The city rasped with the stench of acrid smoke and sweet, rotting blood. Anguished cries piled atop mewling howls for mercy—discordant, fraying, each plea a thread in the night's unravelled hymn. Havoc stood just beyond the bunker door, watching a world set alight.

The hounds—

An army of them.

Eyes of blood and nostrils aglow, the patchwork beasts prowled the streets—flesh stitched from carrion and tar, their sinews coiled and twitching with violent impulse. They stalked without pattern, only hunger. When someone strayed too near, they pounced—jaws clamping with a crunch, marrow spilling across the cobbles like sap from a bleeding vine.

'Frightful bunch, I must say,' Sedrick muttered, voice low as he lightly slapped Havoc's arm. 'I envy your courage—though not your task. Still, no time like the now. Our Captain's glamour won't hold for long.'

The plan was simple. Through hastily scrawled runes, a Fragment, and her chains, Bethany had severed the leash binding the hounds to their masters' will. Mindless, they now roamed—blinded, yet deadly all the same.

There were a handful of Inheritors among the survivors: three Enforcers, and a few rogue blades. Yet the bulk of their flock were completely defenceless. With the beasts on the prowl, they would not survive the escape—not without bait to draw the hounds away.

'It's me they want—it should be me…' Naereah pleaded, her voice catching as Havoc pulled away from her touch without looking back.

She wanted to do good—save lives, help the helpless, as she had once been. He did not blame her for that. But neither would he comfort her. Her intentions were good—but so was the road to ruin.

His ruin, if he faltered or fell.

What did she think would happen when she asked me to stay? he griped, agitation pressing his jaw.

She had come a long way from the pitiable slave he once tore from the Temptress' lair. Through the Tears of Desire, her Harmony had been purified. Her aptitude now rivalled the highest nobility. Remnants that once recoiled at her presence now vied for her touch. Her strength, once shackled and broken like the wings of a bird, now soared with dangerous confidence.

But it was not enough.

Not beside him.

He bore the Heritage of war. Tempered like steel in the furnace of combat. Every loss a victory. Every scar, a lesson. The Dungeon-Cell had been his crucible—fusing violence into instinct and boiling martial artistry into the marrow of his bones. What he had gained in months, others would never approach in decades.

His Harmony was pure, as was his Pandamonia—even if he had yet to grasp what that truly meant. Remnants did not merely call to him; they whispered secrets to his mind. They stretched beyond themselves under his command.

By Harmony, the Spectre's Band shaped the spiritual mist drawn from his Anchor. Through Pandamonia, he could lengthen it, fashion it, direct it at will.

The Truecourse resisted his darkness—while the Traveller's Crow demanded it. A Remnant dismissed as worthless had revealed a secret hunger.

Even his armour yielded to his duality. The hooded cloak, thought to be simple, offered only a modest increase to an Inheritor's strength and speed. Yet draped over his frame, the Artemis Cloak enhanced his perception. It did not grant full sight like the Scout's Eye, but its impressions and warnings were distinct enough to matter.

Alone, any one of these boons was potent.

Together they wove a tapestry of a burgeoning monster—

He was that monster.

Naereah had come far. That could not be denied.

But where he was going, she could not follow. Not the steep climb to power, where even Lords would not be his equal—nor through beast-stalked streets, as he drew them away.

He sprinted from the alleyway onto the main street. Bleeding eyes flashed toward him. Drooping ears snapped erect—there was no hesitation in the chase. Their snarling barks promised what their bite would soon deliver.

A hound barrelled toward him. Havoc leapt aside. It slammed into the stone with bone-crunching force, shattering the paving as it tumbled past.

But there were more.

Many more.

Claws scraped brick and mortar as the beasts mounted the walls, flanking from above. They bounded from the sides, launching themselves with explosive force—teeth snapping at the air as they closed in.

But Havoc was too swift—and too wily—to be caught.

He slipped behind crumbling statues, ducked beneath their lunges, and veered through the chaos—letting the monsters crash into each other in a chorus of grinding bone and savage percussion.

He did not slow—he could not. His heart thundered in his chest as the beasts gave chase. They tore past onlookers like predators possessed, their savage swipes dismembering anyone unfortunate enough to be in the way—collateral, nothing more.

None of this was necessary. With a thought, he could have carried a few to safety—left the rest to their ability and chance.

No one had ever offered him more than that.

But he hated them for it…

Stop whining. It's done, he chided himself as he summoned the Truecourse into his grip.

He lashed the sword forward—but the blade curved behind, guided by will rather than motion. It met a wet resistance—flesh parting, bone splitting. The hound's whine tore into the night.

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Even as he raced onward, his blade darted back. Like a snake through a labyrinth, the ivory steel twisted and turned, coiled and hooked, cleaving limbs and rending meat, as it spiralled a violent course.

He had seen them reknit themselves from worse.

They would not be down for long.

He surged Harmony to his cloak, and forced his pace faster. The city streaked behind him, yet he grit his teeth and what waited ahead.

People.

Hundreds of them.

Children wept in their mothers' arms as they fled, chased through the streets by savage men. Fire split the air—cast wildly into the crowd by trembling hands. The great congregation swelled with violence and fear.

And when the hounds caught their scent…

Not one would survive.

Shit.

Saving a few to condemn the many. Almost comical. He could live with inaction—but this was different. This was his fault.

In moments—mere breaths—the hounds would reach them, guided to the slaughter by his own hurried steps.

Shit!

He was strong, yes. But not invincible. He could not hold back the gnawing tide that surged in his wake.

Gods damn it!

Yet, as he neared the riotous crowd, his gaze fell on two children—hand in hand, weeping.

That decided it.

There was no choice. Only action.

He spun on his heels and faced the hounds—jaws wide, eyes starved, their maws wet with famine and frothing blood.

Necessity.

Rage.

They coursed his veins like a furious sea.

The hounds closed in, the stench of decay thick on the air. Towering, twisted things—coming fast.

And there stood Havoc, feet planted, sword raised.

Then came the mist.

It rose from his feet like smoke. Faint at first—then gathering, pooling, rising.

And then it surged.

Like a tidal wave, it crashed forward—slamming into the hounds. Snarls twisted into whimpers as they were swept back, limbs scraping and flailing through the spectral haze.

'Run!' Havoc shouted to the crowd.

He stepped forward, arms stretched wide. His shoulders trembled. His legs buckled beneath the strain. But still, he stood.

The hounds strained against the billowing fog, their snouts pressing through to the outside, as Havoc's Core emptied at a gut-lurching pace. He could not hold them much longer. Behind him, the masses scattered at the crack of ravenous barks, some glancing his way before finding the sense to scuttle and sprint from the looming disaster.

His teeth ground together. His knees buckled. Then, with a rasping heave, the wave broke from his command—loosing the hounds upon the street.

So fell the mist.

Then rose his blade.

Surrounded.

Unyielding.

His sword fell with murderous intent as he sidestepped rending swipes, rolled beneath lunges, and conjured veils of mist to block what he could not evade. He raised the blade high and lashed it like a whip—severing limbs, slicing through tendon and sinew.

Exploiting the hounds' fury and mindless aggression, he drew them into one another—into snarling collision and chaos. They trampled and tore at each other in a tangled heap of teeth and claw.

But it was only a stall. He could not hold forever.

But maybe long enough…

'Exceptionally done,' one of the hounds praised, as the battle stilled.

Havoc fell to his knees, his chest rising and falling with weighted breaths.

He had done it. He had endured long enough for their masters to refasten the leash, retake control of the untiring hounds. He did not know why, but they wanted him alive. He had gathered that much from their parting words in the bunker.

'The Prelate was right about you,' the hound murmured. 'You will make an excellent recruit to our cause.'

Havoc raised his gaze to the beast's bleeding red eyes.

A grin split his lips.

'Though this cannot go unpunished—spare the rod, and the child rots,' the beast continued. 'You bought them time. But we will catch their trail. And when we do… we will not spare a morsel.'

Then the hounds turned.

Like a galloping herd, they withdrew—silent but thunderous, retracing their steps into the smoking dark.

****

The golden rays of the day-sun peeked through the waning night. Exhausted, Havoc staggered past unsteady shacks barely fit to be called dwellings, ignoring the fretful gazes of those watching from within.

Desperation clung to the air—thick with sweat, blood, and mire.

These were the slums. Every city needed a place to keep its poor. Though this was not the hovel that had raised him, its likeness to Stone Garden was more than passing.

The bodies that lined the street may have been ravaged by teeth rather than frost, but such details hardly mattered. The hardship was the same.

'It's him,' cried a child's voice from a dilapidated hutch—wide eyes peering, only to vanish when met.

Using the Traveller's Crow, he had surveyed the slums beforehand. Though he had hoped never to set foot in such a place again, it offered safety—at least relative to the rioting city.

Like an odious insect, it was beneath contempt. Too filthy to crush—lest it stick to the boot.

Some fiends had found their way here. But they had been dispatched quickly upon the survivors' arrival.

'Havoc!'

The shack's doors burst open, and Naereah sprinted toward him. Anton and the Enforcers followed behind at a measured pace.

As she reached him, Naereah threw her arms around his neck. She leaned in, their lips brushing—lightning tingling in the space between. Her eyes closed, her breath heavy, her lips parting. But before the moment could land, Havoc slipped free from her hold and stepped away.

Her kiss had almost killed him once.

He was not for tempting fate.

'Why?' she asked, her voice faltering as her eyes welled.

Yet before Havoc could piece together a scattered response, they were mercifully interrupted.

'Your actions were commendable,' Bethany acknowledged, her words clipped and tight. 'It will be noted in the report. But for now—we have more pressing matters.'

'Let the man rest,' Sedrick drawled. 'Our troubles aren't going anywhere. They can wait for a morning's doze.'

'The slums were as you described,' Bethany continued, brushing aside Sedrick's quip. 'But it's sorely lacking in fortifications. If we are to make this base secure, there is much work that needs to be done.'

'Which one's empty?' Havoc muttered, looking past the Enforcer to the slanted shacks ahead.

Anton gestured to a building, and Havoc pressed toward it. He pushed open the creaking door and closed it behind him.

A threadbare mat padded the splintered wood. It promised no comfort—but he had slept on worse.

He pulled a fraying sheet up to his neck. His eyes shut.

The world could wait while he slept.

He had earned that much.

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