Bethany stood outside a dingy tavern. Everything about the "Please Come Inn" spoke of decay—from the rickety sign that hung limp at the entrance, to the moss-laced thatch that had not seen care in years. Altogether squalid—the very place where rats might nest.

The journey to Heureux had been long, and it had been dull. Days of slow travel broken only by the occasional duty: a stray bandit here, an outlaw there. None worth the parchment it would take to log them. But that was life on the Settled Floors. There was rarely a real threat. Seldom an opportunity to impress. Almost never the chance to do something worthy of ink and memory.

Oh, how she longed for something to happen. Pirates, dark-guilds, or what-have-you—something to ink down on a report, proof that this commission was not just in vain. She would execute Havoc Gray—of course she would—and it would earn her some favour with those made aware. But they would be few and far between. She needed something that could not be denied.

The kind of outbreak that made myth out of a man—or wonder of a woman.

'Duty, dine, and wine. A real test of steel and soul, this one,' Sedrick drawled, joining Bethany with a lazy grin. 'Although between you and me, the only real danger here is what that kitchen might do to morale.'

Shifting her gaze toward the malingerer, Bethany's face tightened into a scowl. It was one thing for the sluggard to shirk responsibility during their travels—delegating his reports to whatever unfortunate lingered too long at mealtime. But this was their destination. Havoc could be anywhere. The men combing the streets were merely Servants. Havoc was thought to have advanced—who would be reproached if they faced him alone?

'A bit of advice,' Sedrick jibed, creaking open the tavern door. 'This may be a miserable posting, but it has its charms. These dives always pour the strongest ale. So take the night off—we shall bleed the coffers dry by morning.'

With her lip pinched sharply between her teeth, Bethany followed the wastrel into the tavern. In contrast to its seedy exterior, the inside proved a pleasant affair. A hearth flickered at the rear wall, its warmth wrapping around the room like a cherished embrace. Roasted salt and fat hung in the air, the savoury notes wetting mouth and tightening stomach. Candles burned at every table, and a chandelier cast an amber glow across the space. It tempted serenity and repose—yet she would not be lulled.

'My name is Bethany Tailor: Enforcer Prime of the Guild of Enforcers. I demand the proprietor at once.'

'Honey, look—customers! I told you I wasn't making it up this time,' came a woman's voice from across the bar.

'I see them too, darling. But I still don't believe it,' a man said, emerging from a back room to take his place behind the service counter.

'Do we offer them something to drink? It has been so long—I don't remember how it works,' the woman added, waddling out from behind the bar, her alien frame now fully visible.

Individually, the innkeepers were nothing noteworthy. The man had some tone to his arms, but was otherwise unremarkable—wiping down the bar before drawing ale from a cask. His partner was far stranger: short and slender, with large, expressive eyes rimmed in emerald. Her grey skin shimmered faintly beneath the candlelight. Yet Bethany had been stationed on the Vanguard Floors—she was no stranger to the other mortal races. It was not their appearance that set the innkeepers apart, but rather their appearance together. Nowhere she knew would celebrate such an unnatural pairing.

'Did I not tell you? Fine ale—but a finer sight,' Sedrick chimed, wiping the froth from his lips and winking at the bar-wench.

'I'll have you know, I'm a happily married gal,' the Ajna'Ramadi replied. 'Tell him, honey!'

'She's happily married. But I'm just married, so make me an offer and we'll talk,' the barkeep replied, earning himself a firmly planted foot beneath the counter.

A dead end.

Bethany clenched her jaw, the sharp tang of iron flooding her mouth where her teeth had bitten too deep. Havoc would not be found in this place. The publicans were peculiar—perhaps even perverse—but they lacked that criminal edge, that cold-snap of detachment needed to debase the law and shelter someone wicked. They were simply people, living their lives toward the fringes, doing what little they could to make the best of their condition.

'We're leaving,' she barked.

'You might be,' Sedrick repelled, the rim of his cask resting against his bottom lip. 'But I fully intend a more thorough inspection—though I suppose I would settle for joining me in a drink.'

Before the laggard had finished tapping the wooden counter, a second cask slid toward Bethany, its effervescent contents foaming at the lip.

'We can fix you a plate and all,' the bar-wench cooed, tottering between the Enforcers with a bowl of salted crackling in hand.

'I appreciate the hospitality, and you are obviously not involved in—' Bethany paused, a low murmur drawing her ear.

'I am not saying I agree with him. I just see both sides. And I am more than ready to see my family again.'

The barkeeps exchanged a glance. Anxious. Knowing. The Ajna'Ramadi shuffled closer to her spouse.

'He is bullheaded and selfish!' griped a woman's voice outside. 'We cannot just turn our backs on these people!'

Bethany raised a palm toward Sedrick, cutting him off before he could speak. She then pressed a finger to her lips—a silent warning to their hosts.

She crept toward the edge of the room, silently directing Sedrick to the other side, and a silver cage fizzled into her grip. A fool, but not a complete one, Sedrick summoned a rapier into his hand, holding his stance high—blade tilted for the thrust.

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'Havoc Gray is acting a boor!' the woman snapped, just as the tavern door creaked open.

Got you.

The instant the man stepped across the threshold, Bethany hurled the cage. He barely had time to blink before the silver construct expanded to his size, its open maw swallowing him whole. The bars sealed with a clank, locking him inside.

From the woman, Bethany had expected blue skin and cylindrical ears tapering at the tip. But there were Remnants that could disguise such features.

Expectations be damned—it was the slave girl, gripped by the hair, Sedrick's blade resting against her throat.

'Hold!' Bethany commanded, her finger pointed squarely at the barkeep. 'You will remain where you are for questioning. After which, you will be detained by the local Guild Chapter for the crime of offering shelter to outlaws.'

The encaged man—Anton, as the reports had him listed—strained against the bars. His efforts were wasted. The mystic silver would not bend.

Bethany removed her glasses. The sealing Remnant returned to her Spirit Chain, and her eyes burned red. She could see it all—every strength, every flaw, the precise place to strike to bring him to his knees. The knowledge flooded her vision, but there was more. With a surge of Harmony, the Inquisitor's Gaze could see further—the thin threads that bound one soul to another. With enough time, and a captive in hand, she could follow those threads.

No one they loved would escape her trail.

Anton's threads danced in wild directions. But the slave girl's—there was only one, and it was growing ever slack.

He's coming.

'I will not ask where he is. I know he's on his way,' Bethany growled, motioning for Sedrick to bring the slave before her. 'Before your execution, I only want to know one thing: why?'

The girl's ears folded together, extending like tubes. Her skin turned light blue, the colour draining from her hair. Her eyes darkened to a lightless black.

There was no point in hiding. She was caught—and she knew it.

Yet she did not tremble. There was no fear in her gaze. She glared back at Bethany—unwavering.

Defiant.

The very image of a villainous wretch.

'Nothing to say? No bother. I've heard it all before anyway. There's no justification for what you—'

A serenade of sibilation sliced through her speech. Dust poured from the rafters. Casks and barrels crashed to the floor. The whole world trembled beneath her feet.

'What the hell is going—'

The door burst open. One of her men staggered inside. Blood dripped from his lips, and jagged wounds slashed across his red-stained uniform—as though he had been clawed.

'Is it him?' Bethany demanded.

The man only heaved, blood sputtering from his mouth before he collapsed.

'Listen to me,' Naereah snapped, driving her elbow into Sedrick's gut and tearing free from his grasp.

She slipped from his hold—but did not flee.

'Something is happening in this city. You're going to need our help if you want to stop it!' she said, voice trembling with conviction… and obvious deception.

Within the cage, a pelt of armour wrapped around Anton's frame, and the man began to swell, the mystic silver groaning under the strain of his bestial growth. Man and bear merged in perfect union—nails sharpened to claws, teeth to fangs, his hulking body now coated in bristling fur.

He threw his arms wide.

The cage did not hold.

Steel bars screamed loose and launched across the room like spears.

But he did not run. He simply stepped to Naereah's side, his swollen frame deflating back to human form.

'We speak the truth!' Anton stressed. 'There are whispers of a cult—plans for this city. The Bleeding Hand—'

'Watch your lying tongue,' Bethany spat.

Silver chains rattled up from the ground around her, coiling in tight circles. Each strand shimmered under the candlelight, the final link on each ending in a sharpened point.

The Bleeding Hand was no more. She would not have her Guild's achievements tarnished by their slanderous tales.

'They're not going to listen,' the slave girl sighed.

Charred-silver gauntlets shimmered onto her slender hands. Though heavy at first, they rapidly compressed into a sleek, metallic sheath—moulded to her skin like a second layer. Azure runes pulsed in concentric circles across the back of each hand.

'Not unless we make them,' she pronounced.

She brought her palms together—lightning cracked between them.

At the same time, Anton reclaimed his beastly form.

The promise of violence thickened the air, a miasma so dense it could choke.

Yet before the first strike could fall, screams rang out—and the earth would not hold still.

Through a shattered pane of glass, a man was hurled into the tavern. He slammed into the far wall, then crumpled like a sack to the floor.

He did not cry out.

He was already dead.

His jugular had been torn wide open—ravaged by the maw of some beast.

Then came the beast.

Like an apparition, it rose from the shadows—burning eyes, serrated teeth. It clung to the wall, limbs splayed, claws buried deep in the wood.

Lightning arced toward the thing as it leapt.

The bolt struck, slamming it back into the wall. Its neck snapped at an unnatural angle—but the creature merely took hold of its head and twisted it back into place with a gut-lurching crunch.

And then there were more...

From every darkened corner, they came—dozens of them. Clinging to the walls like an infestation. Hisses and growls rattled the air, their red-veined, vertical eyes locked on the group, sizing up their prey.

'I must say, their tale is starting to sound rather convincing—wouldn't you agree?' Sedrick quipped, drifting toward the others as he moved to form a defensive ring around the innkeepers.

'If we make it out of this, you will tell me everything,' Bethany growled, her silver chains coiling in tight loops around her.

'When we make it out of this, you mean,' the slave girl replied. 'We've faced much worse—this is nothing. Isn't that right?'

'I wouldn't say nothing,' Anton returned. 'But I'd not wager against us.'

Thunder crashed across the sky. The ground rumbled beneath Bethany's feet. Creatures of nightmare gathered in the shadows.

And the homely tavern descended into madness.

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