Lioren was a city of contrasts, and its structure is a reflection of its divided society. The higher you went, the more power you had.
The city's heart was built with layers, each ring a symbol of wealth, influence, and the people who had earned or stolen their place within it.
The First Ring, the upper class, gleamed with opulence. Stone towers reached toward the sky, their windows reflecting the sun like pieces of ancient glass. Streets were wide and paved with polished white stone. People with sigils, bright and proud, walked with their heads held high.
These sigils weren't just symbols; they were tools of power. Money. Influence. The richer you were, the more powerful you became.
Azrael had not yet reached that ring, but his eyes had already taken in the architecture of grandeur — the manicured gardens, the gilded statues, and the iron gates that separated the elites from the rest of the world.
But it was the Third Ring where Azrael truly began his journey.
The streets here were narrow, crowded with vendors shouting their wares and beggars asking for coins. The smell of sweat, burnt food, and something metallic hung in the air. The buildings, much smaller than the towering spires of the First Ring, leaned against one another as if trying to hold each other up.
People in the Third Ring didn't have sigils — not many of them, anyway.
Sigils here were a rare luxury, seen only on the backs of the rich merchants who might occasionally stop by or on the hands of those who had earned their way out of the Ring's poverty.
The Second Ring was where things grew more interesting. Here, merchants and traders worked side by side, selling exotic goods from across the world, their shops stacked high with silks, herbs, spices, and enchanted trinkets. This ring, like the others, was divided into two sections: the Upper Second Ring and the Lower Second Ring.
The Upper Second Ring was the realm of more affluent merchants, where larger shops and luxury items were on display. Brightly lit and bustling, the market here thrived with the exchange of wealth and goods. Highborn merchants, often accompanied by bodyguards, strutted through the streets. Everything was well-kept, with streets lined with gleaming bronze lanterns, the air filled with the faint hum of magic from glowing sigils that protected the stalls from pickpockets and thieves.
The Lower Second Ring was more chaotic. The bright lights of the upper ring faded, and the air turned thicker with smoke and chatter. This was where festivals and public events were often held — though they were not always festive in spirit. Banners hung in the air, some frayed, others bright and bold. It was the heart of the city's cultural life, though not always for the benefit of the common people. Festivals in the Lower Ring often meant a temporary surge in business for the upper rings, who watched the excitement from a distance, growing richer as they profited from the spectacle.
Azrael had moved through all these rings in silence, his eyes sharp, assessing. He wasn't just looking for a sigil — he was trying to understand the city. The way the magic flowed here, the way people moved, spoke, and lived.
Everything was connected by these invisible threads, much like the sigils etched into the flesh of the rich. The more he saw, the more he realized how deeply ingrained the city's divisions were.
And yet, there was something curious about it all.
It wasn't just the wealth. It was the way sigils worked — how they weren't just magical symbols but a mark of ownership. They were purchased, traded, and sometimes, even stolen. You could buy a sigil, but it came at a price. If you didn't keep up with the payment, if you didn't hold the right amount of influence, it could be stripped from you. A sigil wasn't a permanent mark. It was a badge you had to earn and keep earning.
That was what made the sigils in the First Ring so valuable. Those who wore them had power, and that power was something Azrael needed.
As he walked, he noticed a man who appeared to be of the wealthier class, his clothes richly embroidered with golden thread. He had that look where he looked like a man who was used to being untouchable.
Azrael watched him for a moment, waiting until the man passed by an alleyway.
With a practiced hand, Azrael brushed past him, making sure to "accidentally" bump into him. As he did, his fingers slipped into the man's pouch, extracting a hefty coin purse without the man ever noticing.
He didn't break his stride.
The rich man, now distracted by a sudden noise behind him, turned with a start, realizing too late that his purse was gone. Azrael, already moving with the crowd, turned a corner and slipped into a nearby stairwell. No one would know he had taken it.
A few moments later, a shout erupted from behind him.
"Thief! Thief! Somebody stop him!"
The voice echoed through the streets, but Azrael was already in the Second Ring, blending in with the bustling crowd of merchants and festival-goers. His hands moved beneath his coat, slipping the stolen coin purse into his pocket, and his eyes flickered upward, noticing the sigil merchant's stall nearby.
[TASK: ESCAPE]
[SIGIL ACQUIRED: TEMPORARY ILLUSION SIGIL - DURATION: 48 HRS]
Azrael felt the faint hum of the sigil on his wrist as it began to take effect, altering his appearance. His face blurred just slightly, becoming more indistinct.
His lips curled into a faint smile, more to himself than anyone else.
As he moved deeper into the Second Ring, he passed by the alley where the shouting had started, only to see the same man in silk clothes, yelling at guards. The guards merely watched, half-amused, as the man waved his arms. No one moved to help him.
Azrael glanced at the scene for a moment before continuing onward, his mind already on the next step. Now, as he entered the heart of Lioren, the system pulsed to life again.
[TASK UPDATE: INVESTIGATE][TARGET: THE TUNNELS]
Azrael's gaze shifted. In the distance, cutting across the city's center like a blade, stood the towering arch of the Verdantspire—a massive building of blackstone and glass, rooted in the oldest district. Beneath its foundations ran the tunnels.
He had seen the archives.
And he had seen what happened to his mother after she disappeared beneath those same tunnels.
He walked with a deeper purpose now, his pace steady. The system highlighted small things: shifting movement patterns, subtle behavioral cues, danger markers, but he ignored them for now.
He was looking for a name.
Elliot Lester.
One of the thirteen he'd killed in Mirevale.
On the surface, Lester had been a simple tavern owner, known for his hospitality and a charming laugh. But buried in the system's Mental Archive, the truth was clear— he was one of the men responsible for what had happened to Theodore's mother.
Years ago, Elliot and his partner, Vincent Burke, had opened a hidden tavern beneath the tunnels near the old underground train station. It wasn't just a drinking place. It was where they conducted the real business—where women were sold, silenced, and discarded. Where debts were paid, and people vanished without a name.
Theodore had found Lester first.
Vincent, however, had vanished before Theodore could reach him.
Now, as Azrael stepped into the cold shadow of the Verdantspire and looked toward the sealed entrance to the underground station, the system shifted again.
[MEMORY ARCHIVE - OPEN: ELLIOT LESTER - STATUS: TERMINATED]
[TRACKING NEXT THREAD: VINCENT BURKE]
Azrael's lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. He adjusted the collar of his coat and descended the steps, vanishing into the depths beneath the city.
The next name was waiting.