Page 175 of Sokâr

“A noble name,” she teased. “But I think I like Resh’Agar better.”

He chuckled. “Do you, now?”

“No, I take it back. My favorite is still Kailorien.”

They embraced, and she took comfort in his ready warmth and love, knowing that soon the memory of it would fuel her grit and courage. Their fingers clung even as she stepped away.

Lu’ma approached, setting a comb on a nearby stool. 'Your Radiance, This Nameless will braid your hair as His Quintessence directed.'

Auryn nodded and let her friend work her magic. The plait bit snug; her hood came up; Polis light slid from her cheek.

Kailorien’s hands bracketed her hips. His azure gaze burned bright as he touched the corded leather bracelet with the key sigil at her wrist. She'd replaced the silver chain with a more durable material.

You’ve got clearance for five portals. That covers ingress and extraction. If anything’s amiss—anything—you run. Promise me.

She nodded, “I promise.”

When Auryn and Lu’ma stepped out of their portal in the Commons, the southern corner of the District was winding down after a long day. Trade had ebbed, leaving only a few vendors signing over their stalls to Crafters and Priests searching to barter for wares. The air smelled of damp bread and coal smoke, the tail end of last night’s wave of frost still clinging to rooftops. Stone facades leaned over the narrow streets, their upper windows throwing shadows onto the market below.

Though the Han was the official District of trade in Krystopolis, this place—known as the Veiled Bazaar—was home to more varied goods, especially items not approved in Doctrine. It was a winding street tucked beneath a series of crystal lattices. Most knew of its existence, but because some of the Councilors had a particular addiction to Light—a powder sold only here—they paid Gleams to the Marshall to turn a blind eye to this corner of the city and the transactions carried out there.

The few hours before Curfew were prime windows for such trade, disguised among simple wares of silks, cloth, food, and spices. Auryn kept her pace steady, her satchel swaying against her hip. Her dress was plain, ankle-length, loose enough for her to move easily—a garment that let her pass through the Commons without drawing attention.Lu’ma matched her stride half a step behind, the steady rhythm of her boots a quiet counterpoint to the murmur of the street.

They had spent the early hours in the temples, distributing food stores and checking the wards over the infirmary. It should have been the end of their route, but as they passed the turn toward the old artisan lanes, Auryn slowed. Her gaze lingered down a side street—narrower than most, hemmed in with soot-stained, aging walls. The stone underfoot here was slicker, more worn, and the faded graffiti hexed on the cracked streets told a dozen half-finished stories.

“This way,” she said. Lu’ma followed without question. The alley ended in a small, enclosed square—the place where, just days ago, Auryn had been attacked. She had expected to find it empty. Cleared. Blessed. At the very least, warded.

Instead, the first thing that reached her was the smell.

Faint at first, tangled with the scent of wet stone. But, each step forward thickened it into a heavy, sweet rot that coated the back of her tongue. Her eyes adjusted, and the shapes on the ground came into focus.

Bodies.

Gliders and Reskala alike, sprawled where they had fallen, armor split and feathers matted, runes dulled beneath layers of grime. Some had been partially picked over by scavengers, bits of armor and cloth missing. None had been shrouded.

No wards.

No charms of protection.

No sign anyone had even tried.

Auryn stopped at the edge of the square, horrified. “They’ve left them here,” she said, her voice low.

Lu’ma’s expression didn’t shift, but her gaze lingered on the nearest Reskala, his hand still locked around the haft of a broken spear. Auryntook a slow breath through her nose, the stench clawing deeper with each inhale.

“The Commons are being abandoned. Even in death.”

Auryn stepped forward, the hem of her dress brushing the wet cobbles. She crossed the small square in silence, her eyes on the Reskala warrior nearest to them. His armor was split at the side, the metal scorched and warped from Glider weapons. She knelt beside him, careful not to disturb the way his hand still gripped the haft of his spear. The shaft was cracked clean through; the head missing entirely—carried off, perhaps, as a prize.

Her fingers found the insignia pinned over his chest plate. She eased it free, cradling it in her palm for a moment before tucking it into the satchel at her side.

Not forgotten, she promised.

The next body was a Glider. Her feathers were dulled by dried grey blood and frost, bone charms looped through the cords at her neck and wrists. Auryn studied them—carved fangs, etched discs of bone, a twisted metal pendant blackened with soot.

“These could tell us where they were stationed,” she murmured, mostly for Lu’ma’s benefit. “How far they came to fight here.”

She slid the charms into a smaller pouch inside her satchel, the clink of bone against metal loud in the quiet. One by one, she moved among them—Reskala and Glider both—taking what could be carried for study or remembrance. When she finished, she rose, looking over the square again. The bodies lay in uneven rows, like a battlefield frozen mid-motion.