For Bethany Tailor, this was her chance. Born a nobody to a family of nobodies—a mere thread in a long line of inconsequential seamstresses and embroiderers—she had been destined for little more than obscurity.

Yet as the bespectacled Soldier strode the pristine white halls of the Enforcers' local barracks, her eyes tracing the roster of the most promising conscripts, she could scarcely suppress her grin.

Fortune favoured the fortunate. For the blessed few, that began at birth—noble blood was an edge sharp enough to sever nearly any obstruction. But she had never been so lucky. Instead, she had risen by keeping close to power.

When her earliest companion had wandered into her parents' store, Bethany had inserted herself into her new friend's circle—securing sponsorship for Inheritance, and a place with the Enforcers. Rising on the churn of her benefactor's wake, she earned entry into a Dungeon-Cell, distinguished herself among the rival attendants, and seized—at last—a Soldier's Inheritance.

Now, again, fortune favoured her. She had despaired when the orders first came down—her recall from the Vanguard etched into stone with bureaucratic finality. How was she to distinguish herself, tasked with guarding a man who needed no protection?

A brief assignment, she had prayed. Even a fragment of a man like Hugo Potestas could not be spared from the front lines for long. The forces gathered against the Guild were too many—too mighty—to be long restrained.

Slithering in the shadows, they lay in wait—striking at the civilised world in an instant, only to retreat into uncharted terrain. It was not enough to hold the line against them. They had to be hounded like dogs—and erased from the world.

As chance would have it, hers would not be a fleeting commission—yet her undertaking was not without profit.

Word travelled at the speed of gossip. Even in the Vanguard, she had heard whispers of the villainous boy and his craven massacre of two noble youths. As the story went, they had risked their lives for him—holding back monster and fiend with selfless resolve. Then, without warning, he struck.

Taking advantage of their engagement, the rotter pounced on his guardians—plunging a knotted dagger into their backs. A slave girl and a commoner—his execrable connivers.

Penance through service? I would never work alongside such a scoundrel, she rebuked, shaking her head as she walked,

She could not understand what had befallen that man. Edgar Grace was a hero to the Guild. Was it not he who had led the conquest of the Silent Fortress? Storming the bastion, they had obliterated an iniquitous cult.

Heart-eaters and child-sacrificers, the Bleeding Hand had long plagued the Settled Floors—convinced they were safe amid the high tides, and endless oceans of the twenty-ninth.

It had to be that woman, she scolded. Hurricane Gray.

There was not a soul among the Enforcers who had not heard whispers of her influence—nothing led a man astray so readily as a wanton harlot.

She had never met the strumpet—what business would she have with such indecent things? Yet she was convinced of her arch-villainy all the same. No upright woman would keep a great man from his cause.

That she would allow such a man to discard his life over her paltry fancies—inexcusable.

It could not stand.

She would not allow it.

Havoc Gray would not reach the city alive.

'To attention!' she barked, throwing open the ashen door to the mess hall. She strode inside in a single step, and all rose to their feet in a practised salute.

She moved between the long tables neatly arranged in parallel rows throughout the canteen, stopping at the centre. Lifting her clipboard, she began to recite the names she had circled in red—those selected to accompany her on the mission.

She had scoured their records. These were the best she could find.

With two notable exceptions—her appointed squad lieutenants, who would each command a third of the force—the forty-four Enforcers she had selected were of the Servant rank.

It could not be helped. Soldier-ranked Enforcers were too valuable to waste on the Settled Floors. They were needed on the frontier—policing lawless towns, holding back the chaos that prowled through the Vanguard, the criminal element forever baying in the night.

Sliding her glasses down the bridge of her nose, Bethany's amber eyes flared with crimson light. The Inquisitor's Gaze, permanently fused to her irises, brought every flaw and fibre into focus—the strengths and frailties of the men and women now standing at attention laid bare before her.

They would suffice. Havoc Gray was only one boy, and his accomplices—hardly worth the ink of record. When she was done, no one would even remember their names.

****

Wheels churred in a rush of rhythmic motion, the bray of giant horses echoing into the night. Sliding aside the edge of the stagecoach curtain, Bethany gazed outside, watching the blur of obsidian monuments barrel out of view as the caravan drew further from the city.

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'They say they were monsters—petrified centuries ago by the Black Dragon himself,' Sedrick said, elbow propped on the bronze rail, head resting in his palm. 'Like hand-curated sculptures—a whole field of them. That's what gives the city its name.'

'Fascinating,' Bethany muttered, barely shifting her gaze.

She had no interest in native folklore or quaint local customs. Stone Garden was neither her home nor her concern—it was a footrest along her long and ruthless climb, a journey she intended would end in the echelons of nobility.

To have attained a Soldier's Inheritance before the tender age of forty marked her as exceptional. Among the ignoble-born, few ever rose so high, and fewer still so quickly. Most would languish in the lower ranks for decades—if they managed to rise at all.

To meet the threshold for nobility, she needed to attain the rank of War-Master. From there, it was a simple matter of aligning herself with a Lord. Her house would be ordained—minor at first—but with time and tactful wedlock, she would fortify those shallow foundations and lead a lineage of the highest repute.

Only then could she shed her common name—more an imposed occupation than an identity—and stand at last among the chosen few.

She could always marry into class—but then, the title would never truly be hers. She would remain a guest in her own household, sharing a man with her peers and superiors alike. Not that she believed High Warden Grace to be that sort of man—but even so, it was safer to approach him as an equal. And only once the trollop had been firmly set aside.

'So tell me truthfully, Enforcer-Prime, do you really believe the official reports?' Sedrick asked, drawing Bethany's attention at last.

'What are you implying?' she arraigned, a cutting edge to her voice.

'It just seems a bit far-fetched, don't you think?' he rejoined, without even a hint of apprehension jarring his tone. 'Some Gray ambushing nobles, thirsting for blood. He's a danger, and he will strike again,' he chuckled, waving his palms in mock dread.

An envious lout striking out against his betters made perfect sense to her. What she could not understand was the man seated across from her. Like her, he was a Soldier—yet born into the prestige of aristocracy, minor though it was. Why he lingered at the bottom rung defied belief. If she had even half the opportunities he squandered, she would already be a Warden—well along the path of a Champion's Inheritance.

'Just seems like more political bullshit—probably another noble scandal hushed with a knife cutting throat,' he sighed. 'Most likely, he bedded some hoity-toity, and her red-faced parents are looking for blood—that I would believe,' he added with a smirk.

'What? you really think? Eagan asked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his ivory-white sleeve, stirred by the scent of gossip like a mutt catching trail.

With the roster offering little in the way of competence, Eagan Vasara had been named as the second of Bethany's appointed lieutenants. She had held faint hope that he might remain a non-entity—eyes shut and snoring before they'd even breached the city gates.

Yet dashed were her yearnings—the man had roused only to prattle on about slander and trite nonsense.

'Without question…' Sedrick chimed, his tone gaining animation. 'Happens all the time. It's all dances and daggers in this city of mine. Better be careful who you partner with—first you're twirling some frilly thing across the ballroom floor and under the sheets, then the daggers come out when her kinsfolk catch wind. It's all quite silly, if you ask me. So what if some toff's delight wants to lock step with something rougher? I say—no harm done.'

'What if she was your sister?' Egan mused.

'Then the scoundrel would bleed,' Sedrick said quickly, laughter rising a short moment later.

Is this what they think of our Guild? Hired thugs sent to rout petty miscreants? Bethany sighed, returning her gaze to the road.

'What about you, Enforcer Prime? What do you think this is all about?' Eagan asked.

'I think we have a mission to complete, and I won't accept failure. Nothing else matters,' she scolded.

'It is rather odd, though,' Sedrick hummed. 'Penance through service is a moth-eaten law. I could not imagine dusting it off over some orphaned boy.'

It was far more than strange. It was absurd. No one had invoked that order for centuries—and for good reason.

It was a High Warden's prerogative to conscript the condemned into their ranks. Though granted position and standing in line with their skills, a sharpened blade would forever hang above their heads. Their every breath supervised. Their movements, tracked.

Though veritable Enforcers, their criminal past would not be forgotten—and their endorser would share in their fate.

Worse still, such enlistments were abnormal. The conscript would be forced to prove their worth at once. Granted the standard stipend of contribution tokens—redeemable for guild-sanctioned currency or goods—they would be subject to a quarterly levy, required to undertake the most perilous assignments.

Should they fail to cover their balance, their life would be forfeit. And so too would that of their inductor.

He cannot be allowed to cross the city line, Bethany resolved, her jaw tightening as a low growl slipped through her teeth.

The Enforcers served a Lord as well—but theirs was not like the Black Dragon or his kin. Day-Light's Song held no dominion over land within the Settled Floors. Her power was over law itself. What she decreed—or what was rightly decreed in her name—became etched into the bones of the world. Defiance was possible, but never by those under her banner, and never without cost.

She commanded fortune. And for those who rebelled against her edicts, it would turn against them. Victory would wither into loss, snatched from the maw of triumph. Adversity would gnaw at their heels. Affliction would haunt their steps. Catastrophe their shadow. Many chose the noose over such a life.

Yet her authority was not absolute. Before Day-Light's Affliction could seize a soul, three conditions had to be met.

The first was simple enough: the decree had to be properly made. Only Adjunct Wardens or above could invoke their mistress's power—constrained by the common-law of the domain and the natural laws of creation. A man could not be decreed to hoist himself by the hair and carry himself across town. It was not possible, and it was unjust to demand.

The second was a matter of prudence. Day-Light's Song was a Lord, but she was not without equal. If a will of sufficient strength clashed with hers, it could unravel her bindings. Thus, high nobility remained immune to her commands—unless they chose to forfeit their own Lord's patronage.

The third was more esoteric. Her enactments could only take root within the borders of her strongholds—and only when both Warden and subject were within their furthest bounds.

High Warden Grace had made his decree. But until Havoc stepped once more inside Stone Garden, she would not be compelled to comply.

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