Havoc darted forward, sweat flung from his brow as his blade flashed upward to cleave his foe asunder. Yet his edge found no purchase, glancing off the dense, draconic scales that plated Aaron's arms. Havoc did not falter. As Aaron's razor-edged wings sliced downward, seeking to carve him from shoulder to groin, he hurled himself back—only to launch forward once more. His blade sparked against Aaron's chest, shearing through scale and flesh, carving a deep groove into his plated hide.

There was no hesitation in Havoc's assault, yet Aaron was no less ferocious. Sparks flared from their every exchange—blow for blow, stripe for stripe. The mountain passage blurred as the two collided, their motions fluid, as though a dance—graceful yet deadly—blood spattering the rocky terrain only to sizzle into vapour as Aaron unleashed streams of immolating fire, melting through Havoc's barriers of ethereal light.

Heat warped the night air, rippling above the molten terrain. But as the flames waned, Havoc burst from the smoke—riding the eye of the whirling winds. He lashed out, his blade cleaving downward, a shock of bone-rattling pain surging through his palms as Aaron's crossed arms caught the strike above his head.

Using the noble as a foothold, Havoc launched skyward. As he plummeted, his hand shot outward. Jagged shards of light shimmered to life around him. He hurled them down, the ground below showered in baleful radiance.

Still, it was not enough. Havoc hit the ground in a roll, springing back to his feet. He pivoted toward the noble, heart pounding, as Aaron remained unshaken—ethereal shards glinting off his leathery wings before crumbling to nothing.

'How do you imagine this ends?' Aaron asked, his tone even yet edged with quiet fury.

'With you dead,' Havoc did not hesitate. His stance shifted, blade ready to strike again.

'Ha!' Aaron howled, a primal cry dripping with conceit. 'Even if you could, do you know what would happen?' He stepped toward Havoc, his growl thick with menace. 'Even now, I can see it—my father, commanding his oracles, scouring the land for the one boy who dared slay his greatest son. His endless resources bearing down on you like a storm.'

Instinctively, Havoc shifted back, his feet scraping against the gravelled earth. In his growing disdain for Aaron, he had not considered the weight of his lineage, nor the prideful retaliation his victory would provoke. They had been trapped in the Dungeon-Cell for so long—he had almost forgotten the vast world beyond this accursed Forest.

'You see now, do you not?' Aaron spat, shifting to a crouch, arms extended, claws spread wide.

'Die now, or die later—it makes no difference. There is no victory—no future—for you.' He hurled himself forward, claws clashing against Havoc's steel.

'Blood is the divide that cannot be bridged!' Aaron roared, his claws flashing down from overhead, missing Havoc's face by the width of a hair.

'The haves have it all!' Aaron snarled, his claws slicing a shallow red across Havoc's throat. 'And for people like you—' He spat, lunging on all fours, fire spewing from his maw, hurling himself at his hated foe.

'Even the little you have will be taken!'

Aaron's words rang true—every one striking a repellent chord. Havoc knew of no other way the world could be. Even in the Bereft partitions of Stone Garden, there existed a hierarchy—one where he had subsisted at the lowest rungs. Those with even a scrap power took what they pleased, their privilege unchecked. And when the powerless fought back—had he not been sentenced to die?

But I'm still here, aren't I? Havoc thought, as he threw himself backward, sweeping the Thirsty Strike wide, unleashing a scarlet wave of cleaving force.

I'm still here while that bastard rots! He landed hard, rolling fluidly back to his feet.

When did it ever stop me? he asked himself, the answer needless to say.

He had known the consequences of killing the man who dared harm his sister—and he had done so without regret. Enduring months of ruthless cruelty, even as he waited to die, he had never once wavered. He would do it again, without hesitation.

His aggressors were more powerful now—but what did that change? He was who he had always been—an obstreperous reprobate who would never accept his place in the world.

Then what does it matter? When those high-and-mighty bastards come for me, I'll kill them too! His blade plunged deep into Aaron's shoulder, the noble howling in pain as Havoc's boot slammed into his gut, sending him crashing to the ground.

But there would be no respite for the noble. Even as he scrambled to stand, Havoc was upon him, his blade swinging down in a final, ineluctable stroke toward Aaron's neck.

****

It was not in Myra's nature to interfere in a brawl. Having come of age among nomadic warriors, she understood the pride at stake when warriors clashed. Better to die than to claim a tainted victory. But when she had watched her brother bleed out, a spear lodged in his thigh, she could stay her hand no longer.

She had seized the dagger from the dirt, its handle still warm from another's grip, and driven it deep into the chieftain's son's back—dragging the blade through his vertebrae, sawing through bone until he stopped moving. There was no gratitude—only stern condemnation, and with it, her exile.

Poverty clung to her like a stench, thick and inescapable. Without a token to her name—for her people held no concept of possessions—even when she reached civilisation, she learned that civility was not for the stranger nor the destitute.

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She had nothing to offer but her flesh. Many nights, she had considered the bargain—if only for the promise of a warm place to lay. But she was the daughter of warriors. Even though they had rejected her, she had not forsaken their ways.

The nights had been cold, and she had been so very afraid. But she was a nomad in spirit—she would not shrink from instability. She would never let that become her fate.

So she had done as she had learned. Foraging was theft. Hunting was plunder. Forever on the run from man and monster alike—still, she survived.

Then, she met him. Though a scar ran his face, she never found him unsightly. She never understood why he called himself Ugly.

In the city of rising emerald falls, he had lifted her from the dirt, sponsoring her Inheritance.

She had to be certain, he had warned. If she lacked the potential, even if she succeeded in her trials, Inheriting would kill her.

She knew nothing of her potential, but she was sure of one thing—she would rather die in the dirt than live powerless and afraid.

Peering down from the ledge, she watched the two men clash, the string of her bow pulled taut, a streak of lightning sparking along its shelf.

Both men carried blame for Ugly's demise—from his own lips, she had heard Havoc confess. Yet there was no spite in her veins as she locked the bolt in place, only the quiet weight of inevitability.

She could not restore the dead, and vengeance would bring nothing. Her act was not retribution—it was simply another cog in the Seer's grand design. Yet if she claimed to feel no satisfaction in disgracing their pride, she would be lying.

As Havoc raised his blade to reap Aaron's life, her grip loosed on the string, unleashing a golden streak that sent Havoc reeling back.

If the noble falls, his punishment is death. Yet, even if he wins, his conquest is spoiled, she determined, shuffling back from the edge of the overhang.

However it ended, there would be no honour in victory. It was not much, but for her friend—no, for the man to whom she had never confessed her heart—she had done what she could.

****

The night-sun hung high in the heavens, its pale luminescence stretching into the entrance of the shallow cavern where Lucia waited.

Peeking out to see her fiancé fall, a thin-lipped smirk spread across her lips. To see the man who had shamed her time and again brought low in disgrace—it was a satisfying sight.

Still, she sighed in relief as nature itself seemed to come to her love's aid—Havoc forced back by a crackling fork of lightning, thunder heralding its arrival.

She had not imagined the little gutter-rat could possibly pose her love such strife. Aaron was of higher birth—even to her—that was why she loved him. It was not proper for the masses to raise arms against their betters—how much more egregious was it for them to truly contend?

Though she surged with joy at Aaron's struggle, there was a proper order to things—one that she meant to restore. Soon, her love would be hers—his very soul coupled to her in obedience.

And he had, in part, redeemed himself in discarding the slave. She was not above showing kindness to her future husband—deciding in that moment to hunt down and slaughter whatever brood had come from the gutter-rat's den.

Had he mentioned a sister? Lucia pondered, idly attempting to recall the petty concerns of her lesser. With a shrug, she dismissed the thought as one would a coddling servant. There were far more pressing matters at hand.

She observed Aaron's change—that bestial scene—assured that it was almost her time. Aaron dropped to all fours, ebony scales creeping over his form from head to toe. His form swelled, spikes jutting from his back as his leathery wings unfurled to match his monstrous frame. Twelve feet tall, he stood on blackened paws, his knife-like claws poised to sear flesh from bone.

Lucia could barely contain her excitement at the thought that he would soon be hers—truly hers. Docile and submissive, yet with a bite more tearing than his bark. He would be her perfect man—fangs bared for her alone. She deserved nothing less.

It was not long before the wretched upstart was overwhelmed by Aaron's noble might. Had she been a lesser woman, she might have spared a thought of pity for the whelp. He flailed admirably, parrying strike after strike—until her love's shearing claws carved deep into his chest. Even then, he rose, scrambling to his feet, scaling a ladder of barriers to rain shimmering spears down upon steel-like scales.

Harmless. Pointless.

She doubted he even had time to comprehend his failure before Aaron's monstrous tail lashed out, whipping him into the stone-face with bone-rattling force.

Smoke coiled from Aaron's open maw, azure fire churning between his teeth.

The moment was now.

Atop her scarlet wolf, she raced toward the battlefield, muttering words inscrutable to reason, the weighty shroud of the Dungeon's will submerging her like a rising tide. Though she noticed the Fractal Beast creeping behind, she was too close to her goal to care.

Reaching into her dress, she withdrew a vial from between her breasts, its tar-black glass swallowing all light. She did not hesitate. She unstopped the potion, flung the cork aside, and drank deep, a rush of heat overtaking her.

Her pulse surged. Her eyes widened.

The Fragments of Mind and Soul were already in radiant bloom, and golden threads spooled from her fingertips as she continued her chant. Emerald fissures lined her vision—reality crumbling beneath her borrowed power.

The realm accepts your plea. The voice in her mind was not her own, yet it did not matter.

She would have what she deserved.

She would have it all.

A star ignited in the captured sky, burning with viridescent fire. As she closed the distance to her love, two chains of brilliant light burst from the star—one burying into her chest, the other spearing through Aaron's scales.

She had done it. The world had bowed. He would be hers at last.

****

Naereah had waited for this moment. Though her heart bled for Havoc as Aaron's power transcended reason, she knew she could do nothing until her time.

But now was that time.

As blazing chains dragged her tormentors together, she willed her crystal dagger into her grasp and stepped forward.

Lucia, lost in her own cackling triumph, did not even notice as Naereah raised her blade high. But as the dagger plunged into her back, Lucia twisted around, her eyes like burning coals.

'What have you done!' Lucia wailed, snapping her arm inward before hurling Naereah backward with a bone-crunching strike.

Pain seared through her ribs, guilt churned in her gut—but she did not regret it. She had seized her freedom with her own hands.

Her vision blurred, the world tilting into darkness—but she fought to remain conscious.

A blur.

A glint.

The shattered Abomination swirled around Aaron and Lucia's melding forms. Then, the world grew dark.

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