Havoc had been clear. There had been no ambiguity in his intentions.

He did not want to get involved.

Yet here he was—

Fiend after fiend fell, their bodies irrevocably cleaved in the pitiless wake of the Truecourse. Over fifty men, women, and children clung to the path he carved.

His gut remained knotted, tight with unease.

He had not chosen this.

But somehow, step by reluctant step, he had been entangled all the same.

The city crawled with monsters. They skulked through the shadows and crept across the building walls. Yet under the pale glow of the night-sun, Havoc's command of the spiritual mist was absolute. With the Spectre's Band wound tight about his finger, he coiled the haze like a living tempest around the survivors, carving a jagged trail through the infested streets. Many of the fiends recoiled before the whirling mist—splattering against walls, shattering across stone. The few that slipped through fell swiftly to his blade.

He had profited greatly from the black market. With fitting Remnants bound to his Spirit Chain, he possessed the kind of strength he had once bitterly thought divine. But the Forest of Desire had reoriented his horizons. Among Soldiers, he was exceptional—but against whatever force had brought Heureux into ruin, he would stand no chance.

The safehold. No further. After that, they are on their own.

It was close now, tucked just beyond the borders of the Guild Quarters. He could already see the turn down the hidden alley. If his information was good, the secret bunker could shelter twice their number—and with its owning guild away in the Vanguard, it would be well-stocked, and blessedly vacant.

He had not planned to share the space with so many. But it was fine. He would find a corner, lay his head, and ride out the troubles without troubling himself.

'I knew you couldn't stand back and do nothing. It's not who you are—it's not in you,' Naereah churred, her gentle tone grating to Havoc's fraying forbearance.

He parted his lips to refute her. He could not say whether he would be standing, sitting, or lying—but whatever position he took, doing nothing was exactly what he intended. Yet the words choked on his tongue. Actions spoke louder. She would see for herself the lengths he was willing to go for the good of someone else.

If he had not known what to look for, he would have missed it. The door blended seamlessly into the back-alley wall, its stone surface undisturbed save for a single star-shaped hole carved into the centre. Yet when the key slotted into the lock, a soft clank sounded, and the door swung inward.

A narrow staircase led to an underground refuge: a threadbare bunker, its rickety bunks slid into shallow clefts along the walls. Thin sheets hung from crooked metal rails above each bed—the only concession to privacy. Crates of rusted, tinned supplies filled the corners, their scent of old iron and stale preservatives seeping into the stagnant air. Still, there was food, water, and space enough to go around. The short time spent at the Please Come Inn had not spoiled him with comfort.

Havoc slid the curtain across the aperture and settled onto his bunk. Yet even as his eyes fluttered closed, the scratching hiss of fabric folding open drew him from repose.

'Understand that our alliance will be short-lived,' spat a red-haired, bespectacled woman donning an Enforcer's white coat. She glared down at him, a frown etched onto her lips, her fists balled so tightly that the veins shone blue. 'As far as I am concerned, you and your accomplices are still criminal filth—murdering your betters out of envy and spite.'

'A novel way to thank our saviour, I'll grant you,' gibed a grey-haired man. He wore a similar ivory frock coat, but where two stripes lined the woman's shoulders, his bore only one. 'Name's Sedrick Bogata, old chap. The rosy captain here is Bethany. You saw us through a crushingly tight corner—duty holds I owe you a drink. Perchance I can pour you one while we discuss our next move?'

Not a chance, Havoc silently groaned, pinching his eyelids as he sat up.

'You will lend your aid in our resistance,' Bethany jabbed, wiping a smudge of red from her lower lip. 'It is the least you can do. But if you need more incentive—know that I will personally make the case to my superiors for your clemency.'

What was this?

What was happening now?

Why was everyone so determined to drag him into matters that did not concern him?

Had he not done enough in the Dungeon Cell?

Were life's tests unending?

'No,' Havoc replied.

He slid the curtain closed—only for Bethany to tear it open a heartbeat later.

'You have been sentenced to penance through service—you have no right to refuse,' she spat, her voice bitter.

'I understand that does not apply until after I return to Stone Garden,' Havoc said, the curtain's fabric balled in his grip, poised to close once more. 'As it stands, there is still a bounty on my head—one your fellow Enforcers seemed quite eager to collect.'

'Red-handed, I'm afraid,' Sedrick quipped. 'It is rather moot now, but we did come to this city with grim intent. Kill on sight. Leave nothing behind. All very political—conflicting sentences, and so forth. If we turned in your corpse, things would have got rather sticky. Stickier still if we left you alive. But that is all behind us now. No one could object to enlisting the hero of the hour.'

There it was—what he had been waiting for.

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He had always planned to accept penance through service, but only once Graceless was present to enforce it. Yet here it was, steaming fresh, plated on a serving of exigency.

And yet...

'Find yourself another hero,' Havoc said.

The Enforcers had never been his concern. His brief stint in the city had shown them too under-resourced to pose him much threat.

No—the danger lay in their ability to track.

And the real threats would be tight on their heels.

Theodore Crest was in the city. The information brokers at the Wanderer's Fair had confirmed that much. By reputation, he was fearsome: a singular existence among the Champion ranked. If Havoc could weather the city's assault without struggle, there was no question Theodore could also.

Bunker down.

Let the storm pass.

Only then would he smuggle away to claim his reward.

Hand me control—you will have nothing to fear, his Captured Spirit whispered into his thoughts.

'We will help,' Naereah insisted, her lightless glare as sharp as knives. 'But under conditions,' she added, pointedly ignoring Havoc's snarl.

'Speak!' Bethany sneered, stepping aside as Naereah joined the objectionable conference.

'The same sentence for Anton and me, along with an escort to Stone Garden—and a guarantee sworn upon your Lord for our protection.'

'I can offer the escort, and I doubt High Warden Grace will refuse the same sentence. But I do not have the authority to guarantee your safety. Even if I could issue such an order, our Lady's authority is limited. It would have no effect on the higher nobility.'

'What worth does an Enforcer's word carry?' Naereah shot back, locking Bethany's gaze with her own.

'Follow my commands—and distinguish yourself with honour.' Bethany's voice sharpened, the edge of command returning. 'If you can swear to that, I will provide you with Fragments of Recall. Once the city is liberated, they will instantly take you to their bound location—the Enforcer barracks in Stone Garden.'

Naereah did not smile. She dipped her head once, and the deal was struck.

****

The fireplace sputtered and roared at the centre of the great hall. Rested upon a violet satin armchair, Gloria Desmond lifted buttered toast to her lips. She was ravenous, but could only indulge in nibbling bites.

Far be it for her husband to learn she was human—nothing short of porcine perfection would satisfy her gifted station.

It mattered not that she had clawed herself up from abject ruin, nor that she possessed knowledge and secrets her esteemed yokemate could never contain within his curbed imagination.

All he cared for was the appearance of the thing—never the thing itself.

As a male born to the Desmond matriarchy, her husband was a petty man.

He lacked the nurturing and resources to become truly powerful—so instead he was cruel. A pantywaist tyrant, exacting every blow of his tender, swollen ego against the few unfortunate enough to fall under his command.

Was it any wonder she had found comfort in another's arms?

How could she be blamed, when he was so much more?

She had smiled, and waved, and performed the wifely act—but no longer.

Rising from her seat, looming over her gagged and hog-tied husband, she allowed him his first sight of her genuine rapture—stood side by side with a real man of power.

'Darling, please. You must have suspected something,' Gloria taunted, slipping into Amheus's embrace.'How else could you explain my accepting your proposal? It could not have been love—you know better than that. No, it was never you that I needed. Only access to your world.'

Her husband writhed against his bindings, his furious retort smothered by worn socks and rope across his mouth.

'Really, you should thank me,' Gloria mused, smiling down at him. 'In the now, you will be thought a traitor. But you will be remembered as a martyr. Far better than you deserve. To be remembered at all—you would never have achieved that yourself.'

'Unwitting though it may have been, his contribution to the cause should not be undersold,' her lover hummed, his voice a blissful music to her ears.

But Gloria would not relent. Her husband's death would be a true end. He would not share in the eternity promised to her. Nor would he taste her Master's power—the same might that had already transformed every ruling noble across Heureux.

They had almost been too easy to corrupt. Gloria had expected more from such refined company. But in the end, their avarice had been their undoing. Now, body and soul, they belonged to the Master. Her servitude would be to her glory. Theirs would serve a different purpose. The wards around the city were not sustained by hope alone—they needed living tributes to hold in place. And when the ritual of bloodshed was complete, well...

Someone would need to cover the escape.

Must not get ahead of myself—this is only the first night.

The city was in chaos. By now, thousands would already lie dead. But before the Cell would open, Thirio must be unsealed. She could only wonder who would endure the fury of the Wraith Eater.

'The Beasts of Undoing, darling. We would never have found them without your aid,' Gloria chided, dabbing her husband's tears with a silken cloth.

'Do you have her?' came a voice from the entrance of the great hall.

A man stepped into the gaslight, his pallid complexion betraying the early stages of his vampiric transmutation. Looped through his arm walked his muscular bride—broad-shouldered, well-toned, but possessing a poise and elegance that softened her imposing form.

'Sister, have patience,' Gloria cooed, a scarlet dagger slithering into her grip. 'We will all receive what we are due.'

'She is the property of my—'

Sylvia Desmond paused, glancing briefly toward her sister-in-law before correcting herself.

'...Our household. When we learned she was here, you swore she would be mine to dispose.'

'And she will,' Gloria agreed smoothly, pressing the blade hard against her husband's throat. 'We have already scried her location. The slave is safe, I assure you. Such an exotic thing—like a ripened fruit, ready to pluck... and squeeze into tender pulp.'

'Then what are we waiting for?' Sylvia growled, the frustration cutting sharp through her poise.

'She is with a boy I have taken an interest in,' Amheus murmured, his head slightly bowed, the brim of his top hat shading his eyes. 'He has impressed me so far—I want to see the limits of what he is capable of. I believe he will make a fine addition to our ranks. The Master will be well pleased should we present him as ours..'

'No,' Sylvia spat. 'We joined your cause under certain assurances. Some will have to wait—I understand that completely. But the slave is under your nose! I want her brought to me—tonight!'

'It is only fair, my love,' Gloria signed, stroking her lover's arm.

Then, with a violent flick of her wrist, she traced her dagger across her husband's throat, his vital red drawn into the waiting blade.

'A widow, at last', Gloria drawled, tracing his throat with a finger.

With polished restraint, she touched his blood to her lips, savouring flavours she could not describe. Then she turned toward her man, resting her palm tenderly against his cheek.

'My love. My one and only. Forget the boy' she crooned. 'Cry Havoc, this night. And let slip the dogs of war.'

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