Gods damn it all, Atticus knew he was weak. Yet knowing in abstract, and feeling it for himself—pinned to the ground, a scratcher gnashing for his throat while he barely held it off—were two very different things. His teeth clamped down with more weight than exertion.

'Get it off me!' he barked, gripping the monster's bilious-amber wrists, muscles ablaze with the strain of desperation.

Amidst the shuffle, clang, grunt, and growl of the unfolding battle, the faint clip-a-clap of long heels meeting stone came his way. Atticus turned his head. Aurelia met his gaze.

'Hilarious,' she said, her tone a mirthful lilt. 'That is, you know, the weakest breed of Spawn? Most believe they're formed from stillborn babes—spirits so dainty they could be used for nothing else.'

Atticus's teeth ground harder. The veins along his temple pulsed blue in irate rhythm. He had no wish to be instructed in Dungeon cosmology, only for the burden on his chest to be wrenched away.

'Fascinating,' he spat, voice roughened to a wheeze. 'If it wouldn't trouble you too greatly, would you please just get it off!'

Aurelia lifted a white-gloved hand to cover her yawn. One finger coiled a strand of pink-dyed hair as her lips drew to a pout, head bobbing as though she weighed Atticus's life against the faintest exertion.

'Why leave it to me?' she purred. 'Whatever became of that cohort of cronies you duped to your side?'

Among the weak-chinned noble caucus, Atticus still held his loyalists. Yet as peril mounted and the oaths of safe inaction frayed, the fast knot of his influence had begun to come undone.

There were still enough for his purpose. And while his leadership might now be nominal to the others, remaining tied to his side was convenient for all involved.

'They find themselves engaged,' he said.

Farther back than I could flee in time, he thought, but did not say.

He had broken from his group to conspire with his man. When the tide of Dungeon-Spawn surged through the broad, shifting tunnel, it caught him in its swell.

'Perhaps if you asked nicely,' Aurelia trilled.

'Nicely? Where is she? I would much prefer her company to yours,' he shot back, grunting as he strained to keep the creature's razored teeth from his throat.

His muscles gave out. The Scratcher lurched upon him—its fangs at his neck, his heart in his throat. Sharp terror pierced his flesh, yet before the bite could fall, a violent clap split the air. The creature was gone. Only gore remained, and even that quickly faded from Atticus's blood-slick form—sparks flaring from grim remains.

'Will that do?' Aurelia smiled.

Her umbrella—once extended—folded back to her shoulder. With exaggerated flair, she brushed the dust from her frill-seamed dress, then turned to leave. She took a half-step, paused, and glanced back. A finger met the edge of her lips. She smiled—a wolfish thing.

'I must confess some curiosity,' she said, eyes narrowing to a razor's glint. 'What business could a scrub like you have with such a gallant knight?'

Lies shaped the Lord-Mayor's lips. Before he could give them voice, Aurelia cut him off.

'If it's profitable, I would see myself involved. But if you pester me with harm…' she paused, as a fairy-like thing glimmered into being above her shoulder, '…I will feed you to my pet.'

She extended a hand toward the battle. The fairy soared where she directed. Petite as it was, it tore through Servant-Spawn like loculi swarming the harvest. When it met a Soldier-Spawn, it hovered above its head. Its mouth yawned wide, and a vortex spilled below. The Spawn dug its claws into the ground, but could not resist the pull.

'I trust my point cuts clean enough,' she said, her tone honey-sweet, yet swelteringly biting.

She did not wait for Atticus's reply, pressing farther into the tunnel. He caught sight of her as she swung her closed umbrella at passing Spawn. With each graceful turn, the creatures struck by its point were lifted from their feet by a sudden gale and splattered against the walls.

She was the very kind of person Atticus hated most—arrogant, overbearing, Dungeon-Blessed while he was shunned.

When the time came for the Undoing, she would have her place within his design. She wished to be included; so be it. She would reap what was sown—her soul dissolving into his with the others, enriching his Harmonic purity as nothing before had ever done.

'Sir, are you harmed?' Fenton called, his boots striking stone in frantic treads as he drew near.

Atticus struck aside the fool's downward-reaching hand. With a grunt, he pushed himself upright, brushing dust from his navy-blue tailcoat and grime from his cream-stained trousers. Drawing a silk handkerchief from his inner pocket, he dabbed it to the shallow cut at his neck. Then, with a terse snort, he straightened, forcing a smile before addressing his man.

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'Forgive me—poor manners,' Atticus sighed, his palm clamping down on Fenton's shoulder in a genial squeeze. 'I find myself red-faced at my maddening frailty.'

Fenton flashed a look. Pity, perhaps, or condolence? Atticus could not say for certain, But it weighed upon the smile he strained to keep aloft.

'It will not be for long, sir,' Fenton said, his tone rich with jeering deference. 'All is in place in time for ascension.'

That was true enough. Atticus had schemed well and now stood close—the sweet scent of Undoing near to his tongue. He could almost taste it. Yet troubles tarried still.

His men had been branded. Come the ritual he had been taught, their sacrifice would begin. When the world was putty-soft, their souls would meld into his. Just like that, he would gain the fortitude of near-ninety men. Even he was not sure what he would become after that. His Harmony would be purified—there was little doubt of that. But would he rise divine? Perhaps to some measure. Whatever might come, if it was enough to strike under-toe at his family, it would be enough.

Yet the best-laid schemes could always go awry. He plotted treachery for others; he could just as easily be betrayed. Or struck down striding this perilous trail. The ritual itself could be a cheat—Amheus thought him useful, but to what end, he could not say. Too much could transgress to rest easy along the way. But no other path lay open to his destination. Easy strides or anxious steps, he would walk it all the same.

He turned his attention ahead, eyes steady as the slum forces hacked, bashed, speared, and bombarded the surging throng across the passage. Servants warred with Servants; Soldiers clashed against monstrous Soldiers. Undead hordes fell in their dozens as Bethany pierced them with searing light. More melted to nothing when met by Rexford's blistering blade. He cleaved through Bloat-corpsemen, their corpulent rot igniting, fuelled by the leak of their own acrid fumes. Though limping on her slowly mending leg, Eudora remained a force upon the battlefield, crushing skulls to dust with the heft of her spear. Yet none among the sellsword band were as ferocious as Caspian, smoke-born javelins raining down upon the hissing mass with reckless abandon.

Atticus understood well enough. They had all watched his woman cleaved in twain. For the Lord-Mayor it had been amusing, but he doubted her Captain had felt the same.

He had watched as the survivors of his guild urged Caspian to flee the colosseum. Wide-eyed and spell-shocked, Caspian's once-untroubled demeanour had been twisted into something else entirely.

Atticus stroked his smooth chin, wondering if such transformation could be of use. There were wildcards aplenty—he could use one of his own.

'My good man,' he said, addressing Fenton, 'when the fighting is through, approach the floral gentleman. See if he cannot be shifted into our inner circle.'

'Of course, sir,' Fenton replied.

With that, the two men slipped from the battle's edge, re-joining the back line among the cowards and curs.

****

They had only bought time—of that, he was certain. Theodor knew they had run low on tricks. Looping his path had been merely the starter compared to the full course he had now endured.

In one instance, they made him forget why he came—approaching the manor with purpose, only to wander off when he drew near. When far enough, he would storm back, then find himself displaced again, perplexed by his delay.

In another, he reached the estate at last. Yet when he made to assail—boot to the door—the whole thing tipped flat to the ground: a cardboard pretence that had stood miles away.

Strangest of all had been the pit. Opening underfoot, it sent him plunging down and down while a sea of furless kittens rained from above, their tiny bodies pawing at his face as he spread his wings and rose. No matter how high he climbed, the pit stretched on beneath him—endless, mocking, absurd.

But their games had grown tired of late. Now, they sought to slow him with flesh-weaved giants. To lesser men, perhaps they would be an end, but for him, they proved only a nuance. Their greatest strength was their resilience. He would tear them apart with ease, yet with an equal lack of effort they pooled themselves together again.

A thick vein thrummed at his porcelain temple, his teeth clenched, arms crossed tight with irritation. Truly, he was tired of foes that refused to die once—forcing him to butcher them again and again.

His black, leathered wings beat against his shoulders. The Dread-Dragon's Maw drifted at his side. Hovering above the grisly fiends, he swept out a hand— a storm of jagged bones tore into the giants even as they bounded and swiped to grasp him.

'Surely by now they must be running low on supplies,' he grumbled, eyes rolling back as he sent another ivory storm.

'How right you are,' called a voice from the gate.

Theodor glanced down to see a man strolling out. Atop his head rested a top hat; upon his shoulders, a long black gown. He seemed the sort to hold himself spruce, but a crimson stain here and a loose thread there spoke volumes of his agitation.

'So you show yourself at last,' Theodor replied, drifting down to greet the man while the giants held in place.

His feet touched the grass-laid ground. He flicked his gaze along the length of his caller, leaned close, and sniffed—then recoiled, unimpressed, lustreless sorceries leaving their stench.

'By the Stewards, you are revolting,' Theodor gasped, stepping back in haste, pressing a cloth to his nose.

'You would not smell of pink flushes either, were you made to do as I have,' the man replied, his tone steady and unperturbed. 'I suppose I have you to thank for my troubles. Have you any idea of the price in precious lives your tenacity has cost?'

'With any hope, no more than the cost of my time, which you have squandered by tarrying so long,' Theodor rebuked, tone measured though edged with irritation. 'What gain has it brought you? You stand there; I stand here. You are foredoomed to die, even if you have delayed the end for a while.'

Theodor could not guess at why, yet a self-assured smile crept across the man's lips. Like a swine squealing sweetly before slaughter, he seemed blissfully ignorant of how events would unfold.

'Prelate Amheus Dourado—' the man began, extending a hand.

'Didn't ask. Do not care. Already forgotten,' Theodor cut in, straightening the link at his cuff.

The man chuckled softly as he withdrew his grasp.

'As you'd have it,' he replied, slipping the top hat from his head and letting it drop to the grass. 'Now then, shall we begin?'

Theodor smiled—a wicked thing. His gaze flicked skyward, the smirk on his lips stretching broad.

'We already have,' he said, pointing upward. The man's eyes followed.

High above, descending fast, a vast skeletal maw shaped like a dragon's yawned open. A ravenous roar shook the sky as it fell. Theodor would make quick work of this—he had been made to wait long enough for the hour.

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