It was a problem, for certain. Truly dire. An omnicidal cult should not be given free rein to massacre a city. Someone would need to step in—be the hero the city did not know it needed. Someone brave. Someone strong. The kind of fool who risked everything for the greater good.

Havoc, feeling Naereah's glare burn through the blank mask strapped across her face for the black market gathering, was certain of one thing..

That person would not be him.

She's being unreasonable, Havoc fumed, readjusting the bindings at his jaw.

The Brewers were nice enough. Warm and welcoming, they were a testament to the lingering decency he had thought long buried beneath the weight of the Dungeon's severity. Under different circumstances, they were the kind of people you lived for.

But to die for?

Not a chance.

He did not entertain Naereah's pleas. The city had its share of problems, and he had his own. Both were heavy, both were grave—but never would the two entwine. That was fair. He would keep the city from his troubles; it would hold him blameless for theirs. Two ships in the night—fleeting and incidental, neither owing the other a thing.

'It's around the corner,' Naereah said. Quickening her pace with a huff in her step, she jabbed Havoc in the ribs as she passed.

She'll get over it.

Sighing, he followed her around the bend and came upon a quaint lemon-brick cottage. If he had not known what to look for, he would never have found it. The alchemical wares store stood unassuming at the end of a row of far more ambitious buildings. It was not dilapidated or squalid. It was merely there—a modest structure tucked behind louder enterprises, giving the sense of an aspiring vendor: keeping up appearances, but barely getting by.

An elbow brushed against his arm as he neared the cottage entrance. His head snapped to the side…

Nothing.

Only Naereah and Anton stood within sight. But as the cottage door creaked open, he heard the crisp tap of hardened leather striking polished wood.

They were not alone on the street.

'Don't be alarmed,' a hoarse voice murmured beside Havoc. 'Even with our precautions, we prefer to stagger the entrance. But you received your invite quickly—a clash was unavoidable.'

The air shimmered like a hot summer's day. From the rippling haze, a robed figure stepped forward. Barely reaching Havoc's hip, the owl-masked stranger was unmistakably Ajna'Ramadi.

He strode forward with purpose, his light steps grounded by the confidence of a much larger man.

'Come along now,' the stranger called, beckoning Havoc to follow with a wave of his hand.

The store was a bonanza of strange and magical fare. Dried organs and strips of leathered pelts hung suspended on hooks, each radiating a subtle force that hinted at their arcane nature. Scarlet eyeballs floated in jars of pale-green fluid—ever watchful, even in dismemberment. They seemed to track Havoc's steps as the stranger led him deeper into the room.

'If you came for alchemical wares, you should have come sooner,' the stranger disclosed. 'The shop and everything in it will disappear from this city once the market is through. We're not ones to outstay our welcome—particularly not when the storm clouds abound.'

At a plain section of wall, the stranger stopped and placed a white-gloved hand on its surface. With a mechanical groan, the stone slid aside, revealing a grey-stone stairway trailing downward.

'Right this way,' he coaxed, pausing as Havoc and the others lingered back. 'Nothing to be concerned by. My kind have always been skilled with contraptions. Even in more advanced human cities, you'll find such things—though none compare to the engines and gear fashioned before the Dungeon.'

'You speak as if you remember a time before the Dungeon,' Havoc said, peering down the long shadows cast along the staircase. 'From what I've learned of your kind, you've been here longer than us… You can't be that old.'

The stranger let out a dry, rasping laugh, then turned toward Havoc.

'I'm old, but not that old,' he said between low chuckles. 'But my people's past is not quickly forgotten. Our history is rooted in conquest and tyranny. It's why we hold no grudge for how your people treated us.'

Lightly stepping, he moved before Naereah—who immediately recoiled.

'We were not called into the Dungeon. We broke our way in...

'As a result, we cannot Inherit its might. Through mechanical genius, we clung to our ways—building weapons of war we thought could subdue this world… and everyone in it. But only dust remains of our great ordnance—and three hundred years spent atoning for our arrogance.'

He bowed his head, and his sigh lingered in the still air. Then, without another word, he turned to the stairwell and began his descent.

'We will long remember our past—even as your history consigns it to legend.'

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As though a veil had lifted, the moment Havoc reached the landing, the market shimmered into view. Stalls emerged from thin air—followed by masked men and women drifting between them in ghostlike procession, lifting strange instruments to the flickering gaslight before returning them to their stands, only to repeat the ritual at another stall.

Though the market bustled with motion, the sound remained subdued. Every footstep was hushed. Every word, a muffled drone. It was as though the vast hall refused to be known—its very air pressing down with a subtle pressure that obscured sight and stifled sound.

'It can be disorientating for newcomers,' the stranger said, his gruff voice cutting through the hush like a knife. 'Discretion is our highest priority. You will only hear what you're meant to hear. And of course, the three of you will be granted the same courtesy.'

With a flourishing wave, he swept a hand across the hall to present the underground exchange—then stepped back toward the stairwell. At the foot of the stairs, he turned one last time, tucked a slender arm across his waist, and bowed low.

'May you find what you seek, young wanderers. And may it do more good than ill.' A dry chuckle followed. 'An old benediction. Forgive me my sentiment.'

Then, like a ghost, he vanished. Not even his footsteps dared remain behind.

'Strange fellow,' Anton murmured, slipping a hand into his inner coat. He pulled out two heavy pouches—handing one to Naereah, then tossing the other to Havoc. 'In places like this, gold's favoured over tokens. Split up, find what you need. If we lose each other, meet back at the tavern before day-sunrise.'

Anton quickly departed, blending seamlessly into the throng. But as Havoc moved to take his own path, Naereah fell in beside him.

'We're not finished talking about it,' she pressed, her pinched grip tugging faintly at his sleeve.

'There's nothing to talk about,' he said, shaking her off as he turned toward a nearby stall.

'That's not how this works!' she burst out. 'You can't just order me around. I'm not a slave—not to you, not to anyone. Not anymore. Never again!'

'You're being ridiculous,' he groaned, halting to face her. 'That isn't fair!'

'No! What isn't fair is letting hundreds of thousands die when you could stop it!' she snapped, her voice raw with bitter pain. 'That's not the Havoc who saved me from the White Temptress. Or the one who gave me his food… who stole me from the Seer's grasp.'

Her words cracked—

'That isn't the you I fell in—'

She stopped. Looked away. Her whole body trembled.

But then, fists clenched, she looked up—

Her impassive mask somehow edged with emotion.

'The Havoc I know wouldn't run when there's something he could do,' she said softly, stepping closer even as she quaked. 'You're going to save these people. I know you will—because that's who you are. Even if you don't see it yet.'

She rested a white-gloved hand to his cheek and gently drew his mask to hers. Then, with a heavy sigh, she slipped away—vanishing into the crowd as if she had never been there at all.

Absolutely not. No way. Not a chance. It's never going to happen!

What did she know about him?

Nothing.

Less than nothing.

The Havoc she believed in was a fantasy—a fiction spun in the trauma-starved heart of a girl desperate to believe in something kind.

But that was not the world they lived in.

And he was not the man she thought he would be.

Life was savage. And so was he.

He had his sister to think of. That was enough. He could not carry someone else's war.

It's not going to happen.

'Gods damn it!' he cursed aloud, knowing his voice was hushed to observers 'That reckless girl is going to get me killed.'

His breath fogged the inside of his mask as he exhaled through his nose. Forcing his thoughts aside, he made for the nearest market stall—ignoring the faint, ghostlike chuckle at his ear, as his Captive Spirit stirred in amusement at his plight.

He drifted from stall to stall, though little caught his eye. There were curiosities here and there, but confined to the Servant rank, most were of limited use to him now. Yet as he ventured deeper into the market, the offerings grew stranger—more varied in rank, and in nature.

'You've a sharp eye, fellow wanderer,' a vendor praised. Havoc's gaze refused to settle on the man's face, but he glimpsed the soft crest of a top-hat. 'What you're looking at is the Vampir's Heart. Like a second Anchor, it embeds into your chest—replacing weak flesh with something immortal.'

'What does it do?' he asked, lifting the desiccated organ to his eyes. Its rhythmic beat thrummed through his arm.

'Ah, so it intrigues you?' the vendor hummed. 'So discerning. With the Heart, you'll be transformed—never ageing, never dying. You'll command blood and shadow… so long as you feed the hunger it bestows.'

A little more prying earned him the full description—and lost the sale.

The Vampir's Heart was a powerful artefact, a Soldier-ranked Remnant that replaced the user's own with itself. It granted mastery over blood and allowed travel through shadow—but at a dire cost. It drained one's Harmony constantly, and should it ever run dry, so too would the blood in his veins.

Worse still, it could grow.

Rare, but not unheard of, some Remnants could evolve in rank. The Heart was one such artefact. But the condition?

Sapient life.

Abominations would suffice, the vendor assured him, with a knowing lilt. But the Heart would compel him to hunt—insanity creeping in if he resisted for too long.

At another booth, he was presented with the Life-Reaper Cuirass. So long as one wore the armour, it granted towering might—strength drawn not from its power, but from the years it consumed. Inheritors were long-lived, their lifespans growing with every rank. But as the cuirass whispered, bitter and sly, Havoc sensed that even a thousand years would not sate its hunger.

Again, at another, he was offered a doll. A life-sized puppet—identical to its master in every way. It would serve, yes. But only for those who strove to become more. Once each night, it would rise and challenge its wielder to mortal combat. To resist killing it was to prove worth. To give in was to die. Even victory came at a price. For each battle survived, the Remnant grew closer to rebellion. Only restraint could bind it. Only restraint—repeated endlessly—could make it obey.

'Stewards be damned! Who in their right mind would buy this dross?' Havoc barked, throwing up his hands as he turned from the stall.

It was another half-hour before his eyes settled on something that did not repel. The ivory ring seemed to call out, whispering to something—someone—coiled deep within his core. The Spectre's Band. A charm said to give substance and shape the ghostly mist drawn from the Midnight Urn.

'An excellent choice,' the merchant purred, laying the ring into Havoc's palm with reverent care.

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