Chapter 9 – The District of the Seven Archotes
Second night in Karathar.
Nyxarion left the Veyll compound without looking back.
Black uniform, hood low, footsteps that made no sound.
He descended the smiths' slope, turned left where the sulfur clawed at the throat, and slipped into the District of the Seven Archotes
.
Here the air was wrong.
White-golden lanterns.
Whispers instead of shouts.
No one held eye contact longer than a heartbeat.
Seven intertwined flames marked every door.
Shrines disguised as taverns.
Shops selling "blessed light" in expensive vials.
The Bearers of Light.
Or whatever scraps of them still crawled after three thousand years.
The moment his boot touched the first cobblestone, Nyxarion felt it: a visceral twist in the gut.
Not fear.
Pure, chemical revulsion, as if his blood itself recoiled.
Lucas felt it too.
What the hell is this?
Feels like someone poured holy water straight into my soul.
"Because they did," Nyxarion answered, voice so low even the wind couldn't steal it.
"Every stone here was consecrated with remnants of the seven Archotes
that killed me.
This entire district is a living scar of my death.
If I were whole, these streets would already be ash.
Right now… they only itch."
He stopped in front of a plain façade:
"House of the Eternal Flame – blessed articles."
In the window: seven white candles in a perfect row.
Beneath each one, a tiny crystal glowing with inner light.
The fragment still sealed inside him shuddered, recognizing its murderers.
Lucas, tense:
Do they know you're here?
"They feel something," Nyxarion said.
"But not what.
Not yet.
Even weakened, I hide well."
He pushed the door open.
A silver bell chimed.
Inside, a woman in her thirties, immaculate white robe, eyes that had stared demons down and smiled.
"May the peace of the Seven be with you, brother," she said, honey over steel.
Nyxarion lowered the hood just enough to show his face.
"And with you," he replied, flat.
"I'm here for information.
The Veyll extraordinary auction.
Word is a… special item will be sold."
The woman tilted her head.
The seven-flame emblem on her chest seemed to glow brighter.
"The House of the Flame does not deal in profane auctions," she answered, ice beneath the smile.
"But if darkness is being sold by the ounce… we will know of it.
Who are you, mercenary?"
Nyxarion took one silent step forward.
The air thickened.
The candles flickered though there was no draft.
"Someone who guards doors," he said.
"And likes to know what walks through them."
She studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment.
The crystal on the counter cracked with a soft *tick*.
Finally:
"Come back tomorrow night.
After the prayer of the seven flames.
We may have use for a man who carries too much darkness in his eyes."
Nyxarion inclined his head, barely, and left.
Outside, Lucas spoke again, quieter:
They felt you.
"Enough to be curious," Nyxarion replied.
"Not enough to be certain.
Curiosity draws them out.
Certainty gets them killed."
He walked on, passing three more disguised temples.
Same seal on every door. Same candles, same crystals, same false light.
Then, in a narrow side alley, he saw it.
A black iron door.
No symbol.
No light.
Only a circle of runes, long faded, almost illegible.
Nyxarion stopped.
"Here," he whispered.
"The fragment was here.
Recently."
Lucas:
So the light-worshippers have it?
"No.
They're hunting it.
Someone else does.
And these fools are desperate to seize it before the auction."
He brushed the door with two fingers.
The dead runes shivered, remembering the touch of their maker and destroyer.
"Three days," he murmured.
"Three days until the hammer falls.
And now two sides want the same thing."
Lucas gave a nervous laugh.
So it's a race?
"It's war," Nyxarion corrected.
"They just don't know it yet."
He pulled the hood back up and melted into the night.
The District of the Seven Archotes
kept shining with its fake, fragile light.
But between the lanterns, in the corners no priest ever looked,
the Eternal Abyss had already marked its territory.