Terror flowed as freely as blood across the limestone slabs paving the city. The loose threads of civility had unravelled. Beneath them, the malediction long hidden was finally laid bare. Silas Netherside breathed deeply, savouring the acrid bouquet of iron and smoke.

The faithful had fallen upon Heureux—that much could not be denied. Yet, they had merely introduced the infection; the fever that burned now was of the city's own making. Panic had taken root, and bedlam bloomed like an untended garden.

After all, the Vampir had all but withdrawn.

The bloodbath—

It had only grown thicker.

They had struck the match, but it was Heureux itself that now fanned the flames.

He could have basked in the light of the flame-licked sky until daybreak—cries, screams, and wails of help his morning song. But it was not to be. He had been called to a different purpose, and he would not refuse his summons.

'It's too soon,' Florentia grumbled, tossing her knife as they walked, catching the blade between her fingers.

Pinched-lipped and nostrils flared, she snapped her wrist toward a crowd. The rioting rabble did not even have the time to blink before a crimson streak decimated their ranks—bodies split apart like a scattered puzzle.

'Should keep them dancing for a while,' she muttered, her tone grey with discontent.

She did not even slow to admire her work. The survivors she had trialled clambered over each other's broken forms, only to scurry into further bloodshed.

His sister had never understood the beauty in it all. She followed the Master with unshakable resolve, but she could not see the richer hues of his vision.

Life was violence—stark, raw, but significant. Death was peace without meaning. Life was transient; death was eternal. Everlasting peace and unceasing purpose could only be achieved by the union of the two.

The masses that were slaughtered upon hard stone would not obtain that fusion. But even in its incompletion, the transition from temporal to timeless shone with splendour.

'The beauty of a rose lies not in its fallen petals, yet to see them fall is beauty all the same,' Silas hummed with reverent delight. His sister's glare was futile. His mood would not be sullied.

They wound their way through clusters of warring bodies. Where the chaos thickened beyond passage, they slipped into the shadows, emerging only when the path ahead was clear. With yearning reluctance, they left the violence behind, slithering through the tall gates into the charmless streets of the noble quarters.

Spared from the swelling savagery that swept through the city, the noble quarters were a drab affair. Alabaster stone paved a broad footpath, manicured green spreading beyond the trail. They trod to the centre of the district, where the path split in five directions—each leading to one of the manors of the ruling elite. They took the path toward the Desmond estate, pausing only for the creak of the gates and a perfunctory wave from the guards.

'Children, I welcome your return,' Prelate Amheus Dourado proclaimed.

Standing between the noble sisters of House Desmond, Amheus stepped forward—embracing Silas and Florentia in turn—before returning to their side.

As an orphan born beneath the Settled Floors, Silas had no love for nobility. When his birth town was struck by Cataclysm, it was the Sect that had sheltered him; the gentry had cast him aside without qualm.

He could concede their utility, but it chafed to see their blushed, coddled faces draped in finery—choke on the sweet rot of their sulphurous perfumes, as they smiled beside a man he knew as holy.

Gloria could almost be forgiven. She was one of them—but she did serve the Master. Sylvia, by contrast, had only ever served herself. She did not even feign otherwise.

Both sisters—muck, in his eyes—would know true despair come the final rite. But for now, they would be endured.

'Why'd you call us back? It had just started to get interesting,' Florentia groaned. 'Rampage for a while, then they work out some kind of order—our agents and converts planted within. The plan was perfect. No need to start fussing with the strings—we already had then dancing.'

'Nothing has changed, my dear,' Amheus said, lifting his palms in placation. 'The ceremony continues as ordained. Even now, the believers and converts are entrenched among the offerings—dousing fires with poison, aiding in the rise of makeshift bastions and lastpost strongholds.'

'Then why pull us off the line?' Florentia pressed.

'You have work to do,' Sylvia said, her voice steeped in conceit. 'I would have you retrieve an item of mine—she calls herself Naereah.

Amheus sharply clapped his hands and the doors to the estate burst open. Manor guards and turncoat Enforcers spilled forth like toppled wine. Between them, battered and bleeding, shuffled a procession of men, women, and children. Though their garments were sullied and torn, the cuts and cloth still spoke of lofty beginnings Yet with mystic irons clasped at their throats and rods slotted between them like beasts of burden, their descent into ruin was complete.

Prelate Amheus stepped ahead of the captives, arms raised in exultation. He lifted his top hat with theatrical flair and bowed low.

'You are the few who have opposed the Master's favour,' he pronounced, dusting shoulders and straightening cravats as he strode the line of fallen nobles. 'We have offered you many opportunities to redeem yourselves—you spat them back in our faces like a puerile knave.'

With heavy boots to the back of their knees, the captives were made to kneel—one by one.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

'There are no more chances,' Amheus said, his voice a blood-chilling growl. 'Yet, you shall serve all the same.'

His gaze snapped to Silas and Florentia, who moved without instruction.

Silas resented having his gift used in service of the unfaithful—but the directive had been given. He would not disobey.

He extended his hands, a tome unfolding across his open palms, and together with his sister, he chanted the words therein.

A great cry shattered the heavens. The captives clutched their heads, blood and black ichor spurting from their eyes, ears, and mouths. Their skin sloughed from bone as the chanting rose in volume.

One by one, they dissolved into viscera—their liquefied remains pooling on the grass.

Then came the fire—an azure flame that licked through the sludge.

So came the Dogs of War—born of flesh, bound by flame, and yoked to the Master's will.

****

'We locate the rest of my men and bring them to this bunker,' Bethany instructed, fists clenched, the words forced from her lips as she tore her gaze from the dark pools of Havoc's eyes. 'With the additional forces, we can launch a coordinated insurgence. They have numbers, not strength. We will cull the fiends and retake this city.'

Her hands did not loosen. Her jaw locked tight.

She hated it.

It burned at her.

It defiled everything she stood for to ally herself with an outlaw.

Yet these were times of great duress.

Some disgraces could be tolerated—just this once.

'It won't work,' Anton said coolly, his calm defiance fraying at Bethany's thinning restraint. 'Whoever planned this attack knew exactly what to expect from your Guild—but they did it anyway. Nothing you throw at them will change that.'

'Then what would you have us do?' she sneered.

'They've locked down the city, but they cannot for long. Sooner or later, the barrier will fall, and help will arrive,' Anton replied, his tone betraying no hint of agitation. 'I say we gather as many as we can and hold a defence. We can't retake the city, but we can save a few lives.'

'Cowardice,' Bethany spat. 'Of course—what more could I expect from a criminal?'

'I agree with her,' Naereah said, quiet but firm, her palms held out as Anton shifted to stand. 'They're not doing this without a reason. We can't sit back and let them finish whatever they've started.'

Bethany stared at the Selenarian—eyes wide, mouth slack. She had not expected good sense from someone like her.

'That is right,' she said at last. 'The Bleeding Hand were known to horde sinister Remnants and carry out depraved rites. If these imposters are anything like them—this is only the beginning.'

Even as the city drowned in fire and blood, and the foul stench of necromantic sorcery permeated the air, she would not accept it was the work of the Bleeding Hand. They had been crushed by the Guild—routed completely, and scattered to the wind. The work was similar; this could not be denied. But the honour of the Enforcers would not be impeached.

'What say you, good friend?' Sedrick chimed with a chuckle, tapping a hand to Havoc's shoulder. 'After your display, it's clear we'll be leaning on you no matter what we choose. Best you speak now—before we pile too much on your plate.'

Havoc's jaw tightened. He did not shrug off Sedrick's hand, but neither did he return the gesture. Then, with a sigh, he stood and moved toward his bunk. The curtain slipped shut behind him a moment later.

'He will help,' Naereah insisted.

I will believe it when I see it, Bethany silently chided.

****

Havoc sat atop his bunk, a rusted can held loose in one hand. With a flare of Harmony, the Truecourse shimmered into the other—its blade folding into the tin, cutting free its seal to expose the peaches within.

Tart, but better than expected. The syrupy fruit slid down his throat—more drink than food, but filling all the same.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

M'Kajalia's face peeked around the curtain.

'Not to put any pressure on you, but we are relying on you,' she said, a nervous chuckle breaking up her words. 'You know, to stay alive and all.'

What could he say?

The truth?

Certainly not.

That he would protect them if it suited him—leave them behind when the situation became hopeless?

It would be bad for morale.

The survivors were terrified. They practically reeked of it. He knew the scent well—he had bathed in it for most of his life.

Things had changed. He was stronger now. Perhaps even strong.

But he was not a leader.

Nor a protector.

He was a survivor. He would not allow that to change.

'How's your husband?' Havoc asked, deftly changing the subject.

'It's just like him to sleep through the end times,' M'Kajalia joked. Her laughter was strained, but endearing. 'But he's doing much better. Naereah is one hell of a treasure—you need to cherish her. Love is patient, and that girl loves you. But love won't wait around forever while you're dragging your feet.'

Havoc replied with a grunt, shifting aside to make room on his bunk as M'Kajalia crept closer.

'Listen. When things get bad, stay close to my side,' Havoc sighed. 'I can't save everyone—but you've only ever been kind. I can pay some of that back.'

The Traveller's Crow had been a miraculous find at the black market. Three times a day, the raven could carry its master to wherever it flew. Anyone at his side would be dragged along in its wake.

The further it went—and the more it carried—the greater the toll in Harmony.

But if it was only a few...

'Nah,' M'Kajalia shrugged. 'You reluctant hero types talk a good game about being out for number one.'

She smiled.

'But when push comes to shove, trample, and squish—you'll hold nothing back to protect us all. Besides—'

A baying cry cut through her words. The ravenous howl reverberated through the bunker walls.

The candles flickered—then flared into cobalt blaze.

'Stay close!' Havoc barked.

He sprang from the bunk and wrenched the curtain open.

Across the room, molten globules dripped from the ceiling. They sizzled as they struck the floor, pooling into blistering puddles. The survivors scattered in panic. Most escaped harm, but those touched by the drops were burned away completely.

The melted pools began to froth, liquid flesh writhing from the magma. Gradually, the gore thickened—tendrils coiling, sinew snapping into form.

From the rising ichor, the hounds emerged.

They came snarling—maws wide, teeth gyrating in hungry spirals, eager to consume any that still breathed.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.