The cries of war echoed beneath Heureux. Though buried deep, the undercity sprawled wide. Bethany had marched her bands through sloping passages and constricted turns, down narrow causeways, and through fissures in the stone where they dropped in twos and threes deeper into the subterranean Reach. Now, arms folded at her waist, she stood high upon a mound of bones, gazing down as her forces fought in her name.

Her forefinger tapped a frantic rhythm against her arm. Her heart hammered as one of her men was pinned by a Spawn. Its webbed, sapphire-scaled foot pressed tight to his chest. Needle-point teeth snapped at the air, lowering inch by inch toward his skull. He strained against the Crawler's neck, holding death at bay with desperate resolve. All while salvation stood above—yet did not do a thing.

With a thought, Bethany could have ended it—sending beams of blinding light to slaughter the Crawler. She could have cleansed the stone-bound Colosseum with ease, butchering Crawler, Scratcher, Slasher, Boulder-Fiend, and Razor-Winged Menace to her boundless satisfaction.

Yet she did not. These were Servant-Spawn, unworthy of a Soldier's notice. To waste her Harmony upon rabble might have been gratifying, but when the time came to clash with real threats, her reserves would be diminished—and the cause would be at risk.

She held back her hand, heart in her throat, as another fighter raised his shield and charged. He slammed into the Crawler, sweeping his arm wide to unleash a pulse of force that sent the monster tumbling from its catch. The Crawler righted itself and lunged again, teeth locking against the shield, claws raking the air as it pressed against the guardsman's defence. Then a swordsman drove in close. He plunged his point deep into the Spawn's side. With a final roar—and a wrenching twist—the creature collapsed, its decomposition already sparking the air.

'That was your man, was it not?' Bethany asked, glancing at Rexford at her side. 'The one with the sword.'

'Ah, Klaus?' Rexford replied. 'Yes. Promising lad. Barely in his twenties, yet I expect he will rise to Soldier before decade's end.'

Though clad in full plate, Klaus moved with a speed Bethany had not expected. He darted from skirmish to skirmish, carving short work before pressing on. The guild Servants were much the same—slipping in and out of battle, devastating the Spawn with ruthless precision and a strange, extempore concord.

Bethany's arms slackened, a sigh easing the tension in her neck. For a fleeting moment, the weight of the world slipped loose from her shoulders. A smile tugged her lips as the horde of Spawn was driven back.

Then it returned—surging like the tide, suffocating, crushing—as the Dungeon's will fell upon the stony field.

She whipped her gaze across the battlefield.

There.

At the edge, two at once—Servant-Spawn convulsing, their baleful flesh reshaping. Bones snapped to unnatural angles, muscles reknit as their frames swelled. Skin tore and regrew in grotesque rhythm, sheathing raw flesh in thickened hide. Scales crawled across the Crawler, its frame swelling to the size of a horse. Bristled hair sprouted across the Slasher's bulk, its arms elongating, claws stretched into blades near as long as swords. It hunched three men tall, menace radiating from it like heat from a forge.

In a single bound, the Soldier-Slasher hurtled through the air. Its arm dangled loose like a hooked chain, then lashed wide—claws splitting three bandsmen open before it even struck the ground. Their bodies fell in ruinous slices, collapsing where they stood. With a blood-striking shriek. it whipped its other arm out, tearing through armour, flesh, and bowels alike—four more crumpling dead as the rest staggered back.

'Go on, then,' Caspian said, smoke curling from his pipe.

A moment later, Lydia sprang from the mound toward the Spawn. Her sabre flashed, carving a red line across its chest. Her feet never touched the ground—she soared upward as if yanked to the sky on an invisible cord. Somersaulting above the monster, she landed with her back to it. Then, in a blur, she hurtled toward a stone giant across the field. Her blade etched a line across its surface before she leapt again to another. The instant she moved, the Soldier-Slasher was wrenched after her, crashing into the Boulder-Fiend—then into the next, and another still, dragged through the trail Lydia carved.

She had reshaped the battlefront in a matter of breaths, but she was not done. She returned to the Slasher, driving her sabre's point through its hand. Then she soared toward the empowered Crawler. Arms spread wide, she twirled sideways through the air, as though performing on the ropes of a circus act. In a spinning blur, her blade skittered sparks across its scales—and when she leapt free, the Slasher lurched after her, its claws piercing through the Crawler as cleanly as a needle through silk.

Bethany had never liked that woman. So far as she could tell, only Caspian did. But she could not deny her mastery over battle.

'A pity. Truly,' said Peregrine, the colours of his gown shifting from vibrant greens, blues, and whites to yellow, red, black, and grey.

There was barely time to dwell on his words before it happened.

Lydia's edge carved across the Slasher's spine—then she stilled. A hush swept the battlefield, every sound had been swallowed by dread.

Bethany had not even seen it arrive. Yet there it stood: shoulder to toe in onyx plate, black fire smoulder within empty sockets. Its greatsword was already buried to the hilt through Lydia's middle.

For an instant, disbelief flickered across Lydia's face—then her sabre slipped loose, clattering against stone. The Abomination lowered its bone jaw to her ear. Whatever words it whispered, she carried to the grave.

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For a heartbeat, only stillness held—save for the blood foaming from Lydia's lips. Then, with a fluid wrench of steel and bone, the Abomination ripped its blade upward—her body peeling apart like overripe fruit.

With a flourish, it cast the gore from its blade. Raising its gaze toward the mound, it met Bethany's eyes, her heart lurching to her throat. No word followed—only a slow shake of the head. Then it turned, unhurried, and walked from the field toward the archway beyond.

The message was clear: this trial was for Servants alone. The rocky walls of the arena split, and the mound of bones beneath Bethany convulsed with the quake, ribs grinding and skulls slipping underfoot. From the yawning ingress spilled a fresh horde of Spawn—and she knew the trial was set to begin anew.

****

Amheus opened his eyes from prayer. He dragged his thumb from collarbone to navel, completing the symbol of blessed vivisection. Then he rose, savouring the incense-thick air, even as the last offering collapsed like the rest—blood spilling from her eyes, ears, mouth, and nose.

Their sacrifice was not in vain. The pooled blood, gathered at the circle's silver-and-spice heart, fuelled the wards that barred the drake from their door.

The cost in life had been steep. Amheus did not deny it. But it would be worthwhile. Even in slumber, the Master stirred. His wounds had long since mended, yet still he could not wake. Not yet. Not until reality softened to clay, malleable to His will, ready to coalesce with the dark and be remade.

The Beast of Undoing would soon be birthed into the world, cradled in the womb Amheus had so painstakingly prepared.

Only the child of the Beast could host the Beast. For that, Desmond blood was required. And only through the mother's blood could the Dungeon's will be inverted—the new-born Cell pressed into a key, one that might unbolt the door to sovereignty.

The Master would slay a Lord to ascend as Lord. Yet a Lord's dominion stretched only so far as was granted. A Monarch reigned above it all. To reach that height, none could stand above— not even the Dungeon itself.

That was the final rite. Punishment as reward. A mother's blood to drown her young. Rebellion against the world and all its laws—to seize the key, the sceptre, and, one day, the crown.

It was ingenious—a marvel. Worth any expense.

He wanted to laugh, to clap, to dance like a drunkard—praising the day his Master stepped into a dream not of His own making, but of a teahouse, an owl, and a girl.

What had he called her?

'Annalise,' the Prelate murmured, stepping aside as robed figures cleared the dead.

****

Crouched atop the tower's edge, Havoc peered at the grounds below. Life carried on as if nothing had changed, save for the faces and the sights. Children laughed, chasing one another across a field still raw from the blood it had only just been scrubbed of. Their parents, guardians, and elder siblings shared stories and advice, their chins held high—even as the world readied to bury them.

We are above all that now, his Captive Spirit jeered. Why waste your thoughts on them, when we are marked for so much greater?

Havoc did not respond. He rarely did. Even when his soul was torn apart and he drifted helpless in the mist, the fiend his only companion, he had borne it in silence—passing timeless time within his thoughts, watching and waiting as his soul was knit anew.

At times he thought himself mad. At other times, he knew it. Then came the searing clarity. Then came the torment without end. Yet in the end, it was worthwhile—his essence tempered like steel, forged to endure.

Like a muscle, his soul tore so it might grow. It was ripped apart—shredded by the violent torrents of Catharsia. Yet it grew, tempered by agony, hardened now to withstand the surge a while longer.

'Token for your thoughts?' came a voice from behind.

Havoc swung his legs from the ledge and turned. M'Kajalia stood there, her husband at her side. From his vantage, it had been years since last they spoke, though for them it was only weeks. A smile crept to his lips, his heart swelling at the sight of them alive and well.

'If you have tokens to spare, I'll give you my life's story,' Havoc replied, the wind catching his hair.

'Remarkable young man like yourself?' Elliot mused. 'I'm sure it'd be worth every copper.'

Remarkable?

That was not how he felt. If he were to choose a word, it would be: Fated.

Fated from battle into war.

Fated never to know peace.

Fated to struggle, to trial, to pain.

Fated to the blood that would not wash from his hands.

When he looked in the mirror, he saw no remarkable man. Only one fated to do what he must. Yet it was well with his soul—for though he knew this day was fated, there would come another when he would bring fate to fate, see it buried, and live as he chose.

'I know that look, Havoc Gray,' M'Kajalia said, her tone mockingly stern. 'Same look this one gives me when I list out his chores.'

Hip-high to her husband, the Ajna'Ramadi drove her elbow into his side. Elliot's smile stretched wide at the blow, teeth clenched as he held back his tongue.

'I'll give you the same advice I give him—though it comes as a question,' M'Kajalia cooed, stepping closer to meet Havoc's eye.

'What question is that?' Havoc asked, leaning back slightly from the intensity of her stare.

'You had best be sure you want the answer,' she said, her tone edged with sudden seriousness. 'Once you have it, you'll have no excuse for not giving your all.'

Havoc glanced aside, until her boot caught his shin and brought his attention back where she wanted it.

'Are you ready, Mr. Gray? Because here it comes.' She cleared her throat, then announced with dramatic flare: 'How do you eat an elephant?'

Havoc blinked, confused. He glanced to either side, earning himself a second kick.

'How do you eat an elephant?' she pressed.

'I… I'm not sure.'

M'Kajalia glared, her cherubic face pulled sternly taut.

Then she smiled.

Then she laughed.

Then she answered:

'One bite at a time. You do it one bite at a time.'

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