Niko stepped out of the room, the heavy coat now cloaking his figure—its dark fabric adorned subtly with the unmistakable dragon crest. The symbol gleamed faintly under the dim lighting, a mark of authority or allegiance, though Niko still didn't know to what. The weight of the garment gave him a presence far beyond his youthful frame, a ghost in borrowed skin.
The hallway before him stretched in both directions—narrow, dim, and built from ashen stone that swallowed sound. The air was cooler here, damp with the breath of the underground, and every step he took echoed faintly. His boots thudded lightly, careful not to draw attention. He didn't know where he was heading, only that answers had to be somewhere ahead.
No unnecessary fights, he told himself. Not without my blade.
He patted his side out of instinct, but all he felt was the worn edge of his belt. No steel. No hilt. Just him.
Adapt.
He began moving—slow, measured strides down the corridor, each step mindful. The walls on either side were strange—roughly carved, some portions covered in metal paneling, others with odd inscriptions or painted symbols, some of which were smudged and faded with time. This place wasn't just underground—it was old. Hidden.
He passed closed doors, some sealed with heavy latches, others with strange glyphs scrawled across their frames. Behind one, he heard faint crying. Behind another, what sounded like machines clicking to life.
Niko's brows furrowed.
What is this place really? A trafficking ring? A lab? A cult? Or… something worse?
Then, footsteps.
From the far end of the hallway, a figure emerged—a man in a similar coat, older, broader, and carrying himself with the confidence of someone who belonged here. His eyes narrowed the second he saw Niko.
"You," the man barked. "Haven't seen you before. Where you headed?"
Niko's heart beat faster, but he didn't let it show. He straightened his shoulders, lowered his voice, and said with forced casualness, "The chamber."
The man's eyes studied him—hard and skeptical. "You alone?"
Niko nodded once, trying to hold the man's gaze without flinching.
A beat of silence. Then another.
The man grunted. "Hmph. Well, move it then."
He stepped aside, but not without one last look over his shoulder as Niko passed.
Niko kept walking, his spine taut with tension. Only when he turned a corner and felt the man's presence fade behind him did he exhale and swipe his forearm across his forehead, wiping away sweat that had begun to bead along his brow.
Too close.
I can't get caught. Not yet.
He kept moving, navigating this labyrinth of shadows and secrets. Every new corridor brought new clues—a hallway with reinforced doors labeled in code, a bulletin board filled with names, numbers, and small red Xs. He passed crates marked with foreign script, locked with biometric seals. One even pulsed faintly from within.
As he rounded another turn, he slowed. Up ahead, the hallway split in three directions. A low hum echoed from the left. Faint voices murmured from the right. And straight ahead… silence.
Niko paused, eyes scanning the intersections. His hand brushed over the pendant he still had in his pocket—Uriah's pendant—a quiet reminder that every piece in this city, this world, had a story, and often, a bloody one.
No blade. No map. No backup. Just me.
He adjusted the coat, straightened his posture, and stepped forward into the silence, each step deeper into the unknown.
Niko's footsteps slowed as he approached the large, arched doorway, its frame carved with ancient, swirling patterns that glowed faintly in the dim, cold light of the corridor. A thin layer of dust coated the stone beneath his boots—signs of little foot traffic. Above the doorway, barely visible beneath the grime, hung a faded plaque.
"Sanctum 9: Archive Wing."
He frowned.
A library? Here?
It didn't make sense. In a place so shrouded in darkness, filled with traffickers, cloaked figures, and cryptic symbols of power and fear… a library felt almost out of place. Out of time.
He hesitated, hand brushing the door's cold surface, then pushed. The heavy door gave way with a deep groan of old hinges.
Inside, the air shifted immediately—stiller, denser. The scent of parchment and old leather filled his nostrils. Wooden shelves stretched endlessly into the distance, vanishing into the far shadows. Their backs curved slightly with the weight of age, and their spines whispered knowledge long buried. A few half-melted candle stubs flickered faintly in sconces, casting gentle pools of gold light over the endless rows.
Niko stepped in cautiously. Silence greeted him. Not the dangerous silence of the hallway, but something… peaceful. Timeless.
He let the door close behind him with a muffled thud.
As he walked deeper into the library, he felt his shoulders relax. His fingers loosened from where they'd curled into fists inside the coat. Still alert, still calculating, but… he wasn't being watched here. He could breathe.
The irony wasn't lost on him. A damn library, he thought.
His lip twitched with a small, involuntary smirk.
He remembered the last one—the grand archive back at the House, the very first day. That chaotic mess with Vex and the bubble-voice girl. Flying books, exploding shelves, that strange gravity twist she'd used to send everything floating—and Niko launching straight into a wall like a ragdoll.
He chuckled. Softly. The sound barely reached the ceiling.
"Good times," he muttered, shaking his head.
But here, the shelves stood still. Quiet. Ancient. And for the first time in a while, Niko felt like he could take his time.
He ran a finger over the bindings. Most of the books were unlabeled or titled in a language he didn't recognize—old script, curving like the breath of smoke. He passed volumes with spines made of bark, hide, or shimmering scales. He saw one that seemed to pulse faintly, as if alive. He didn't touch it.
But then, a book caught his eye.
Simple.
Brown leather, weathered at the edges. Gold leaf, barely faded, was carved into its surface. Its title stood out clearly:
"The Tale of Uriah the Calm."
He stopped.
Uriah.
The name from the pendant. The figure who had led a cohort into the "sanctuary." The same one whose tale ended in ruin when "Dom Oche" arrived.
Niko reached for it slowly, almost reverently. His fingers brushed the cover, and an odd warmth met his skin. Not heat—presence. Like the book remembered being held.
He pulled it from the shelf and blew the dust off its cover.
And for a brief moment, he wondered—
Why would a story about her be here, of all places?
Why hide a story like this in a place rotting with secrets?
He turned to a nearby table, sat down quietly, and opened the book.
The Tale of Uriah the Calm
Before the House. Before its winding rings. Before even the names that carved order into the sky, there was a world untouched.
It had no lords. No ceilings. No bindings.
It simply was.
In that silent and living place, there walked a woman named Uriah. She was not a queen. Not a prophet. Just still. Listening. Her people called her the Calm—not because she lacked emotion, but because she knew how to walk alongside it. In her presence, storms paused. Anger softened.
She built no throne. Instead, she built sanctuaries—places not of worship, but of reflection. Quiet circles of learning where no voice was louder than the wind. Her cohort was small but resolute. Thinkers. Dreamers. Questioners.
And then, one night beneath a moonless sky, she heard something she was not meant to hear.
A voice. Cold and laced in silence.
It did not speak in threats. It simply reminded her of the way things were meant to be.
Fate, it said, does not bend.
But Uriah, the Calm, spoke back.
She said words not meant for mortals. Words that had gone unsaid since the forming of breath. She spoke them aloud, not with rage, but with clarity. And with each word, she stepped closer to something forbidden.
She questioned the gods—not in reverence, but in challenge.
She asked who had written fate.
And worse still… she sought to change it.
No fire fell from the sky. No judgment day. Just a stillness that came like frost over a field.
First, her cohort began to fade—not die, not vanish. Simply… unmake. Their names could no longer be spoken. Their memories blurred like dreams.
Then, Uriah herself stepped into her final sanctuary. And there—under a sky that held its breath—she whispered something no one remembers. A final word.
And then she, too, was gone.
No relics. No bones. Only whispers. Myths.
But there are still those who feel her. In places untouched by the House. In halls where the stone still hums with something old. In dreams that end too quietly.
They say she waits.
Still calm.
Still listening.
Niko closed the book with slow, deliberate hands, its worn cover whispering shut like a secret finally spoken. His brow was furrowed, lips parted, eyes locked on the rough grain of the table before him as if trying to read between the wood. His heartbeat had quickened—this time, not out of adrenaline or strategy. This time, it was something else.
Fear.
Real fear.
Gods?
The word echoed in his mind like a crack in solid stone.
He leaned back, head tilted slightly, staring up at the high ceiling of the underground library. The Pale Arc had always felt mysterious—off, ancient in a way that couldn't be explained—but gods? That felt too big. Too real. Too old. Like finding a bone from something no one remembered dying.
And fate…
The book didn't speak of it like some philosophical idea passed around by thinkers. It spoke of fate as a thing—a substance, a force, like gravity or blood. Something shaped. Something enforced. Something that punished.
Defying fate and defying the gods led to Uriah's unmaking… then what about Dem Oche?
The name pulsed through his thoughts like a wound. Niko had heard it whispered earlier, mentioned in passing by that strange pendant's inscription. Dem Oche came… and Uriah's end began.
Now it rang louder. Sharper.
He stood slowly, the book still in his hand, though he didn't remember holding onto it. The once-calm air of the library felt different now—like something was listening. Like the walls themselves were remembering.
Niko's hand went to his side—no blade. Just the heavy cloak with the dragon crest, hiding him, yes… but from what?
He had come here looking for black market scraps, for whispers of slavers and criminals. But this place held deeper secrets. Older ones.
And he was now standing right in the middle of them.