Chapter 8: The Archive of Cinders
[I. The Subterranean Labyrinth] The "Ash Market" lay in the primordial guts of Azmareel, beneath the modern streets and the thrumming steam-pipes of the new world. It was a network of ancient tunnels and forgotten catacombs upon which the industrial city had been built like a scab over a wound. Here, there was no electric light, no roar of engines. Only the pale, flickering ghost-light of tallow candles and the suffocating scent of burnt paper—a smell that clung to one's clothes like the dust of a grave.
Alexander left his carriage and Silas at the upper tunnel entrance.
"This is a place where guns hold no currency, Silas," Alexander said, staring down the spiral stone staircase that spiraled into the abyss. "Wait for me here. If I am not back by the first stroke of dawn... burn the Manor to the ground."
Silas nodded with a rare, visible tremor of anxiety, his hand white-knuckling his rifle. Alexander vanished into the throat of the earth.
He walked through narrow corridors where things of no value in the upper world were priceless treasures: undelivered love letters, keys to demolished doors, and family portraits of lineages that had died without heirs. Finally, he reached a door of charred wood without a handle. The scent of heavy, ancient incense seeped through the cracks.
This was the lair of the Three Blind Seers.
[II. The Grey Void] The room was unexpectedly cavernous, its walls lined from floor to ceiling with thousands of crumbling scrolls and small glass vials containing swirling, nebulous liquids. In the center, three old men sat around a low, circular table. They wore tattered grey robes, and thick black bandages were tied over their eyes, inscribed with runes in a forgotten tongue.
They did not speak when Alexander entered, yet their heads tilted in unison, like vultures scenting a fresh kill.
"The Shadow..." the first said, his voice like the friction of dry parchment. "...who walks with a punctured memory," the second added, his rasp echoing off the stone. "...has come to find the missing thread," the third finished in a breathy whisper.
Alexander stepped closer. He felt no fear, only a haunting sense of familiarity. He activated his Vision, but for the first time, there were no colors. These men were Pure White—the color of a total, echoing void.
"Boris sent me," Alexander said coldly. "He said you sell the truth."
The three laughed in unison—a sound devoid of joy.
"The truth is a spoiled commodity," the first said. "We sell memory. We sell what men have forgotten, or what they were forced to forget."
"I saw a woman at the Opera," Alexander said, cutting through the riddles. "She wore white. She was singing, and then there was blood. I want to know who she is. I want to know who I am."
The seers leaned toward each other, their bandaged heads touching in a silent consultation.
"Vision has a price," the second said. "Boris warned you, didn't he?"
"A memory for a memory," Alexander replied.
"Yes... we are hungry," the third said, a grin revealing blackened gums. "We want a fresh memory. One with the taste of power... and the vintage of fear."
Alexander closed his eyes. He summoned the moment he had confronted Kruger at the Opera—the sensation of absolute dominance, the scent of fear radiating from the industrialist, the cold ecstasy of breaking a titan. He focused that feeling, molding it into a sphere of mental energy.
"Take it," Alexander said.
The three extended skeletal hands simultaneously. Alexander felt a sudden, glacial cold pierce his skull, as if ice-water were being poured into his brain. They pulled the memory. The rush of his recent victory faded, becoming a hollow fact—he knew it had happened, but he could no longer feel the thrill of it. They had taken the sensation and left him only the data.
[III. The Basin of Blood and Gold] "Delicious..." the first whispered. "Now... look into the Basin of Still Water."
Alexander leaned over a stone bowl. The water rippled, and a scene began to form—not as a reflection, but as a living window into time.
He saw a grand hall, far more opulent than the Baron's manor. The chandeliers were solid gold. The crest of a Lion and an Eagle was carved into the marble walls.
He saw the woman. She was beautiful beyond words, her features an agonizingly clear mirror of his own. She was holding a child—him.
A man in a royal military uniform, the 'Sun Medal' pinned to his chest, entered the room. He leaned down and kissed the woman's brow. "Isabella," the man said. "The revolution has begun. The Royal Guard has split. You must take the Little Prince and flee."
"I won't leave you, Dmitri," the woman wept. "The blood of Aurelius does not run."
"You must run so you can return and avenge," the man said, placing a necklace around the child's neck. A pendant holding a Void-Black Gem.
Then, the doors shattered. Men in iron masks stormed in. They weren't common rebels; they wore the insignias of industrial conglomerates. The Kruger Industries gear was unmistakable. They opened fire.
Isabella screamed and shielded the child...
[IV. The Heir of Revenge] The vision broke. Alexander recoiled, gasping for air as if he had been drowning. The water in the basin returned to its stagnant black.
"Isabella..." he whispered. "Was she my mother?"
"The Duchess Isabella," the first seer corrected. "Of the Aurelius cadet branch. The family that ruled Azmareel from the shadows before the factories ate the throne."
"And the man?" Alexander's hands were shaking.
"General Dmitri. The Last Commander of the Royal Guard. Murdered that night."
"Who killed them?" Alexander's grey eyes turned into a darkening storm.
The second seer pointed a long finger toward the surface. "Those who rule now. The Triple Alliance. Kruger was the hand that pulled the trigger, but he was not the mind."
"There is something else," the third added. "The pendant your father gave you. The Black Gem. It is the key to the Aurelius Vaults—the vaults containing the city's ancient secrets and its lost gold."
Alexander felt his throat. There was no necklace. "Where is it?"
"Stolen," they said in unison. "On the night you were found in the gutter as an orphan. The one who found you... took it."
"Who?"
"A man who smells of spoiled love... whose footsteps have a limping rhythm... he lives in the shadow of the Clock Tower."
Alexander froze. The Old Newspaper Seller. The man from Chapter 1 who said, "I carry the city on my shoulders." The man who seemed mad but knew everything.
"We have given you the thread," the seers said, receding into the darkness. "But beware, Alexander. Memory is a double-edged blade. Knowing who you were might destroy what you have become."
[V. The Crown of Skulls] Alexander emerged from the Ash Market, feeling the weight of mountains on his chest. He was no longer just an orphan who climbed from the pit. He was the son of Revenge. He was the heir to a bloodline slaughtered to pave the way for factory chimneys.
Kruger wasn't just a business rival. Kruger was his mother's murderer.
When he reached the carriage, Silas looked at him with profound worry. "Boss? You look as pale as a corpse. What did you see?"
Alexander climbed into the car and closed the door with a terrifying, silent finality. He looked at his hand, imagining the royal blood flowing beneath his skin.
"I saw the true target, Silas," Alexander said, his voice stripped of human emotion. "This is no longer about controlling a ward or a harbor."
He looked at Silas, his eyes glowing with a new, abyssal darkness. "We are going to burn them all. We are going to take back the throne... but this time, the throne will be built from their skulls."
He checked his pistol, the click of the hammer echoing in the car. "Next stop: The Clock Tower. I have a long conversation pending with an old man."