Edgar Grace began his morning like any other while stationed within Stone Garden. After washing away the night's grime and grazing down the stubble roughing his chin, he slipped into a black buttoned shirt and matching trousers. No sooner had the last sip of breakfast-tea chased down his buttered toast and grease-fried sausage than came a knock at the door.

This was not an uncommon occurrence. He had not anticipated peace to last in the morning—indeed, he expected nothing less from that girl. She was relentless. If her brother had half her tenacity, perhaps he would survive whatever the Dungeon had thrown at him.

'Enter,' Graceless permitted, his tone formal and curt.

'She's back, sir,' said a tall man in the loop-buttoned scarlet tailcoat worn by all city guards within the Bereft partitions of Stone Garden. Underneath, he wore a loose-fitting white shirt tucked into mustard trousers, the sword belt tight across his waist. A hanger rested firm against his thigh. A truncheon dangled from his other side, its coarse wooden edge crusted with dried crimson—order was hard fought for in a city that cared little for the plight of the impoverished.

'Escort her to my office. I'll be there momentarily,' Graceless instructed, the city guard already at his back.

'Si—sir. There's something else,' the guard stammered, his tone wavering.

'Oh?'

'She didn't come alone, sir. She's been detained by the Black Drake Guild. Their field captain has requested your presence.'

What could the Crest Household possibly want with a slum-born stray?

He had heard a battalion had returned from the Vanguard some days ago, but so far as he was aware, they had spent their leave within the city-proper—flittering from gathering to ball, rubbing shoulders and swaying hips with noble maidens and courtesans alike.

He could not imagine what might draw them from their revelries to tour so dreary a place as the outer-city. Even he had no desire to be there. If he had not sworn to that orphan boy that he would watch over his sister until commanded otherwise, he would have been at the Grace Estate—or better yet, the Guild of Enforcers' local barracks. No matter how lavish Lord-Mayor Kaine's residence was compared to the standard fare, it remained a prison—of vacuity and tedium in equal measure.

'Yo—your orders, sir?' the guardsman stuttered, his knuckles clenched tight—though a slight tremor betrayed him. He was only human. It was easy to forget how imposing an Inheritor—let alone a noble—could be when silent, especially to such company.

'Instruct the guards to escort the field captain to the great hall, and inform Lord-Mayor Kaine of our guest's arrival. I'll be there in short order.'

'Sir!' the guardsman barked before hurrying from Graceless' chamber.

Graceless returned to his breakfast, mopping the final streaks of grease from his plate with the unbuttered side of his toast. There was simply no excuse to miss a meal over whatever mess Hurricane had dragged to his step. It was certainly unusual, but he was confident it would be nothing he could not resolve with ease. After all, how much trouble could one low-born girl and her miscreant brother truly cause him—especially while the boy was away?

With his lips dabbed clean and his knee-length ivory frock coat fitted to his frame, he headed for the refectory—the gentle flicker and hiss of the gas lamps lining the hall trailing in his wake.

He found the great hall garish—too many golden tassels, scarlet threads, and violet-painted walls for his sartorial tastes. Worse still were the portraits. Above the cream limestone fireplace hung the likeness of a broad-shouldered man clad in white-bone armour, a greatsword pointed down in his grip. Standing beside the imposing figure was a child: a pudgy youth in formal attire, head tilted affectionately toward his father.

From what little he knew of Bartholomew Kaine's parentage, he doubted the portrait's veracity. Dugan the Imperishable was not known as a sentimental man. Posing for such a depiction with an unproven child would have struck him as the height of profligacy.

Let the little man have his fancies, he scolded himself, settling into a brownish-red chesterfield chair.

'You will not find such amenities elsewhere within the Bereft districts, my lord. I was an early adopter of gas-lamp lighting. So enamoured was I with modern infrastructure, not only is the estate outfitted with the contraptions, but I had my men install city lights throughout the noble and merchant quarters,' a voice lectured from the hallway, its scratching tone carrying a sycophantic lilt.

'Is that right?' a man mumbled in return, with all the enthusiasm of a henpecked spouse locked into conversation about opera or shoes.

'The piping is placed beneath the ground and within the walls. It is simply ingenious, what is being rediscovered by our most brilliant mavens and academics.'

Bartholomew Kaine was the first to enter the refectory. With an exaggerated wave of his arm, the Lord-Mayor presented the hall to his guests—his gesture lingering over the most ostentatious fixtures on display.

'And might I present Edgar Grace, High Warden of the Enforcers' Guild,' Bartholomew proclaimed. 'He has remained my honoured guest these past five months. You need only ask the man—you'll not find better treatment outside your own illustrious dwellings.'

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Blonde hair parted neatly at the centre, Theodore Crest stepped into the hall, his pallid features striking beneath the amber glow of the gaslight. He looked like a well-dressed corpse, his lips a rosy pink against his ashen face and sable attire.

A woman stood at his side. Though no less pale, she wore it well—beneath her blush, extended lashes, and ruby-painted lips. Her little black dress clung to her slender frame as though sewn to her flesh; only the ankle-length skirt fluttered freely as she moved. Poise and grace incarnate, her scarlet hair flowed like a river aflame over her shoulders, framing her face as a canvas does a work of art.

Such a delicate face—for such a stone-hearted killer.

Octavia Le'Buteur was well known to the Enforcers' Guild, as was the rest of her diabolical household. Adorned in finery taken from the bloodied corpses of their marks, they were the coin-purse behind every prominent assassination of the last few decades—unless, of course, they chose to take a more active role themselves. Yet with the leaders of their "noble house" astute in subterfuge and deceit—and wielding Remnants that could mislead even the most prying divinations—the Enforcers had never possessed the corroboration needed to penalise their blackest trespasses. There was not a soul in more refined circles unaware that they controlled the Skull's Rebellion—a true menace among the Dark Guild factions that had harried the Enforcers at every turn. Yet still, they could do nothing but treat the symptoms, never the cause. The true disorder lay too well-connected, too tightly woven into the very seats of power.

'I cannot overstate what an honour it is to have a member of the head household extol my pre-eminent estate with your presence,' Bartholomew mewed—even as Hurricane was dragged into the stateroom, barely on her feet.

Clad in black-scaled armour, two men seized her by the arms, hoisting the girl upright even as she wrangled in their grip.

Commendable as her resistance was, she was held by Inheritors—and even the least of them would be inexorable to a Bereft such as her. Still, Graceless could not keep a smile from his lips at the fire in her eyes—that same blaze he had once found so arresting in her brother. Where trained guards could not hide their dread, here she was: in open defiance.

'She's very pretty—for a ne'er-do-well,' Octavia mused, brushing the back of her hand along Hurricane's cheek. 'I wouldn't mind adding her to my collection, if you'd allow it, sir,' she added, as if propriety were an afterthought.

In the ever-strengthening alliance between House Crest and House Le'Buteur, younger members of the assassin household had begun enlisting with the Black Drake Guild. But their participation was largely honorary—they were not expected to take active roles. Most remained within their estates, only appearing among the guild for formal events and ceremonial displays.

Octavia was a notable exception. Not only had she climbed the ranks to be recognised as a commander on the field, she had done so within one of their least enviable stations. The Necroregnum was not for the faint of heart—nor was volunteering to serve there the act of a sane mind.

'Unless you have just cause to detain her, I would thank you to unhand the girl,' Graceless commanded, his tone tactful yet unyielding.

'My—my lord Enforcer,' Bartholomew stammered, his bloated palms raised as he stepped between his guests. 'You must know in whose presence we stand. This is the company of Theodore Crest—son of the Vanquishing Drake, grandson of the Lord of these lands.'

He turned to the pale-faced man beside him, his head tilting in a deferent slant. 'You know, I believe we're related on my father's side,' he added, gesturing toward the fireplace to draw their eyes to the immoderate portrait. 'Dugan the Imperishable, they call him. Even now I hear he's a force to be reckoned with—down on the eighteenth floor.'

'I will not ask again. Unhand her,' Graceless cut in, stepping forward. The squadron of guildsmen shifted back in unison.

Theodore stepped forward. Resting a hand on Bartholomew's shoulder, he nudged him gently aside, coming to stand face-to-face with Graceless. Though Graceless loomed over him—his tightly-knit frame a wall of restrained muscle—Theodore showed no trace of perturbation. A slight smile cut across his rosy lips.

'I truly admire you Enforcers, you know? All that duty, all that responsibility—yet only the veneer of authority to back any of it up,' Theodore said, his tone eerily measured.

The hall fell silent as the two men locked eyes. Only the faint sputter and crack of the fireplace dared to make a sound.

But then the silence lifted, a faint chuckle bubbling from Theodore's lips.

Forgive me my little play—I've been away some time. I've yet to reacquaint myself with local decorum,' Theodore murmured, stepping back to address his men. 'You may unhand her. She is not the one at fault…'

He paused, then turned back to Graceless.

'Her brother is.'

'Is every member of your house given to riddles, or is yours a special case?' Graceless scoffed, as Hurricane jerked free with a huff, head held high as she moved to his side.

For the Crest household to take notice of either sibling made little sense as matters were. Mettlesome though they were, there were few opportunities for low-born labourers to offend a noble estate. Havoc had come close—the man he killed being vaguely connected to power. Connected enough to warrant a homesick Enforcer's participation in his execution.

But the boy was away. Hurled to only the Stewards know where—how could he have found the time to entangle himself in noble affairs? Even if the chance arose, what could he possibly have done to invoke their reprisal?

He had certainly Inherited—the Chamber's lights upon reopening had proved that much. But so what? The Dungeon was replete with Inheritors of dubious worth. If he survived its trials, his life would surely change, but true power resided in blood. Havoc had no birth right to speak of. At best, he would be middling—unlikely to ever rise beyond a Servant's Inheritance.

What possible threat could he pose to any among the vaulted House of Crest?

'I speak no riddles—only what's known,' Theodore pronounced, his eyes pointed as the heat seemed to flee the hall. 'Now that I think on it... was it not you who pardoned the boy for murder?' he asked, a chilling edge cutting through his otherwise gentle tone.

'What of it?' Graceless shot back, dauntless in the face of accusation and thinly veiled menace. 'You know the law of this land as well as I. All crimes against the Bereft are remedied through Inheritance. The Dungeon's will held high above mortal edicts.'

'I seem to recall that rule is discretionary. And in your discretion, sir Enforcer—you set a murderer loose to murder again,' Theodore impeached.

'What are you saying?' Graceless spat, indignation rising in his voice.

'Havoc Gray...' Theodore said, leaning closer. 'He stands condemned to die—'

'No!' Hurricane wailed, restrained only by Graceless' grip at her wrist.

'For the crime of killing my brother.'

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