Syed_Ariz

Requiem of the Fallen
Once called a prodigy, Ariz al-Suleiman was cast aside when his power was sealed. Betrayed, beaten, and left for dead, he awakens with a mysterious system and a second chance.

But the world doesn’t forgive. And neither does he.

When the Church burns his home and kills his grandfather, Ariz sheds his humanity. No longer a hero—he becomes a force of vengeance, bound to destroy everything that wronged him.

With blood as his path and demons as his future, Ariz’s war is just beginning.

THRONE OF SHADOW AND SIN

Chapter 22 – The Weight of Silk and Steel

Almaarad's market pulsed beneath the early sun, heat rising off cobblestone like a slow exhale. The city hadn't fully woken yet—perfect for a man who preferred to move before the world opened its eyes.

Kael walked in silence through the outer districts. Vendors were just lifting their awnings. Meat carts wheeled past. Spice smoke curled from half-open kitchen stalls. He ignored it all.

He had silver in his coat, blood in his memory, and time to burn.

At the corner of two curved streets where high-end stalls lined stone arches, he paused outside a tailor's storefront. Black drapes. Gold-ink signage. Subtle. Expensive.

The tailor took one look and didn't ask for coin up front. Just measured him with flicks of the eye, murmured to an assistant, and returned ten minutes later with something Kael hadn't asked for—but approved of immediately.

A long black overcoat, matte-finish, fitted at the waist and looser below, like a shadow stretched vertical. It moved like smoke when he walked. The interior lining was stitched with narrow anchor points for blades or tools—lightweight, reinforced, nearly silent.

He paired it with a charcoal tunic, slim trousers, and a thin half-hood that folded into the collar.

Kael turned once in the mirror. No shine. No wasted fabric. Only intent.

"Function and silence," the tailor whispered. "You dress like a whisper that wants to be heard—too late."

Kael paid without a word and left before the man could say more.

Instead, he headed east, toward Lantern Row—the Church's quarter.

The air changed as soon as he crossed the shaded archway into the district. Cleaner. Quieter. Every building bore the symbol of the First Flame Order—a sun cradled in rising ash.

Kael moved like a tradesman—not fast, not slow, shoulders lowered, gaze humble.

He didn't stop walking. But he saw everything.

Two guards at the side gate wore paladin plate—polished steel layered with midnight-blue cloth. They shifted patrol routes every seven minutes.

Six nuns moved through the central courtyard. Four younger, veils thick. Two older, carrying ledgers and parchments. One bore a ring of keys on a chain at her waist.

Three robed priests tended incense burners near the steps.

Kael paused beside a vendor selling baked figs and sweet chai. Bought a cup. Didn't drink it.

From here, the tower windows were visible—arched glass, glinting with white sun.

Behind one, a man stood in stillness. Clean-shaven. Silver-blue robes. Sun-star tattoo on his neck. Hands clasped at his back.

Bishop Aluin Harrow.

Kael didn't know his name yet—but he knew the look.

He watched others pray the way a butcher watches livestock—too calm.

Then turned and walked away, the taste of the tea bitter in his mouth.

He'd return later—not to observe.