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Chapter 7 - No Gods Here

  Kairi stood before the mirror, perfecting the details of the mask.

  A dress of deep crimson, smooth as poured wine, sculpted to her figure with meticulous intent. A long black coat, tailored to whisper elegance, draped over her shoulders. The final touch: a single adjustment to her necklace—positioning the diamond clasp so it caught the light just so.

  Everything deliberate. Everything designed.

  She tilted her head, assessing.

  She had long learned that perfection wasn’t just an aesthetic. It was armour.

  Satisfied, she turned away.

  The Atrament was a stage. Its actors—tycoons, royals, and dealmakers—moved with the unhurried confidence of gods who had long since decided the fates of lesser men. Chandeliers bathed the marble floors in warm light, their golden glow softening the edges of quiet transactions.

  Kairi walked through it with a languid, effortless grace. Not just as if she belonged—but as if she owned it.

  Then—

  "Ms. Dauvret?"

  A voice. Deep. Even. Measured.

  She didn’t stop immediately. Instead, she let the name pull at her, let the weight of it settle before she gave it the courtesy of acknowledgment.

  Only when she reached the black-and-gold columns did she turn.

  "Depends," she said, violet eyes flickering over him. "Who’s asking?"

  She took him in, calculating. He stood tall, the sharp angles of his face set in quiet resolve. His uniform was crisp—military-cut, black, practical. But it was the crest at his lapel that caught her attention.

  Gold against midnight. The mark of the Inquisition.

  Interesting.

  Kairi’s lips curled, amusement glinting beneath her lashes. "I’ve heard I’m magic," she mused, "but not the kind you’re looking for."

  The templar didn’t rise to the bait. He simply regarded her, amber eyes steady—bright, burning, but not reckless. No wasted movements. No hesitation.

  A man trained. A man focused.

  "It isn’t you I’m looking for," he said, voice even. "But maybe you can help me."

  Kairi tilted her head, dragging a gloved finger along the lapel of her coat, an absent gesture. "Templar, I’m a habitual sinner. Not the kind of girl you should be talking to."

  And with that, she turned to leave.

  "Roland Thorne."

  Kairi stopped.

  Not a sharp halt—just a flicker. A pause just long enough to betray something.

  By the time she turned back, her smirk was already in place—seamless, easy, like the moment hadn’t happened. "I’ve already spoken to the police. The Legion. What more do you want?"

  "A conversation."

  "There are easier ways to proposition a girl, templar."

  This time, she watched him closely. Studied his reaction.

  Most men—powerful men—couldn’t help themselves. They flinched at flirtation or leaned into it, let their stance shift, let their thoughts betray them in the smallest of ways.

  But not him.

  He stood exactly as he had before.

  Steady.

  Unmoved.

  Ah.

  So that was the kind of man he was.

  Kairi exhaled softly, tilting her head in something like approval. "The Atrament’s lounge," she said, nodding toward the grand staircase. "You can ask your questions. I can have a drink. And you—" a pause, a flicker of something wicked in her gaze "—can pay for it."

  Araeius held her stare. "Fine."

  And just like that—

  The game began.

  The lounge was a cathedral of excess.

  Dim golden lights hummed over marble and velvet, the air thick with quiet indulgence. Laughter, softened by distance. Glasses clinking in private alcoves. The low murmur of deals being made in dark corners.

  Kairi entered without hesitation, weaving through the space like she belonged there—because she did.

  The bartender, a silver-haired man with the easy confidence of someone who had seen and heard everything, looked up as she approached. His lips curled in familiarity.

  "Ms. Dauvret. The usual?"

  Kairi offered a slow smile. "Of course, darling."

  His gaze flicked past her, catching on Araeius—tall, broad-shouldered, standing just behind her with that templar’s stiffness, that air of someone out of place.

  "And your guest?"

  Kairi barely glanced back. "A conversation. Church boys don’t partake."

  The bartender hummed, unimpressed, but said nothing as he turned to mix her drink.

  Araeius took the seat beside her, leaning forward slightly, forearms resting against the bar. His amber eyes flicked around the room, taking it in.

  "Expensive hotel to be a regular in," he noted.

  Kairi adjusted her coat, smoothing an invisible wrinkle. "My clients tend to be able to afford it."

  "Is that what you were to Thorne?" Araeius asked, his voice even. "A transaction?"

  Kairi exhaled softly, amused. "I’ve heard worse descriptions." She turned to him, resting her chin lightly on her palm. "But yes. I was a transaction."

  Araeius didn’t react. "And the man who murdered him?"

  Kairi’s expression shifted just slightly—enough for a trained eye to catch. The faintest flicker of feigned distress. She sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  "If you’re going to ask me that, at least wait until I’ve had my first sip." A pause. Then, smirking—"Or my third glass."

  A brief silence.

  The bartender returned, setting down the espresso martini with practiced ease.

  Kairi lifted the glass, swirled it once, then took a slow sip—eyes watching Araeius over the rim.

  He didn’t wait.

  "The shadeborn who murdered Thorne," Araeius repeated.

  Kairi let the glass touch the bar’s surface with a soft clink.

  "Murdered him," she mused. "And several of his security detail."

  "Yet he let you live."

  Kairi tilted her head slightly, studying him. She wasn’t sure what answer he expected, but she could already see where he was leading.

  She set the glass down. "The way they were talking, seemed like Thorne knew the darkie."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The slur slipped off her tongue like silk.

  Subtle—but effective.

  A flicker of something passed over Araeius’ face. Something sharp, something irritated.

  It lasted only a fraction of a second.

  But Kairi caught it.

  Ah.

  That struck a nerve.

  She smiled, slow and knowing. "Not fond of that word, templar?"

  Araeius didn’t answer. He pushed forward instead. "Did he say where he was going next?"

  Kairi exhaled dramatically, running a fingertip along the rim of her glass. "Strange question, that." She turned slightly, studying his face, his posture, the tightness in his jaw. "Why didn’t you ask for the darkie’s name?"

  A beat.

  Araeius didn’t move.

  Didn’t blink.

  And that silence—that pause—was everything.

  Kairi grinned, tipping her head. "Oh, I see."

  Araeius’ voice came low. "Just answer the question."

  Kairi exhaled, exasperated. "No, templar. He didn’t tell me where he was going next." She took another sip. "He only asked Roland one thing—who else was involved."

  A beat.

  "Didn’t like what he heard."

  Another beat.

  "So he stuck his thumbs in Thorne’s eye sockets."

  The words were delivered with a practiced smoothness—almost casual, like she was discussing an offhand rumour rather than brutal, tactile violence.

  Araeius remained still.

  Too still.

  Then, finally—"Did you tell anyone his name?"

  Kairi blinked, feigning innocence. "Whose name?"

  Araeius’ jaw tightened. "Don’t give me that shit. You know who."

  Kairi leaned back, thoughtful. "No. Never mentioned his name to anyone."

  "Why protect him?"

  Kairi laughed softly, shaking her head. "You think this is about loyalty?" She tilted her glass, watching the liquid swirl. "My line of work requires knowing what to say, when to say it, and to whom. And saying that man’s name?" She met his gaze, violet eyes calm. "That would’ve been more trouble than it’s worth."

  Araeius studied her. Really studied her.

  She met his stare without hesitation.

  Then, she sighed, rolling her wrist in a loose gesture. "Look, templar. Let’s not dance around it." She exhaled, lazily swirling her drink again. "I’m a whore."

  Araeius’ expression didn’t shift.

  Kairi smirked. "Let’s call it what it is. A whore with an exclusive clientele. And I’d like to keep it that way."

  A pause.

  Araeius reached into his coat, pulling out a small name card. He set it on the counter, sliding it toward her with two fingers.

  "If you remember anything else," he said, voice low, "call me."

  Then, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a few crisp Gallianese Riels, and placed them beside her drink.

  "For the trouble."

  He stood, turning to leave.

  Kairi watched him, gaze lidded, fingers tracing the edge of the name card.

  Then—just before he could step away—she spoke.

  "Roland was a piece of shit, you know."

  Araeius didn’t turn.

  "I know."

  And with that—he walked away.

  Araeius stepped out of the lounge and into the grand marble atrium of the Atrament Hotel, his jaw tight, his mind still sifting through the conversation with Kairi.

  The lobby was the kind of place designed to make a man feel small. High vaulted ceilings, gilded chandeliers, polished stone floors that reflected a man’s sins back at him. Everything here gleamed—too bright, too artificial.

  He walked past guests dressed in tailored silks, past the smell of expensive cologne and perfume. The kind of people who didn’t see him. Because templars weren’t their problem.

  A valet in crisp black-and-gold livery caught sight of him and gave a slight nod before hurrying outside to retrieve his car.

  Then—his phone buzzed.

  Araeius pulled it from his coat and glanced at the screen. Mélanie.

  He answered with a quick flick of his thumb. "Tell me you have something."

  "Bonsoir to you too, asshole," Mélanie’s voice came smooth, tinged with wry amusement. He could hear the distant clack-clack of her keyboard on the other end.

  Araeius smirked. "Mél, it’s been a long night."

  "Yeah? It’s about to get longer. The van that picked up your darkie? It was just seen in the Steel Quarter—garage off Rue Gannet."

  His phone vibrated. A text. A pinned location.

  "Just sent you the address," Mélanie added.

  Araeius exhaled. "I owe you."

  "You can pay me back by not being a hero."

  Araeius let out a low chuckle. "It’s just recon."

  "Right. And I’m the fucking Reverend Matriarch."

  He smiled slightly, shaking his head. "Love you too."

  The call dropped.

  The valet pulled up in a sleek, vintage sports car—a cream-coloured Mattheson Corsair 78. All smooth curves and chrome, a relic from a time when machines were built to be beautiful.

  Araeius slid into the driver’s seat. The leather was worn, familiar. The engine rumbled to life, a deep-throated growl beneath his fingers.

  He pulled out from the hotel’s grand entrance, leaving behind the golden light, the marble, the wealth.

  And he drove straight into the dark.

  The Steel Quarter wasn’t a place. It was a scar.

  What had once been the beating heart of Gallian’s industry—smokestacks and refineries, factories that churned out steel and soot—was now nothing more than a graveyard of rusted metal and broken men.

  The air was thick with oil and rot, the reek of poverty seeping into the bones of the city.

  Streetlights flickered, casting long, jagged shadows across the pavement. The roads were cracked, littered with trash and old bullet casings. Buildings loomed in silence—graffiti-stained, windows boarded up or shattered entirely.

  On the sidewalks, the forgotten of Gallian gathered.

  Men in threadbare coats huddled around barrel fires, faces hollowed by hunger. A woman with sunken eyes leaned against a wall, absently scratching at the bruises on her arms. Further down, a group of young dealers held court on a street corner, dressed in synthetic leathers, their eyes sharp with hunger—not for food, but for opportunity.

  A boy, no older than ten, crouched near the gutter, picking through a pile of scrap. He looked up as Araeius’ car passed, his face smudged with dirt, his expression unreadable.

  No one here had faith in the Goddess.

  Faith didn’t put food on the table.

  Araeius clenched his jaw and pressed the gas a little harder.

  The Steel Quarter was the kind of place where men disappeared.

  And if Delacroix had left a trail—this was where it started.

  The van sat in the dim glow of a flickering streetlight, its black paint dull beneath the haze of industrial smog. The garage itself was locked up for the night—chain-wrapped handles, rust-bitten shutters drawn low.

  Araeius walked toward the vehicle, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. The night was quiet. Too quiet.

  Then—a sharp, two-note whistle.

  He exhaled through his nose. Of course.

  A slow rhythm followed—clank, clank, clank.

  The sound of metal tapping against steel.

  From the shadows, five men emerged. They moved with the lazy confidence of men who had done this before, but never to someone like him. The leader—stocky, mean-eyed—twirled a length of pipe between his fingers like a conductor before an orchestra.

  "You’ve been askin’ a lot of questions, templar."

  Araeius stopped, glancing at each of them. Assessing. They were spread wide, an arc to cut off his angles. The leader in front. Two flanking. One at his six. One shifting to his blind side.

  "That means I’m askin’ the right ones," Araeius said.

  The leader grinned. "Boss’s orders weren’t to kill you. Wouldn’t behoove us to drop a man of the Goddess." He let the words sit for a beat, his grin turning cruel. "But that don’t mean we’re gonna spare the rod."

  The others chuckled, low and mean.

  Araeius laughed too. Just as loud, just as sharp.

  He tilted his head, eyes gleaming amber beneath the streetlight. "A scripture’s joke. That’s good." He rolled his shoulders, popping his neck. "See, I’m a man of the Goddess. But that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy fucking each one of you up."

  The laughter died.

  The leader’s face twitched. "Big talk, templar."

  The circle tightened.

  Then, they moved.

  The first man lunged.

  Araeius sidestepped and caught him mid-charge—one hand gripping his wrist, the other bracing his collarbone—then turned, using the man’s own weight to slam him face-first into the pavement.

  A second man swung from behind—a mistake.

  Araeius twisted, caught the arm mid-swing and drove his elbow straight into the man’s ribs. The crack was sharp, satisfying. He didn’t let go—he yanked the man forward and drove a brutal knee into his stomach.

  The third came in fast, throwing a wild haymaker. Araeius didn’t move. He let the punch land. Let it connect square against his jaw.

  The man froze.

  Because Araeius didn’t flinch.

  "That all you got?"

  Then he returned the punch—twice as hard. The man staggered. Araeius grabbed the back of his head and drove it straight into his knee.

  The fourth tried to tackle him. Araeius let him get close, then planted his feet and twisted—using sheer brute force to launch the man into a nearby stack of crates. The wood shattered.

  That left one.

  The leader stood there, pipe gripped tight, watching his men groan on the ground.

  Araeius grinned. A flash of teeth, something wolfish.

  "Still feel like sparin’ the rod?"

  The leader snarled and swung.

  Araeius caught the pipe mid-air. The force of it sent a shock through his arm, but he didn’t let go.

  Instead, he twisted—ripping the weapon clean from the man’s hands.

  The fight was over.

  But the real pain was about to begin.

  The leader gasped for breath, barely conscious, bound to a length of hanging chain. His face was swollen, one eye already closing.

  Araeius picked up the pipe from the ground and tapped it against his palm.

  "Here’s what’s gonna happen," Araeius said, voice low, almost conversational. "You’re gonna talk. Or this pipe’s gonna find a place you really won’t like."

  The man tried to sneer, but the swelling in his lip made it look more like a grimace. "You don’t have the stomach for torture, templar."

  Araeius smirked.

  "This isn’t torture."

  He grabbed the man’s belt, yanked it loose.

  The man froze.

  "What the fuck are you doing—"

  Araeius pulled the pants down to his knees.

  The man panicked. Struggled.

  "Yo, yo, wait—"

  Araeius raised the pipe. Let the cold, rust-bitten metal brush against bare skin.

  The man convulsed.

  "No—no—fuck—FUCK—"

  "Better start talkin’."

  The man was breathing too fast. His pulse was hammering against his throat.

  "Look, look—" he gasped. "You ain't gonna kill me, but if I snitch, I may as well be dead."

  Araeius tilted his head. "So the question is… is it worse to be threatened with death, or to wish for it?"

  He lined up the pipe.

  The man felt the rust against his skin and broke.

  "FUCK—alright! ALRIGHT!"

  "Name."

  The man’s voice shook. "Dean—Dean Braythar!"

  Araeius stilled.

  His jaw tightened.

  Dean.

  His brother.

  "Dean Braythar’s in Iron Yard," Araeius said, voice slow.

  The man laughed, raggedly, breathless. "And you think that’ll stop him?"

  Araeius narrowed his eyes. "What was the order?"

  "We—we were just told to bring the darkie to the docks. That’s it, I swear."

  Araeius was quiet. Thinking.

  The man twitched. "Yo—yo, at least pull my pants back u—"

  Araeius punched him.

  The man went limp.

  Araeius exhaled sharply. He dropped the pipe.

  Then—he muttered under his breath.

  "Fuck."

  Because he knew where this was going now.

  And he knew exactly who he had to go through next.

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