avalon had forgotten the value of its broken pieces.
He had not.