CHAPTER 3 — "A Name They Don't Say Anymore"
Location: Halworn – Lower Rafter Guildwalk
Time: 4 Suns, Deeplight Drift, Sector 6
---
The noodles were average.
Eris didn't care. She liked the chew.
Lucien didn't taste them. He wasn't eating for nourishment. He was eating for presence.
They sat at the small, grease-stained counter in silence. Around them, Halworn moved like a machine trying to sing — noise and function layered over old rust.
Lucien's coat hung over his shoulders like a shadow that refused to fall.
Eris's hammer leaned against her chair, still humming, more faintly now. Content.
The vendor pretended to be deaf. Smart man.
> "...You going to stare forever?" Eris asked.
Lucien blinked. "I'm not staring."
> "You are. Since we sat down."
"I'm observing."
> "Same thing."
Lucien tilted his head. "You talk a lot for someone who doesn't seem to like people."
> "I don't. But you're not people."
That gave him pause.
> "...Explain," he said.
Eris sipped her broth, eyes half-lidded. "You feel like bad weather. But not the kind that makes people run. The kind that makes them forget what they were doing."
Lucien's lips twitched.
> "That's oddly poetic for someone chewing like a cave goblin."
Eris chewed louder.
---
They stayed there for a while.
Not speaking.
Not moving.
Just… existing.
And across the district, people were panicking quietly.
---
⟡
Core Apostle Command Chamber – Central Sky Halo
0.3 Layers Above Halworn's Market District
A synthetic voice filtered through cold crystal.
> "Cross-reference confirmed: Subject is Lucien. Rank: Unknown. Identity: Wandering Monarch. Threat Tier: Absolute."
The Core AI, housed in a radiant humanoid shell shaped from light and alloy, sat motionless on its floating throne.
One eye flickered.
> "Do not engage. Do not approach. Do not speak his name aloud."
> "Shall I notify the Dominion?"
> "They already know."
> "Sin Cult?"
> "Too scattered."
The AI's tone darkened.
> "Only Pride would dare speak to him. And Pride doesn't share."
---
⟡
Elsewhere — Deepvault Sector, Forbidden Zone #7
Underground chamber beneath Halworn
A woman stood alone in a hall made of frozen screams.
Velmira Tross, the Manifestation of Greed, #7 in the global rankings, tilted her goblet of distilled mana absently. Her gold-veined robes fluttered despite the still air. A hundred cursed artefacts blinked softly from walls carved with runes.
Then the message came:
> "Lucien. Halworn. Confirmed."
Her hand twitched.
The mana spilled.
> "No…"
The last time she'd seen Lucien, she'd tried to coerce him.
With charms. With manipulation. With promises of shared sin.
He hadn't raised his voice. Hadn't used magic.
He had looked at her.
Just looked.
And for three days, her bones had not stopped shaking.
She'd never told anyone what he said to her.
She'd never gone near him again.
---
She turned now to the nearest assistant, voice sharp as diamond dust.
> "Wipe every trace of me from Halworn's grid. Shut down trade routes. Cancel all public appearances. If he even looks in this direction, I want this entire sector buried."
> "But, Lady Tross—"
> "Do it."
---
⟡
Back in Halworn — a Lesser-Used Alleyway
Eris and Lucien finished their meal. She tossed her bowl behind her. It landed perfectly in the refuse bin without her looking.
Lucien stood.
She didn't.
> "Are you going to follow me again?" he asked.
> "Yes."
He paused. "Why?"
> "Because you're interesting. But only a little."
Lucien raised a brow. "You don't get bored easily?"
> "No. I just fall asleep."
He smirked. "You're Sloth, aren't you?"
Eris froze.
Just a flicker. But Lucien saw it.
> "...Who told you?" she asked softly.
> "No one. But I've met enough of you to know."
Another pause.
> "Which means you've met—"
> "Pride," Lucien finished.
> "Did he fight you?"
> "He tried."
> "Did you win?"
Lucien looked up at the sky, into the layer of rails slicing across the sun.
> "No one won. He smiled and said it wasn't the right day."
Eris nodded.
> "Yeah. That sounds like Pride."
---
She stood now, gripping her hammer again. The head shimmered briefly with scaled gold — a latent draconic pulse.
Lucien's eyes narrowed slightly.
> "That weapon…" he murmured.
> "What about it?"
> "It's not just alive. It's remembering."
The hammer purred like a cat made of earthquakes.
> "It doesn't like most people," Eris said plainly. "But it tolerates you."
Lucien tilted his head.
> "Why?"
> "Because I said you were fine. And because I didn't hit you with it yet."
---
Above them, someone was watching.
Someone foolish.
A mid-tier bounty hunter, ranked somewhere in the 60s globally, had picked up whispers from the street.
His target board said "Unknown Tall Male" with a four-sun bounty price.
He smiled. Lifted a sniper rifle forged from recycled stormplate. Aimed.
And pulled the trigger.
---
The bullet never landed.
It hovered, frozen, one inch from Lucien's temple.
He turned to look at it. Not flinching. Just observing.
> "Really?"
He exhaled.
The bullet crumbled to dust in midair.
---
Eris didn't even blink.
> "That was rude."
Lucien turned his gaze upward.
The bounty hunter tried to run.
His body never made it two steps before every light in the building above him exploded — and the structure folded inward, silent, clean, devastating.
No one noticed.
The city swallowed the noise.
---
Lucien turned back to Eris.
> "Still want to follow me?"
Eris shrugged.
> "You owe me dessert now."
---
Elsewhere, far deeper below the crust, something ancient stirred.
Not a person. Not a beast.
A name.
A name they didn't say anymore.
A name only the four Suns had whispered once.
And tonight…
It whispered back.
> "Lucien…"
Absolutely.
Welcome to the next arc — where shadows begin to move with purpose and whispers mistake themselves for destiny.
---
---
They met in silence.
Not because they were disciplined — but because words were sacred.
Speech, among their order, was not common currency.
To speak was to cast.
To name was to bind.
To converse… was to invoke.
They wore robes the colour of forgotten parchment and ash. Not pure black — black was too deliberate. Ash, after all, had once burned brightly.
Their temple was a dead Spire — once a beacon of sunfire magic, now reduced to a skeleton tower half-buried under steel dust and solar corrosion. To most, it was a ruin. To them… a cradle.
> They called themselves: The Vowborn Circle.
But to the world, they were known only as: Ashweavers.
They didn't seek attention.
They curated belief.
One leader.
Nine disciples.
And a doctrine older than any faction dared to remember aloud.
---
The meeting chamber was bare — except for a single object in its centre:
A stone obelisk, etched with burnt runes.
It pulsed.
Softly.
Like it was remembering something painful.
And around it stood the Nine — cloaked, faceless, hollow in posture but burning in purpose.
Their voices, when spoken, were filtered through ritual hexes — ancient tech-magic woven to anonymise tone, cadence, even emotional bleed. Their names were gone. Their bodies, irrelevant.
Only roles remained.
---
> "He has entered Halworn," said the Third.
> "The Monarch walks among men," said the Seventh.
> "Not among. Above," corrected the Second. "His eyes are the signature. There is no mistaking it."
> "And the Sin follows him," added the Fifth, distaste sharp despite modulation. "The lazy one. Sloth. Why her?"
> "She was not in the prophecy," said the First, whose voice wasn't louder — just older. "But neither was the warhammer."
A hush.
Even the wind, artificial and pulsing through cracked vents above, seemed to bow.
---
At the far end of the room, a figure sat alone in a recessed throne of crumbling metal and runes long lost to common script.
They wore no hood.
Their face was bare — and beautiful — and wrong.
A child's face, untouched by age.
But the eyes were ancient. Bottomless.
And when they blinked… the world forgot a second.
This was their leader.
Not "The First" — for even that was too grand.
They called him only: He Who Remembers.
---
> "You are all correct," he said softly. "He is here. And our time approaches."
The words were too clear, too smooth. Like they'd been spoken a thousand times in rehearsal. Every syllable felt practiced. Weighted.
> "The Monarch walks. The Arc of Binding awakens. The Four Suns dimmed for two seconds when he crossed into Halworn's wardlines. We have confirmation. Our debt shall be answered."
One of the Nine shifted.
> "You believe he will join us?"
> "No," said He Who Remembers. "I know he must."
---
A long silence.
Then the Second asked, "And if he refuses?"
> "Then we offer him revelation. If he resists?"
He smiled.
> "Then we prepare the world for punishment."
---
⟡
Meanwhile, back in Halworn…
Lucien walked a quiet sector street where the lamps buzzed with low, arcane hum. The kind of place that neither mattered nor lasted. Forgotten by officials. Too poor for merchants. Too complex for beggars.
Eris walked behind him, hammer dragging slightly with each step like a leash she couldn't be bothered to tighten.
> "You smell something weird?" she asked.
Lucien's eyes flicked to the side. "Magic rot. Cult residue. Ritual decay. Probably all three."
> "Gross," she said, then sniffed. "Definitely cult."
Lucien paused.
He didn't look back.
> "How do you know?"
Eris shrugged. "I used to watch them spy on my sister. Always smelled like that. Fake fire and old blood."
Lucien froze mid-step.
> "Your sister?"
Eris said nothing.
He didn't press.
---
From the rooftops above, a bird-shaped drone buzzed softly — watching, recording, filtering. Not corporate. Not military.
Cult-made.
Old alloy tech fused with blood-hardened sigils.
And deep beneath Halworn, one of the Ashweaver disciples smiled.
---
> "He walks near the shrine remnants. Begin Phase One."
---
⟡
Atop a forgotten tower...
An illusion wove itself around Lucien.
It wasn't aggressive. Not direct. Just… suggestive.
People on the street began looking at him differently. Smiling. Friendly. Open. As if an invisible charm had pulled them into liking him.
It wasn't working on him.
It wasn't meant to.
It was meant to see how he reacted to mass manipulation.
Lucien stopped walking.
> "Eris."
> "Hm?"
> "Do you see… anything weird with these people?"
She blinked. Looked around.
Everyone was smiling.
Too much.
> "That guy's missing an eye," she said. "But he's still smiling."
Lucien's eye narrowed.
> "And that woman's waving at us."
> "She's got no hands."
Eris tilted her head.
> "Tch. Now I want to hit someone."
Lucien stared up at the sky.
His black eye shimmered.
The illusion shattered.
The people around them dropped like marionettes with cut strings — not dead. Just unconscious. Magic-drained.
Lucien looked toward the nearest reflective surface. Saw the cult symbol etched faintly in the glass of a ruined rail sign.
Three ash lines. One circle. A chain breaking.
> "...Cute," he muttered.
---
Somewhere, in the Ashweavers' temple, a siren flared silently — just a pulse of light through dust.
> "Phase One failed."
> "Expected."
> "Begin Phase Two."
> "Shall we escalate?"
> "No."
> "Then what?"
> "We send him... a messenger."