Pain ground deep into Havoc's bones, slicing through his broken form like jagged glass. He should have been dead. As he coughed—a thick, sloshing hack of blood—he wondered if he soon would be. He had not reacted fast enough to evade the devastating lash of Aaron's draconic tail. In those final moments, all he could do was prepare for the strike. With the Flesh-Weave Needle buried deep in his thigh, he had remoulded himself—coating his body in layers of hardened scales. It had been enough to survive. But it had left him broken and defenceless.

His eyes flicked open, the world tinted red with blood. Through the haze, Aaron loomed—monstrous, inescapable, the certainty of death made flesh.

Then there was light.

A star of emerald fire ignited in the heavens, golden threads knit into otherworldly patterns orbiting its light. Two chains lashed out from the blaze, one striking beyond his vision, the other spearing through Aaron's blackened scales. In an instant, the beast was undone, stripped back to the man beneath.

As though a spectre compelled by holy might, Aaron howled, his feet carving grooves through the gravelled earth as the chain towed him toward his cackling bride.

'Mine at last,' Lucia shrieked, arms outstretched, ready to seize her fiancé as he was dragged into her embrace. 'Only mine—forever mine!'

Yet her joy was short-lived. Lost in her revelry, she never saw her slave-girl creep from behind—never felt the dagger until it plunged deep into her shoulder. She lashed out, sending Naereah sprawling, but the damage had already been done—the crystal dagger buried in her flesh, the viridescent star burning charcoal flames.

Even though agony ripped through Havoc's form, the iniquity searing through the path struck harder, the profane ebony light of the tarnished star seeping through his skin, igniting the very marrow in his bones.

Yet he was not the target of the defiled light. As the creeping blackness spread, link by link, the chains binding groom and bride began to twist—flesh merging into flesh, bone splintering as it sought to reform.

Their limbs slithered, no longer flesh but writhing tendrils; their legs, fused into something that slumped and coiled, lacking the grace of beast or man. Their two heads collapsed into one grotesque visage—teeth bared within sunken cheeks, their bulbous skull pulsing like something still trying to form.

Once, they had been human. Havoc could see no trace of that now. Their cry was a shattered cacophony—wet, gurgling, half-formed shrieks layered atop one another in a mindless wail.

Can I kill it? He gritted his teeth, wrenching his arm free from the wall, his bones snapping back into place—realigned by the Flesh-Weave Needle.

Only the dregs of his Harmony remained in his Core, its faltering power barely keeping his body intact. He could move, but not much else, and the moment his power failed, he would crumple—broken beyond repair.

Still, he would not surrender.

He staggered, barely catching himself before sinking to one knee. With laboured breaths, he summoned his scarlet blade to his trembling hands and rose, the creature that had once been man coiling toward him.

****

The Selenarian had failed, but in her wisdom, the Seer had foreseen this. Though the nobles were dying, they were not dead. The Sequence was failing—but Shar would see it fulfilled.

Peering down, she watched as Havoc peeled himself from the mountain face. Though bloodied and swaying, he stepped forward before sinking to one knee.

She had observed his battle, watching as he had been cast into the stone. That he could stand at all was a testament to his indomitable will. Yet again, the Seer's words struck true—great and terrible, his deeds would be. The Dungeon would tremble at his feet.

Perhaps he too would claim a Lord's Inheritance one day… If he lives long enough to try, Shar pondered.

With a subtle nod of approval, Shar acknowledged the boy's resilience. In her want of faith and understanding, she had questioned the wisdom in allowing Havoc to live. He would surely oppose the Selenarian's sacrifice. Still, she could not help but admire his resolve. Yet resolve alone would not suffice to save him. His death would smooth the path of her lady's ascension, but Shar had her orders, and they would be executed.

Without hesitation, she dived from the overhang, riding the wind toward the writhing monstrosity, her eyes locking onto the crystal dagger buried deep in its shifting flesh. The world blurred around her, hair whipping behind her, and in an instant, she was upon the thing, the heel of her boot driving the dagger deeper through writhing muscle.

A chime of glass on glass cut through the chaos, snapping her gaze skyward. A ring of splintered mirrors circled above, malice and hunger radiating from its shattered form. The Fractal Beast slithered down, its broken edges arcing toward the creature on whose shoulder Shar stood.

No time to think. At the Abomination's faintest touch, she would be crumpled meat. She reacted on instinct. She leapt, landing hard on the stone, grunting as pain flared through her palms—her skin raw from the impact. But the work was not yet finished. As the Fractal Beast consumed the writhing mass, the ritual required one final offering. Not the blood patting the stone from her palm, but another's.

She staggered toward Naereah and unsheathed her blade. Without hesitation, she drew a narrow line across the unconscious girl's palm. Blood welled at the cut, dark against her skin.

Shar pressed a rune-lined cloth into the wound, soaking it in the sacrifice. Then, she cast it into the churning abyss of flesh and glass.

Your resolve is acknowledged.

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The foreign whisper coiled around her thoughts, not hers, yet inseparable. The approval sank into her, deeper than flesh—deeper than bone.

The swirling mass of meat and mirror began to glow and compact, collapsing like a dying star—jagged bone snapping, marrow spilling as the orb continued to contract.

Her work was done. She had served her lady's purpose. There was nothing left to ask for—nothing left to want.

****

'You did excellently,' Annalise praised, extending her hand as Shar knelt before her.

Havoc could only watch, breath shallow, as Shar presented a rectangular slate of glass and bone—the collapsed remains of whatever the nobles had become.

His strength waned. The last of his Harmony flickered within him, barely holding his shattered body together. The Flesh-Weave Needle struggled to keep his broken legs bound, and at last, he crumpled to the ground, the weight of his wounds overtaking him.

'It'd be hardly sporting to leave him like this,' the Seer hummed, her tone light—as though the world itself were nothing more than a game. She turned, her gaze drifting toward a hooded woman standing beside Shar. 'Myra, was it?'

'Yes, my lady.'

'Give him some of mine,' Annalise said, languidly flicking her fingers, as if the thought had only just occurred to her. 'So he may tend to his wounds.'

'At once, my lady,' Myra murmured, stepping forward.

Foreign Harmony poured into his Core. He did not resist its intrusion—its surge was dense and weighty, a palpable churn of swirling power. This was the Harmony of a Soldier's Inheritance. Even a mere wisp of its strength through the Needle was enough to knit his shattered legs back together. Then, drawing from Naereah's Anchor, he summoned her warmth—surging healing power through his form. Bone set; flesh mended. His body was whole again.

'Isn't that much better?' Annalise hummed, her voice lilting with amusement as she strolled toward Havoc.

The world tilted as he swayed on his feet. His body was whole, his Harmony restored—but exhaustion remained, relentless as a hound at his heels. He could not outpace it. It gnawed at his consciousness, barking its demands.

'Say, Havoc… You've been through so much.' The Seer's whisper slipped into his ears like a soothing balm—comforting and warm, yet slick to the touch.

'Come with me, and it'll all be over.' Her voice curled around him, gentle as silk, cloying as honey.

'I'd like you to join me, but even staying out of my way would be enough. Swear it—promise me that much—and you'll be done. No more fighting. No more struggle. We leave this Cell together.' Her words wrapped around his weary mind, pulling at the edges of his resolve.

'Just rest. Give me your word… then you can rest,' she sighed, her voice almost pleading.

Havoc surveyed the battlefield. Fallen ghouls. Flame-scorched earth. Blood smeared across stone. Each was a mark of struggle, a testament to what he had endured. Since entering the Dungeon Cell, he had been cast from one battle to the next—facing impossible odds, pitted against nightmares made flesh.

He had done enough. More than enough.

Why should he not rest?

His enemies were dead. No obstacles barred his path. The All-Seeing Owl circled overhead—freedom lay in its wings. They could leave. He could leave. Yet, as Shar lifted Naereah onto her shoulder, doubt coiled around his mind, its venomous fangs pierced deep. He wanted respite—but he could not still the unease churning in his gut. His gaze locked with the warm ocean of the Seer's. He needed to know.

'What will you do to her?' he croaked, fatigue weighing his voice.

'Don't ask me that.' Annalise's tone was warm—soft, even—but edged with cold resolve.

'Can you swear she won't be harmed?' Havoc's whisper barely carried between them.

'I cannot.' Annalise's reply came swift.

'Can you swear she won't be killed?'

'No,' her response was immediate, unflinching.

He had heard enough. Surging Harmony into his Spirit Chain, he recalled the Thirsty Strike to his grip, it's edge lifting toward Annalise.

'Don't be silly, put that thing away,' Annalise said, her tone dismissive.

The Owl touched ground. As Naereah's limp form was slung onto its back, Shar moved, stepping into Havoc's path, her dagger poised to strike.

'You would dare raise your blade against your own benefactor?' Shar growled, her nostrils flared, her gaze sharp and unwavering.

Annalise took a step closer, her voice a whisper, her ocean-deep eyes locking onto his.

'You have so much potential. I've seen it.' She exhaled, voice thick with certainty. 'Inevitable Havoc…' she mused, the words falling like prophecy. 'Calamity's Edge, they'll call you.' The title hung in the air, heavy as the world itself.

'Oceans will rise, mountains will fall at your word. You will tear down tyrants and slaughter dragons. The winds of ruin will trail your coattails.' She tilted her head, almost wistful.

'Don't throw it away,' she growled, her tone cold, her ocean-blue eyes like frozen steel. 'Not for some girl you barely know.'

Havoc's glare burned into her, his grip tightening around his blades.

'You're the oracle here,' he spat. 'I can't believe you don't already know my answer.'

Without another word, he lunged.

Shar moved to intercept—but Annalise raised a hand, nudging her aside. She flicked her wrist, and a pulse of psychic force slammed into Havoc, hurling him backward before suspending him mid-air.

'Oh, I know,' she whispered as he thrashed against her invisible grip. 'Still, I had to try.'

Turning away, she strode toward the Owl.

'I'm not going to kill you, Havoc,' she called, stepping onto her summon's back.

'I am going to stop you,' he snarled.

'You will try,' she murmured, her voice brushing against his mind. 'And you will fail.'

The Owl's wings unfurled, lifting them into the air.

'I'll see you at the Temple,' she mused, her playful lilt returning, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than an amusing diversion.

As Annalise vanished into the distance, her psychic grip faded, releasing Havoc to the earth. His boots struck rock with a crunch, the weight of yet another trial pressing down upon his shoulders. He tilted his head back and howled. This was not a cry of anguish. Not the roar of frustration. It was something deeper—something primal. He had survived. But survival was no longer enough. He wanted more. Fate had tossed him like a leaf in a storm, and he was sick of it.

Naereah was innocent. She did not deserve whatever Annalise had planned for her. Yet it was not for her sake that he would save her. He had been powerless to stop the massacre of the mercenaries. He had been overwhelmed by Aaron's noble might, his life spared only by chance—or Annalise's whims. That was why he would save the girl. Not out of duty. Not for justice, and not for love. But because fate had decreed she die. And he would obey no longer.

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