'You knew, didn't you?' Anton roared, his fists clenched tight around Franklin's collar, lifting the gaunt man from the ground. 'You knew this would happen, and you did nothing!'

From a ledge overhanging the mountain passage, Anton had watched his comrades die. One and all, they had been slaughtered. Those who were not slain by the ghouls—bellies clawed open, their entrails spilling into the dirt—had been crumpled to meat and devoured by that thing.

He had done all he could to avoid the Abomination's idle touch. Leaping from ledge to ledge, clinging to jagged rock, he had fought to stay ahead. But when the moment came, when his comrades needed him most, he had been powerless.

Oathbreaker.

His throat clenched. He could still see them, hear them—screaming, fighting, dying. And he had done nothing.

'If I had known—! If you had told me!' His grip tightened, dragging Franklin closer, the warmth of his breath brushing the man's gaunt face.

'Unhand me!' Franklin snapped, voice thin with panic. 'I knew nothing of their scheme!'

'Liar!' Anton bellowed, his voice reverberating through the trail.

'We do not have time for this!' Franklin shrieked, clawing at Anton's wrists. 'The path is finally clear of that fiend—we must reach the Temple before it is too late!'

When Anton had broken from the group, the shattered Abomination had already descended. Its mass had slithered down the walls, coating the path like a shimmering glaze, crawling over rock like a living disease. His journey had been staggered—bursts of frantic movement, interspersed with desperate climbs, his every step threatening to be his last.

Then, something shifted. The sky had filled with viridescent fire. And the Abomination had fled—drawn toward the emerald star.

Anton had barely registered its retreat before his gaze fell upon him—the spineless bastard who had stood idly by, lifting not a finger as the men and women he had fought beside for months were slaughtered.

Fury overtook him. He tackled Franklin to the ground, blood boiling, fists clenched. And he meant to do worse.

'We can still leave this place with riches—with her,' Franklin rasped, his tone steady but edged with urgency. 'Their deaths don't need to be in vain! What she can give us—what she can teach—our futures would be set! We can recompense their sacrifice!'

'Who—what are you saying?' Anton snarled, confusion furrowing his brow, his eyes wide as he tried to make sense of the weasel's words. 'What—the Seer?'

'Yes! The Seer!' Franklin clamoured, his voice alight with the zeal of a tutor pleased with the progress of his slowest student. 'She is—or once was—the closest to divinity. Do you understand what that means? We must reach her!'

'You self-indulgent fool!' Anton snarled, slamming Franklin into the passage wall. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping.

'It's—it's true!' Franklin wheezed. 'The Jade Legionaries! Only a Demon could have the foresight—and they couldn't enter this Cell! That leaves only memory!'

Anton had heard whispers of the Venerable Demons—a cult that drew power from the Eye of Kronos. Their name was legend throughout the Dungeon, their members ancient and mighty, moving unseen, yet shaping history at their whim. Coincidence became certainty. Their collective will outmatched even the noble castes of every race.

No seer could equal their providence. And yet… Annalise was merely a Soldier. She could not be of their ranks.

But if such impossible precision was required to weave events as she had done…

Anton's breath hitched. No.

'You believe she's from times yet to come?' he muttered, his grip faltering. His fingers loosened, and Franklin dropped to the ground with a thud.

'I do,' Franklin gasped, dusting his robes as he climbed to his feet. His eyes gleamed with the fervour of revelation. 'Do you see it now? Only a Monarch could wield such power. For what reason she has returned to this time in her weakened state, I cannot say, but…' He took a step forward, voice lowering as though imparting a sacred truth. 'Even a queen without her throne will surely know the path to her crown. We must follow her.'

Anton staggered back, his hands clutching his head, his mind spinning with possibilities, each one more grievous than the last. Have we been pawns this whole time? Pieces in a game we could never win… Damned from the start.

A shudder ran through him, his breath ragged, his pulse hammering against his ribs. Then—a thought struck like flint. A single spark catching deep within his chest.

Could she do it again?

The spark spread—flickering, struggling against the chill of despair—before catching flame. His breath steadied. His fingers curled into fists. The embers blazed, a fire surging through his veins.

Could—could she do it again?' Anton stammered. 'Can they still be saved?'

Franklin stepped back, his spine pressing against the jagged stone. Anton studied him, watching the cogs whirl behind his eyes before he finally spoke.

'There are few known Remnants with dominion over time. Each one can only be bound by a Monarch or greater. It's possible she possesses one that permits multiple regressions. We cannot be sure without asking her. But, yes—it is possible.'

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He hesitated, gaze flickering to the ground, eyes darting side to side as though weighing his next words.

'Out with it!' Anton barked, jolting the craven fiend from his deliberation.

Franklin exhaled slowly. His gaze lifted, but he did not meet Anton's eyes.

'You should know—we cannot save them all. This is the Forest of Desire.' His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. He hesitated, just long enough to make Anton lean closer, desperate for the answer. Then, in a whisper:

'Only eight can ever leave,' Franklin finally murmured, his gaze to the side, daring not to meet Anton's eyes.

Anton exhaled sharply, shoulders sagging, his hands balling into trembling fists. 'I only hope to save two,' he admitted, voice thick with shame.

****

Anton was a boor—but even the dullest beast could be led to truffles. To Franklin, every instrument had its use. Crude as he was, Anton burned brightly against the dark. Too bright. But not yet. The night was full of terrors, and Franklin had no intention of extinguishing him—not before his time. His lies had bought him a reprieve. Even if his queen could turn back time for a few, would she?

Ridiculous. Beneath her.

Whatever her design, this massacre was deliberate. She had orchestrated their deaths with neither hesitation nor regret. Would she—could she—be swayed from that path by the cries of one grieving fool?

Preposterous, Franklin sneered, tilting his head, his teeth clicking against the hush of night.

Still, if the delusion kept Anton in line, Franklin was more than willing to indulge it.

The boy will be a greater problem, he scowled, his gaze drawn ahead by the clash and spark of Havoc's crimson blade against the plated hide of some Dungeon-Spawn.

'Ready yourself to assist,' Anton commanded, his golden armour already forming as he darted toward the battlefield.

Just what I needed, yet another to compete with.

He had told Anton that eight could leave the Cell. In truth, there could only be four. The Seer's survival was unquestionable, and she had chosen her favourites. That left only one place by her side. No matter the cost, he was determined to seize it.

Their aid was not needed in the end. By the time they reached the scamp, he had already landed the killing strike—his sword cleaving down from shoulder to hip, the Spawn's flesh already sparking from its corpse.

Though of the lowest kind, it was a Soldier Spawn. The lout's slaying of the beast was as impressive as it was wasteful, for him alone to nourish his Core with its power. Yet Franklin could do nothing but wait for the swine to gorge himself on the Spawn's remains—shackled as he was by Anton's damnable sense of fair play.

The creature's bones crumbled to dust, and the boy stood. His face stern, he glared toward Franklin, his fist balled tight. The boy stepped toward him, no doubt still fretting their earlier pettifoggery—that small matter of Franklin's attempt on his life. But before Havoc could reach him, Anton held himself between the two, his arms outstretched.

Some people truly lack perspective, Franklin griped, shuffling further back as the boy pressed past his guard.

'Just wait!' Franklin yelped, as Havoc's grip tightened around his collar. 'We need each other!' he insisted.

'Boy!' Anton snapped, yanking Havoc backward. 'This isn't the time or the place for this.'

'Learn another line!' Havoc growled, shoving Anton to the ground.

'What about this!' Anton shouted, scrambling to his feet. 'You owe me! You knew what the Seer had planned, but you just let it happen, didn't you?'

Silence fell as Anton and Havoc locked eyes. They held contact for a moment before, finally, Havoc looked away.

'Yes,' Havoc muttered at last.

Franklin bit down his smirk, disinclined to further provoke the dolt. Havoc had surrendered the high ground. Dull as he was, Franklin knew that meant he could be reasoned with. Sinners, not saints, were always open to compromise.

'We have all made our share of mistakes,' Franklin murmured, carefully modulating his tone, his skittish movements betraying a calculated balance of remorse and resolve. 'But we have something many never will—the hope of a second chance.'

'What's he blathering about?' Havoc scoffed, his tone all too impertinent for one of his station.

'There might be a way of fixing this mess,' Anton interjected, his fist clenched white, his tone resolute.

'That's right,' Franklin chimed in smoothly. 'We have uncovered the truth of the Seer. She is a regressor—a time-turner, able to undo the wrongs she alone has wrought.'

None spoke for a moment—until the brute let out a snorting, sniggering laugh, tugging Franklin's lips into a scowl.

'There's nothing funny—'

'Don't be an arse,' Havoc spat, cutting him off before he could finish. His tone was sharp, contemptuous. 'We can't change what's already happened.'

'It is possible,' Franklin insisted, his mind scrambling for another way to keep the two within his grasp.

'Even if she is a regressor—or whatever you called her—she'll never help us willingly,' Havoc said, his insight as exact as it was vexing.

'Then she will do it unwillingly,' Anton shot back, his voice ironclad, his eyes blazing. 'I made a vow. It will be honoured.'

'If you two want to waste your time pissing up rope, be my guest. I'll be focusing on someone who can still be saved,' Havoc said, turning away.

'Wait!' Franklin called. 'The slave girl, right?'

He had watched as the Crest sop carried her away. Neither nobles nor slave were to be seen, but he doubted the lout would care much for the noble brats. Indeed, that he still breathed at all was a good sign they were dead. The Selenarian was the only one Havoc could be seeking for.

His mind ground through the possibilities. There was a way to secure the brute's support until time came to discard him, he just had to reach for it.

'I know what the Seer means for her,' he blurted, the words spilling from his mouth before his mind could catch up. 'The key! She seeks the key!'

Astounding. For once, he was actually being truthful.

He had not deduced his queen's design before, but as the words fumbled from his lips, certainty took root.

'The nobles—dead, yes?' Franklin pressed, his confidence solidifying as the cur bobbed his head. 'And their bodies, were they refined?'

'What?' Havoc stuttered.

'Reduced to a slate—like a Fragment. Surely you know what one is!' Franklin's words came rushed, his excitement growing. A second nod from the boy confirmed his suspicions.

The path to a Lord's Inheritance was one of patience just as much as it was of power. There were only nine Cells within which a Lord could be born. None could be entered without a key. The Everquill house never laid claim to such treasure, but they hoarded knowledge of their procurement.

The Seer was a queen who longed for her throne. Now that he knew what she wanted, he would do all he could to give it to her.

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