For the longest moment, Bethany stood paralytic. Her knees knocked together. Her thoughts froze.

They were wrong.

Simply wrong.

The hounds, frothing from the maw with flaming blood, were like nothing she had seen before. There should have been a knot of abyssal corruption—twisted essence, like in the Abominations. But here, she saw only human souls.

Dozens of them.

Melding together in a furnace of pain—conscious and screaming, writhing in ceaseless affliction.

Among pampered academic circles, it was fashionable to question everything. No truth was sacred. No value held dear.

Nothing either good or bad—but thinking makes it so.

Bethany was an Enforcer. She did not have the luxury to entertain such silly thoughts. She had witnessed malevolence. She knew evil was real.

And the things that howled before her—molten saliva burning into the stone—

They were the product of evil.

There was no questioning that.

'Move!' Anton barked.

He did not wait for her response. Sweeping her into his arms, he pressed her against the wall—his hulking frame a barricade against the oncoming blaze. Sulphur choked the air. His fur caught fire. Yet he did not scream. He did not wail. He merely stepped back, turned toward the hounds, and charged—flames crawling across his back, ignored.

If anything, the fire made him larger. Stronger.

He leapt onto a beast, wrenching its head into his claws as it thrashed beneath him. Then, mouth pressed to its eye, he exhaled—

A torrent of flame, smoke, and ash.

'You're hurt!' Naereah called, curling her fingers around Bethany's raw and blistered arm.

Expecting the pain, she winced. But where there should have been the agitated anguish of seething skin, there was only gentle warmth, her exposed flesh mended before her eyes.

Then without a word, the Selenarian turned and entered the fray, streams of lightning arcing from her fingers.

It was disgraceful.

She was an Enforcer Prime. It was her duty to safeguard the helpless. Yet when catastrophe struck, she had found herself among them.

No more.

Where she lacked in raw power, she excelled in expertise. Her eyes flared with a scarlet glow as she invoked her Inquisitor's Gaze, interrogating the creatures' fibrous forms. They were an intricate fusion of wickedness and flesh—an amalgam of suffering and sorcery.

But beneath the weave of dark magics and pain, their true purpose could not escape her sight.

One of the mongrels reared back, its jaw unfurling, a vortex of flame whirling within. Her chains struck before it could release. Their sharpened ends were not meant to maim—such wounds it would heal with ease. No, Bethany had not aimed for its flesh. She had seen the spiritual threads knotted within.

They had taken bonds of love—memories, affection—and rewoven them as shackles.

A wicked thing.

A monstrous thing.

And she would unmake it.

Like an unthreaded weave, the beast came undone—its sinewy flesh unspooling across the ground.

'They're targeting the Selenarian!' Bethany shouted, her chains winding back to strike once more.

She could not begin to guess why they needed Naereah, but she was certain of one thing: the hounds were born to capture, not to kill. That was their explicit design. Everything else—

Merely collateral.

And when the snaring flames swirled within the molten gore of the hound's form, it was not Havoc—the hatefully mighty—nor Anton, nor even herself it turned toward. It had waited. Stilled itself.

For Naereah, and Naereah alone.

She would not allow it—not under her watch. The Selenarian was an outlaw, but she had proven her worth. Doubtlessly, Havoc had corrupted her. Yet by penance through service, there was hope for redemption. She could be remoulded—corrected—shown the error of her ways and led onto the right path.

'We only want the slave. Hand her over—and the rest of you rodents may scurry free,' said a hound, its grotesque lips stretching unnaturally as it shaped the words.

The battle stilled. The surviving resistance huddled together in the corner. Only Naereah, Sedrick, Anton, and Havoc remained between the creatures and the rest. But for now, the hounds did not strike. They simply watched. Waiting.

'I'm nobody's slave!' Naereah spat, locking eyes with the creature's maddening red gaze as it lowered its towering neck toward her.

'You are the rightful property of our esteemed associate,' the beast sneered, mockery curling its voice. 'Come with us willingly, and their lives will be spared. Refuse—'

It inhaled her scent, long and slow.

'We have your trail now. And we will never abate.'

Shattering barks encircled the bunker. As though soil and stone were no barrier to their menace, the baying came from outside. They were surrounded—outnumbered—hopelessly caught.

The lesser fiends had been little more than fodder—barely threats at all, not even fit for Servant rank. But there were too many. Their strength was in their number.

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The hounds, though—they were different. Each bore the might of a Soldier. With such numbers at their side, there could be no holding the line. No endurance. Only collapse.

'You have one hour,' the hound pronounced—its tone heavy and sharp, like an executioner's blade.

Then, like violent rain falling in reverse, the beasts melted into bloody pools and rose, slipping up through the concrete ceiling—disappearing from sight. When only one globule clung to the wall, it warped, swelling into the shape of a wolfish face formed from mire.

'Oh, and Brother Havoc—' it sneered. 'The Prelate expects great things. Do not disappoint.'

Then it was gone.

Silence followed. But before long, the air buzzed with hushed murmurs—whispers passed from pressed lips to close-set ears.

****

If Havoc had to kill every gutless bastard in the shelter himself to keep Naereah safe, he would not hesitate. They meant nothing to him.

Try as he might to deny it—she did.

They had been through too much to cast aside. He could not say he felt for her what she clearly felt for him, but he felt something. Even if it was only indignation—that anyone would dare threaten the girl he had bled to protect.

It was no option.

No democratic ballot.

No debate.

No discussion.

She would not be handed over.

There was nothing else to say.

'I'm just saying we should consider it,' came a voice from the crowd. A trembling child clung to his side, her small hands fisted in his coat.

'We... all of us have loved ones. That has to mean something! Why should our lives—' He faltered, placing a shaking palm atop his daughter's auburn curls, tears swelling in his eyes.

'Why should our children's lives mean less than one girl's?'

From beyond the bunker, the baying resumed; a foreboding reminder time was short. The crowd huddled closer together, whispers and whimpers surging through them like the tide.

'Keep calm, everyone. There's still time aplenty before the gnashing unpleasantness,' Sedrick quipped, his grin stretched thin, voice pitched just a little too high.

'That was not helpful,' Bethany snapped, her gaze cutting sharply toward the lieutenant beside her.

'It helped me,' Sedrick muttered, exhaling through gritted teeth as her elbow found his ribs.

'Is this funny to you?' someone shouted from the crowd—a woman's voice, hoarse and panicked, as if worn raw from screaming.

'Well, not "ha-ha" funny,' Sedrick replied, the last of the humour bleeding from his tone. 'But you've got to admit—there's a certain irony. You're all so eager to hand over the girl who just helped save your lives.'

'They're only frightened—' M'Kajalia whispered, her tone fragile, cracking like brittle clay. 'We all are. But of course—there's no question. We would never abandon Naereah.'

'Speak for yourself, you deviant whore!'

The words tore from the crowd, raw and venomous. More jeers followed, the mass shifting—angry voices growing louder, braver in the chorus.

'Enough!' Bethany snapped, her boot slamming against the stone. Cracks spread outward like veins beneath her heel. 'The Guild of Enforcers does not negotiate with cultists. We will not be handing her over. That is the end of it.'

She stepped away from the throng and turned her head back. Her voice rose behind her—clear, commanding.

'Everyone able to fight—follow me. We need to discuss strategy.'

Naereah and Anton stepped forward to join the Enforcers at the far end of the room. But before they could go far, Havoc caught them by the sleeve and drew them aside.

'We're leaving,' he said, his tone like glacial ice.

'What—no!' Naereah protested. 'We couldn't even if we wanted. The whole street is surrounded.'

'I can get us out.'

Even now, the Traveller's Crow was soaring above the city, its vision a faint impression at the back of Havoc's mind. He had already marked a suitable destination—an open field at the city's edge. A few desperate souls had gathered there, raising campsites and patchwork palisades by the dozen. But there was still space. Secluded space. Enough for them.

'That's incredible,' Anton said, grinning as he clapped a hand to Havoc's shoulder. 'Let's tell the others and go.'

'Not them,' Havoc replied flatly. 'Just us.'

Anton's smile slipped. He stepped back, recoiling instinctively, as if from something grizzly and grotesque.

'Did we not leave enough behind in that Cell?' Anton snarled. 'Not one more soul, Havoc. Not a single one—not while I still draw breath.'

'I'm staying too,' Naereah said, her voice steady. 'We cannot abandon these people.'

Havoc stared at Anton. Then turned to Naereah. With a grunt, he stepped back—shoulders rolling as if shrugging off a weight he had no wish to carry.

'Then stay. Both of you.' He turned away, his voice low, cold. 'But I am leaving. Do not expect me to dig through your bones when you change your mind.'

He could already feel the pull of his Remnant. In seconds, he would be gone—whisked through a slit in space to the city's outer rim.

But before he vanished, arms looped around his neck.

Naereah.

She stared into his eyes, unwavering—then, without hesitation, pressed her lips to his.

'Stay—please,' she breathed, her taste still on his lips. 'Just until there's no other way. If it all falls apart—if there's truly no hope left—I'll go with you. I promise.'

'If the smooching sweethearts—and the ever-watchful romantic—are quite finished, we think we have a plan worth hearing, Sedrick drawled from across the room.

Naereah loosed her arms from Havoc and stepped back, her face tinged a deeper blue, head tilted to the side.

Silence thickened between them—a tender quiet, easily bruised if not handled with care. Havoc knew what she wanted to say. The words hovered on her quivering lips; he could almost hear them. But he would not.

Silencing her confession with his own resolve, he spoke:

'I'll hear the plan.'

Then he turned and strode toward the Enforcers.

'We do not have time to indulge your enamoured pageantry,' Bethany scolded.

'There's a time and place,' Sedrick added. 'That time is later—and the place had best have reserved seating,' he finished, flashing Havoc a wink.

'Just tell us the plan.' Havoc said flatly as Naereah and Anton joined.

****

Time was nearly up. They had done what they could. With her silver chains, Bethany had scrawled the runes as best she could.

She would be vulnerable—her Remnant destroyed—but it would buy them time.

Time enough to escape.

The harder part had been concealing their trail. The cult clearly had a way of tracking them. But there were counters for that.

'Be ready to move,' she barked—her heart heavy with the weight of gold she would need to burn to replace Judgment's Bind.

But there was no other choice. The Sequence was the only way to hold them at bay. She had seen the strings—clear as light—silver threads trailing back to the ones who puppeteered the beasts. They could not destroy them all. But they could cut the cords. Through the Sequence, she could strike their master, bind the hand that pulled the leash.

It would not last long. But it would be enough.

The hour struck.

Gore began to bleed from above. The monsters rose.

And the bunker blazed white—runes flaring with silver fire.

Then came the chains.

From every direction, they plunged into the hounds—their baying a quake in the very air.

But it was done.

They still moved, yes. But they were blind—cut loose from their masters' will. And in that blindness, the resistance could slip away.

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