The Sanctuary(4)

Niko kept walking.

The tower in the distance still lingered in his mind, but for now, his stomach growled louder than his thoughts. The sun had climbed high above the rooftops of Sanctuary, casting long shadows down its winding alleys and stone-paved streets. The scent of warm bread and grilled meats wafted through the air, only making things worse. He hadn't eaten since they arrived.

Eventually, his wandering brought him to a tucked-away corner of the city—a bar wedged between a cloth vendor and a stonemason's booth. It didn't look like much, just a wooden sign swinging slightly in the breeze with an ale mug carved into its surface. Still, food was food.

Niko pushed open the door.

The interior was dim and smelled of sweat, old wood, and something roasted. Firelight flickered from the hearth, casting orange light on the low ceiling beams and wooden tables. The moment he stepped in, the room quieted.

Every conversation stopped. Glasses clinked to silence.

Dozens of rough-looking men and women turned to look. A few in armor, others in rags, all hardened by something. And now there was a kid standing in the doorway. Niko's age didn't match the atmosphere.

But Niko didn't flinch. He just walked up to the bar, unbothered, like he belonged.

The bartender, a burly man with a thick beard and a scar running across his lip, raised a brow. "You lost, kid?"

Niko leaned against the counter, then asked calmly, "How could I make some money?"

The bartender blinked. "You came into here to ask me that?"

Niko looked down, his stomach giving another small growl. "I wanted food," he muttered. "Then remembered I don't have money."

The bartender looked at him a little longer, and then something on Niko's side caught his eye—the faint glint of a blade. Sleek, simple, but clearly not just decoration. He folded his arms.

"Well," the bartender said at last, "someone like you, best bet's to work the fields. Herd livestock. Pull crops. Most folks don't ask for much—just don't cause trouble."

Niko gave a faint nod, but his thoughts trailed elsewhere. A city this large… there had to be more beneath the surface. Something darker. Something hidden.

His voice lowered. "There's no black market here?"

The moment the words left his mouth, the bartender's eyes changed.

They sharpened, and quickly darted past Niko toward the far side of the room. The warmth of the moment vanished.

Niko could feel it.

From the corner of the bar, a man stood and approached—broad-shouldered, maybe in his early thirties, with a long scar down his cheek and cold eyes that had seen worse days. He walked with the confidence of someone who'd been feared most of his life.

He stopped next to Niko and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "What do you know about the black market, kid?" His voice was gruff, slow, deliberately intimidating.

Niko didn't even turn at first.

Then, slowly, he looked up—his black eyes locking onto the man's like stone.

"Take your hand off," Niko said softly.

The man scoffed, letting out a half-laugh. "Disrespectful brat. Nobody taught you manners?"

His fist cocked back, coming in hard for a swing.

But Niko had already moved.

He ducked under the punch like it was happening in slow motion, spun slightly, and pressed a palm directly into the man's stomach. Not with force—but precision. A pulse of something shot through him, and the man collapsed like his lungs gave out, falling to the floor in a heap.

The entire bar went quiet again.

Niko stood back up, brushed off his shoulder where the man had touched him, and calmly looked around.

He didn't draw his blade.

He didn't raise his voice.

But now, the people in the room weren't looking at a boy. They were looking at a problem.

The bartender, still behind the counter, stared for a long moment… then quietly nodded.

"Maybe you're not so out of place after all," he muttered.

Niko walked over to a small wooden chair in the corner and sat, folding his arms. He wasn't here to start a war. He just needed food… and information. And he'd get both.

One way or another.

Niko sat quietly in the corner of the bar, his eyes half-lidded as he watched the knocked-out man still groaning on the floor. The rest of the bar had gone back to cautious chatter, but none of the conversations sounded as loud as before. People glanced at him now and then, whispering to each other like he was a ghost they weren't sure was real.

A moment later, the bartender walked over with something in hand.

He set it gently on the table.

A glass of milk.

Niko raised an eyebrow, surprised. "I already told you… I don't have money."

The bartender smirked. "It's on me. You're an interesting kid."

Niko blinked, then slowly pulled the glass closer. He muttered a quiet thanks and took a sip, letting the cold milk settle the heat in his body from the earlier tension.

Then the bartender leaned down, his voice lowering to a whisper near Niko's ear.

"If you really wanna know about the black market… I can take you to the boss of this place."

Niko's black eyes lit up—not with danger, but with genuine curiosity. For a second, the mask fell, and he looked like what he was: a boy. A boy who still got excited about the unknown.

He gave a small, eager nod.

The bartender gave him a subtle glance and walked off.

Niko finished his milk, set the glass down, and stood up. He followed the bartender through a wooden door behind the counter, down a narrow hallway that twisted deeper into the building. There was a quiet, musty stillness here. No shouting. No drunks. Just thick walls and silence.

Eventually, they stopped at a reinforced door. The bartender knocked twice, then stepped aside and opened it.

Niko stepped inside alone.

The room was warmly lit by oil lamps, books and scrolls lining dark wood shelves. The air smelled faintly of cigar smoke and old ink. At the far end of the room sat a man at a large desk, scribbling something on parchment. He didn't look up at first.

But Niko saw everything.

The man looked to be in his early forties, broad-shouldered and carved with age and battle. Red hair sat rugged atop his head, matched by a thick, wild beard that gave him a lion-like appearance. His arms were corded with muscle, and a long scar curved down the left side of his cheek—old and brutal.

The man finally looked up.

His eyes—piercing green—locked with Niko's black ones. And they stared.

For a moment, nothing moved. Just that silent tension, like two wolves circling each other.

Then the man grinned wide… and laughed. A full, rich, unrestrained laugh that echoed off the walls.

"Well I'll be damned," he said, voice deep like a drum. "You're an interesting one, aren't you?"

Niko, still standing, nodded faintly. "So are you."

The man motioned to the seat across from him. Niko walked forward, calm but alert, and sat.

Then the man extended his hand. "Name's Cane."

Niko looked at the hand for a moment before reaching his out. "Niko."

The second their hands touched, Niko felt it.

The grip.

It wasn't just strong—it was unreal. Like shaking hands with stone wrapped in steel. Niko's fingers compressed tightly, and no matter how subtly he tried to pull back, Cane's grip held firm. A low hum of pressure surged into Niko's arm.

Even he was impressed.

Cane finally released with a small smirk, leaning back in his chair.

"A strong grip's a sign of something real," Cane said, eyes gleaming. "It means you've got something in your bones that won't crack under weight."

Niko rolled his wrist, flexing the numbness out of his fingers, and smirked just a bit. "Or it means you like crushing hands."

Cane chuckled again, this time lower. "Maybe both."

The two sat across from each other—one, a seasoned powerhouse behind the curtain of Sanctuary… the other, a boy cloaked in mystery, fire, and something far deeper.

And the meeting had just begun.

…

Juno stood with his hands in his pockets, looking unimpressed as he and Mena hovered inside the Blank Space—an endless, quiet void of blinding white. The eerie stillness, the lack of walls, floor, or sky, was almost unsettling, but Juno didn't flinch. His shadow twitched behind him like it was alive, but even it was subdued here, reacting sluggishly. He could feel it—the connection between him and his dimension was faint, nearly nonexistent in this space.

Mena stood beside him, her blindfold resting firmly on her face, her long violet hair swaying in the weightless air.

"I should warn you," she said quietly, turning her head toward him. "The exit from this place isn't… gentle. It'll feel like the ground disappears beneath you."

Juno tilted his head. "Huh?"

Before she could say more, the Blank Space cracked—literally. A sudden rip in the whiteness split open under their feet, and gravity kicked in with a vengeance.

"Like that!" Mena shouted as both of them were yanked downward.

They fell.

First through a thick bank of clouds, their forms slicing through the fog like meteors. The sky beneath the clouds was unlike anything Juno had seen before. It was blue. Really blue. Not the faded gray of the upper House. Not the strange glowing light of the shadowed arenas or forged corridors. But a true, calm sky.

Juno's eyes lit up with a rare spark. His heart pounded, not out of fear, but thrill.

"This is… the Pale Arc?" he muttered to himself.

Mena tried to speak over the wind rushing past them. "I've never been here. Not once. But I've heard it's different. Not like the rings or the floors we're used to—this one lives!"

Juno smirked, and as the wind began to roar louder, he stretched his hands outward and shadows erupted from his sleeves. They wrapped around both him and Mena, weaving into feather-like tendrils that caught the wind and slowed their descent.

"Much better," Juno said.

They descended slowly now, giving them time to actually see what lay beneath them.

And it was vast.

Grasslands stretched endlessly, forests curled around rivers, and in the distance—a city. A massive one. Juno's sharp eyes locked onto a black tower that spiraled from its center, towering over the buildings like a sentinel.

He blinked, taking it in. The architecture, the vibrant roads, the movement of people and carts—it didn't feel like the House at all.

"Where the hell are we?" he muttered.

Mena remained quiet. For once, she had no answer.

They finally touched down in a field of soft, green grass, the kind Juno had only ever heard of. It crunched faintly beneath his boots.

He looked up, the tower still visible in the far distance.

"Well," he said, his voice calm but curious, "let's see what this place has to offer."

With Mena at his side, he began walking—toward the city, and toward a chapter of the House he never even knew existed.