'You can't help them!' Hurricane yelled, arms flung outward.

Seated behind a sturdy oak desk, papers folded into thin leather bindings, Graceless exhaled through his nose. He rested his forearms on the hardwood, fingers interlaced, gaze fixed on the woman before him.

Draped in a sapphire overdress atop a spotty-white chemise, her clothes did little to flatter her figure—nor did they need to. Her olive skin gleamed smooth and unblemished, drawing the eye to hazel irises so lustrous they neared gold. Her hair, frayed at the ends, tumbled in subtle curls over her shoulders, each movement sending them rippling like sea-foam stirred by the tide. Pacing with rising fervour, she crossed the study again and again, arms thrown wide with every restless step.

He could understand her distress. Noble households differed in many ways from those of simpler regard. Siblings were more often bitter rivals or uneasy confederates than playmates or confidants. Yet at the heart of it all, love's pulse beat just the same—in his household, at least. He could not say he would move heaven or Aarth were he in Hurricane's place, but he would make them tremble, at the very least.

But my hands are tied, he silently groaned, doing his best to shut out Hurricane's renewed castigation.

On the surface, the Guild of Enforcers were charged with the common good. Against commoner or noble, it was they who upheld the laws of the land. Yet the theory of their service differed vastly from its practice—for how could the law convict those for whom it had been drafted to serve?

The Crest Household were the power on the Eighth Dungeon Floor. By the Authority of their Lord, they had settled the territory, weaving the canon of order under which all were made to abide. Their dominion did not lie over man-made laws—those were delegated to noble councils and appointed officials to conceive. Rather, it was the very nature of a domain that a Lord commanded.

Powerful Dungeon-Spawn did not reside on the Settled Floor, for it was not the Lord's will to permit them. Nor were monsters allowed within Stone Garden or the other major cities—the Black Dragon would not have useful resources wasted between the maws of some ravenous beast. Even the path to power was ordained by noble mandate: Chambers of Inheritance established in the great cities of the Black Dragon's domain.

For those deemed worthy, they would rise anew—Servants in service to their Lord. As for those who failed, in tar-black darkness, their bodies and souls would be perpetually refined, feeding the flame of their Lord's sovereign might.

A Lord's command was not absolute—but it was considerable, as was their Household's reach. To risk the world itself turning against you over the smallest slight... it was a brutal incentive to obey without question or resistance.

Amidst all this, the Enforcers were expected to remain impartial. Perhaps they could—when dealing with minor nobles, lesser branch Houses, or those with only the thinnest claim to a Lord's favour.

But to oppose the dominant power of the Floor?

Madness.

'Calm yourself, woman,' Graceless sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple, eyes squeezed shut.

'He's my brother…' Hurricane cried. 'You can't—you can't chase him down like a dog!'

Before departing for the city proper, Theodore had presented reports drafted by the Black Drake Guild's oracles and visionaries. They told of Havoc's involvement in a restricted Dungeon-Cell—of his alliance with a Selenarian slave girl and a field commander from some minor guild. Together, the three had ambushed the Crest scion and his beautiful bride-to-be.

The reports were damning in their vivid retelling of treachery and deceit, and the news had spread far and wide across the Eighth Floor. Even now, Graceless could hear the low murmurs and sharp gasps of the city guards charged with the Lord-Mayor's defence. He doubted even half of it was true, but truth mattered little when well-dressed lies made better theatre.

If Havoc had emerged from a Dungeon-Cell, he could be anywhere by now. But wherever the Cell had spat him out, there would be a million eyes watching—and just as many lips waiting to speak his name—many of whom were meant to be under Graceless' direct command.

'It's out of my hands,' Graceless conceded.

'Like hell it is!' Hurricane spat, toppling stacks of paper as she slammed her palms against the desk. 'You're a noble and an Enforcer—there's a whole world you could do. You're just choosing not to.'

There was truth in the woman's accusation. If Graceless truly wished to intervene, he could. But not without taking on unacceptable risk for too little reward. He was already under scrutiny for his role in the boy's survival. Only three days had passed since the Crest brat's visit, yet his desk was nearly toppling beneath the weight of condemnatory missives, with further demands for explanation shuffled into its cabinets and drawers.

Sensing opportunity, many within his own ranks had begun to whisper for his resignation. And each day he remained in the outer city, watching over the very woman who now denounced him, his opposition's voices only grew—both in intensity and influence.

'Listen, I want you to stay here while I'm away. I've already spoken with "his eminence", Lord-Mayor Kaine,' he said—his tone laced with scoffing derision at using Bartholomew's formal title. 'He's agreed to shelter you in my absence. Your expenses are covered. There's even a maid's position open to you, if you choose. But the streets won't be safe—not until we've found your brother. Maybe not even then.'

'I can take care of myself,' Hurricane snapped, her gaze sharpening to a point. 'That's not what I'm worried about! It's Havoc! You know he didn't do what they're saying he did—my brother is innocent!'

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

'Your brother is a killer!' Graceless snapped, his patience fraying to the edge.

With a deep breath, he steadied himself, exhaling a long, weary sigh—just as tears began to swell in Hurricane's hazel eyes.

'He did that for me,' she whispered, her voice splintering as the first tear traced a line down her cheek.

Having spent several months with the boy, preparing him as best he could for Inheritance, Graceless had seen it for himself: there was a savagery behind his gaze.

He had killed a man, after all—and done so before many witnesses.

Yet Graceless knew those actions were not the mark of a blood-drenched madman, frothing at the mouth and eager to kill again, as the reports now portrayed him. His was an act of desperation—retribution against a man who had tried to take by force what should only be given in love, and rebellion against a system that did not care.

I would have done the same, he quietly admitted, as Hurricane's tears crashed around her.

'There is a way,' he sighed, rising from his desk.

His hand—coarse and calloused, tempered by battle and strife—settled gently on Hurricane's lissome shoulder as he guided her to the velvet settee. She made some effort to quell her tears, but Graceless felt each shuddering breath as she wept in his arms.

'Anything,' Hurricane stuttered between sobs. 'He's the only family I have… I'd do anything,' she mumbled into his dampening shirt.

****

Graceless sat opposite the Justiciar-General, a pot of steaming tea resting atop the tempered-glass oval table between them.

With a silken cloth, his superior dabbed at his upper lip, wiping amber drips from the white-brushed bristle of his moustache. He returned the cloth to the pocket sewn into the upper-left chest of his ivory frock coat—his movements steady and poised, betraying none of the brutality Graceless knew him capable of.

Powerful and ancient, he had lived through the earliest days of humanity's exile into the Dungeon, attaining a Conqueror's Inheritance many centuries ago. Hugo Potestas was not a man—he was an army unto himself.

With an Anchor that birthed endless clones of his form, he had laid siege to fortified battlements single-handedly, razing them to the ground as the earth trembled at his feet.

That he had returned to the Settled Floors—or part of him, at least—spoke volumes to the seriousness of the situation.

'It is out of the question,' Hugo murmured, his head gently swaying, eyes closed in quiet finality.

'With all due respect, sir, I did not write to seek your permission—only to inform you of my intentions,' Graceless replied, a current of defiance surging beneath the measured cadence of his tone. 'As a High Warden of our guild, I have the authority to vary judgment. But even setting that aside—we would be fools not to grasp the opportunity fate has laid at our feet.'

He could concede it was foolish—tying his fate to the life of a nameless orphan. Yet the more he considered the plan, the more certain he became of its merit.

For decades, the House of Le'Buteur had evaded justice—their elusive conceits too slippery to grasp. But for once, they were ahead of the villains draped in silk and precious jewels. They sought to curry the Lord's favour. And there was no better way than to rid the House of Crest of a maddening sight: a commoner defying noble will.

By shepherding the boy, he could turn him into a spark—something to incite. A carefully laid snare for the ravenous wolves that lurked within vaulted places.

'You have a promising future—but you are still just a child,' Hugo murmured, refilling his cup with clear, amber tea. 'You have yet to experience the true dangers of this world.'

In any other company, the words would have been laughable. But to a man nearing his seventh century, even one over a hundred and sixty could be considered a child.

'Do not throw your life away over this flight of fancy,' Hugo said, his tone cool but commanding, as he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, savouring the floral notes of his tea.

Exhaling a steam-warmed breath, he began to chuckle, returning his cup to its saucer.

'You cannot disguise what this is really about,' he said suddenly, causing Graceless' posture to stiffen with apprehension—to the Justiciar's clear amusement.

'I too was young once. I know well the sway a comely maiden can hold over the hearts of sterner men than you or I.'

'Sir—' Graceless began, only to be cut off by Hugo's growing laughter.

'I do not begrudge you your indulgences—Stewards know, you have earned a few. That is why I have yet to recall you into active duty 'But there is indulgence, and then there is excess. Pursue the woman, if that is what you want. But do not let her lead you into trials you are not able to endure.'

He would be lying if he claimed he was not impressed by the girl. Though penniless and powerless, she never lowered her gaze at the sight of those the world deemed her betters. She carried a quiet dignity in her stride, and a resolve that refused to be overlooked. Perhaps her zeal was infectious—but the fever had only defrosted what had long been buried beneath.

The truth was, he was sick of it.

Sick of the corruption.

Sick of the compliance.

Sick of the impotent rage—helpless to do anything but watch as the powerful did as they pleased.

He wanted to protect her—his fidelity to justice demanded as much. But more than that, he wanted to strike a swelling eye against the forces who believed themselves above every law.

Safeguarding Havoc Gray met both objectives.

He would stake his life on it.

'Sir, my ruling will not be swayed. The boy will face justice. His sentence is none other than penance through service,' Graceless pronounced, his tone resolute.

The room fell still. The two men stared at one another, no sign of wavering in their hardened-steel eyes.

The silence lingered. Then finally, Hugo sighed—his wrinkled lips tightening as he slowly shook his head.

'You senseless child,' he growled. 'I will not permit such waste.'

He rapped his knuckles against the glass.

On the third knock, the door to the High Warden's office creaked open. A bespectacled woman stepped through, a clipboard tucked beneath her arm.

'Sir,' she barked, snapping to attention. 'I'm at your command.'

'You are to locate the boy and execute him on the spot. No capture. No trial. No record he was ever born,' Hugo commanded without hesitation.

'Take a squadron of Enforcers and a competent tracker or two. And girl—do not disappoint me. Havoc Gray does not make it to this city.'

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.