He did not even kill him. He wanted to. He had tried with everything he had. Without the Seer's meddling, Havoc still believed he would have—even against the full force of Aaron's draconic form. But in the end, he was innocent—if one ignored the attempt, of course. Yet here he was: most wanted across the entire eighth floor, hiding away like a rat within the walls.

It had been twelve days since he left the Dungeon-Cell. Battered and bleeding, he had spent the first two drifting in and out of consciousness—barely aware of the thorns scoring his back or the sour bite of ammonia, mould, and rot. Those days had passed in a blur of waking dreams and fever-laced nightmares, though he lacked the clarity to tell them apart. He recalled flashes of being mauled. A bear had wandered close, and in his delirium, he could swear it had gnawed at his face for hours, grunting in frustration when its grizzled maw failed to pierce his skin.

It was not an isolated occurrence. As if the woodlands had conspired in contest, time and again, a creature would stumble near. Some mundane, others Dungeon-born. Yet no matter how they strained, it was like a feather striking marble—none could leave so much as a mark.

It was not until the third day that he found the strength to move. A tug at his heel stirred him, and his eyes flickered open to find a wolf at his feet. With the barest jerk, he sent the beast yelping into a nearby tree, its pack scattering like mist into the forest's shadowed fringe.

Light filtered down from the dense woodland canopy, its golden rays diffused below, misting the sodden foliage and scatterings of fallen amber leaves. In rags once more, he spent the third day wandering.

The forest offered no challenge. Life rustled in every bush, and even weary, he brought down a gazelle with ease. Damp logs smouldered into a smoky fire—his Inherited strength made the work simple enough. Sizzling fat spat into the flames, its aroma wetting his mouth and stirring his hunger. Incomparably enticing, the scent drew the gaze of foxes, wolves, and bears alike. Soon enough, it drew something else—Naereah and Anton, safe, whole, and real.

The following three days were spent in flight. With his allies beside him, he travelled westward, away from the forest and toward the fringes of civilisation. They passed through destitute villages and struggling towns, until they reached the first major city on their path: Heureux.

A broad road cut through the heart of the city, horse-drawn carriages trailing over fractured limestone paving. At every turn, the roads narrowed. Tall buildings lined the paths, and peddlers cried their wares—fingers clasped on doorframes as they shouted from their store entrances.

Though under the House of Crest's banner, and governed by their allied households, Heureux differed vastly from Stone Garden. It was a culture shock to see the Bereft and Inheritors living side by side—such notions were alien to Havoc's upbringing. Yet in the city, it worked. There was inequality, for certain—nobility demanded no less. But unlike in Stone Garden, Inheritors were seen more as a warrior caste than as something inherently superior to human.

In fact, humans were not the only race residing in the city. Though only a minority, the Ajna'Ramadi lived and laboured beside them.

Short in stature and slight of frame, the Ramadi's wide, dark-green eyes sank deep into their cheeks, their bulbous skulls curving slightly at the back. Their skin was grey, but not pallid—its soft texture glistened faintly in daylight. To further distinguish themselves from the Aarthling natives of the Floor, most eschewed buckled trousers, vests, waistcoats, and blazers, fashioning themselves instead in simple robes that trailed behind them as they tread.

'Take me to your leader,' M'Kajalia said as she glided toward the dimly lit alehouse table where Havoc, Naereah, and Anton sat.

She and her ever-stalwart—and more crucially, incurious—husband, Elliot Brewer, owned the tavern where Havoc had taken refuge. The kindly pair cared little for their few guests' origins, wholly centred, as they were, on providing their utmost hospitality.

Their interspecies union, shunned by both sides, drew the disgust of humans and Ramadi alike. The scorn of others kept business away—but that made their tavern all the more perfect as a hideaway.

All in all, the tavern was ideal—the inn-keeper's alien humour aside.

'I don't get it,' Havoc muttered as M'Kajalia slid a pitcher of frothing ale onto the centre of the table.

'Break a smile, would you? Your people used to eat that line up—back when we visited your world before the Dungeon,' she said, chuckling as she reached on her toes to mop up the foam she had spilled.

With a yelp, she flailed as her husband hoisted her from behind—scooped under the arms like a sack of potatoes mid-tantrum.

'Please don't trouble our guests,' Elliot groaned, gently patting her scalp. 'Who knows when we'll have another—let alone one who pays this well.'

'Let me down this instant, mister!' M'Kajalia wailed, her balled fists thumping against his unyielding midriff.

'I apologise for the disturbance,' Elliot said, bowing his head slightly. 'Please enjoy your drinks. We'll bring out your plate shortly.'

With that, he carried his wife across the tavern and disappeared behind the door at the back of the bar.

Havoc, Naereah, and Anton exchanged glances—lips slightly ajar, yet unmoving. Then the silence broke, and Naereah laughed—a light, tuneful sound, full of something Havoc could not name.

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'I like them,' Naereah said between laughter—and not for the first time.

It was difficult not to. Against his cautious nature and general mistrust, even Havoc had started to warm to the pair. They brought with them a kind of warmth he struggled to define. If he had to name it, home might have been the closest. Not the one he had known—but the one he had never realised he longed for.

Still, he could not allow himself to become too comfortable. He was a wanted man—even now guildsmen and Enforcers combed the streets for his whereabouts.

'Did you learn where it's being held?' Anton whispered, glancing at Naereah as he lifted the ale to his lips.

Havoc was the most infamous of the group—his pencil-sketched likeness plastered across city walls, all sunken eyes and pointed features, a malevolent smile carved across a jeering face. But Anton and Naereah carried their own share of notoriety. If not for the Flesh-Weave Needle buried deep in Naereah's thigh, none of them would have risked moving freely in daylight.

The Remnant, once potent, was of the Servant rank. Now that they had attained a Soldier's Inheritance, their flesh had grown too resistant to mould. The Needle's remaining power was limited, but its cosmetic effects proved most valuable when applied to the group's most recognisable member.

Through its waning magic, Naereah's light-blue skin had paled to white, and her ivory hair had shifted to golden strands. The swirling patterns across her form were harder to conceal—but long sleeves and gloves covered most of them.

'The market opens at nine,' Naereah replied in hushed tones. 'It's being held in a tunnel beneath the alchemical wares shop on the corner of the commerce district.'

'Good work,' Havoc said with a nod. 'We'll go tonight.' Anton and Naereah nodded in agreement.

There was no time to waste. Every day spent idle was another day for his hunters to close the gap. They were a fair distance from Stone Garden—riding the fastest horse half to death, the journey would still take no less than two weeks. But with no Remnants bound to his Spirit Chains, he was defenceless. It was an unpleasant feeling—one he meant to remedy with haste.

To that end, they had sought out the city's black market. Housing Remnants difficult to acquire through legitimate means, it was a rich vein buried deep within Heureux—and one he had no intention of leaving unmined.

'There's something else—' Naereah whispered, just as their hosts returned with roasted pork and mashed potatoes.

'I hope it's to your liking,' Elliot said, his smile tightening as M'Kajalia drove her heel into his foot.

'It's a little rustic for city fashions—but it's made with love,' M'Kajalia said, flashing a mischievous grin as she balanced herself on her husband's feet to steady the gravy while setting it down.

Her face was the picture of triumph as she hopped free, landing with a flourish—slender hands on her hips, head tilted smugly, that impish smile still curling her lips.

She parted her mouth as if to speak, but paused, her gaze cast downward.

Then she said it.

Her words froze Havoc's blood and sent adrenaline coursing through coiled muscles, poised to strike without mercy.

'We know who you are,' M'Kajalia whispered. 'It's impossible not to. Can't walk down the street without seeing your pretty mug.'

'Leia, don't!' Elliot snapped, pulling his wife behind him as he stepped forward. Arms spread, he placed himself between her and their guests.

Havoc did not think the man foolish enough to truly believe he could even slow them. Even without Remnants, to the Bereft, a Soldier was an unstoppable force. Still, the courage deserved recognition. It warranted equanimity, if nothing else—at least until their motives became clear.

'What do you want?' he asked coldly, noting their trembling frames, the air around them shifting under the weight of his presence.

'If it's money you're after, we have that,' Naereah said, her hand resting on Havoc's shoulder.

'How much will your silence cost us?' Anton added, his chair scraping against the wooden floor as he stood. He reached into his coat and pulled free a weighted pouch—then let it drop. Golden pieces clattered across the table, catching the light as they spilled.

'You misunderstand!' M'Kajalia said, squeezing her slender frame between her husband's legs. 'We don't want anything. It's just—thank you!' her voice caught as she bowed her head.

What?

Caught off guard by her response, Havoc was lost for words. In an instant, the killing edge of his presence withdrew from the room, and he exchanged baffled glances with his allies.

'We heard you're responsible for killing Lucia Desmond,' Elliot said, bowing his head to mirror his wife. 'I doubt you know this, but she was set to become the ruling noble of these lands. Her revulsion for interspecies courtship was well-known. Under her rule, we would have been put to death for the offence.'

'To so many, you're heroes,' M'Kajalia whispered, tears welling in her eyes. 'For all the people you'll never get to meet—please, accept our heartfelt gratitude.'

'Stay as long as you need. And when you're ready to leave, it'll be with full stomachs and as much ale as you can drink,' Elliot added, sliding the bag of gold back toward Anton. 'We'll never tell a soul you were here—you have our word.'

Such widespread scorn was strange—but not beyond Havoc's experience. He was a street rat, a thief; a villain, a rogue. Was it not natural for the world to despise him—an unrepentant killer? It never went down easy, but it was something he had learned to swallow.

His hosts' gratitude was far tougher to chew on.

Bittersweet, yet not unpleasant.

With another bow, the Brewers retreated behind the bar, leaving Havoc to pick at his food.

It was delicious...

Spoiled only by the knowledge of the terrible danger he had brought to the tavern's doors. They needed to leave the city.

Word of his alleged crimes had spread far and wide—but so too had news of his amnesty.

Penance through Service—it suits my goals fine, he thought, washing down rich meats with the fruity notes of ale.

Stone Garden was his goal. Nothing would get in his way.

Anton leaned forward. 'You said there was something else,' he asked Naereah, no longer a reason to keep his voice low.

She paused, her gaze fixed on her plate. Slowly, she looked up, eyes moving from Anton to Havoc.

'There's a cult active in the city. The Bleeding Hand's Reprisal, I've heard them called. If they're not stopped—if we don't stop them, they'll drown this whole city in blood.'

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