Sylvia Desmond was not a patient woman, yet life had made her wait. Born into a branch family of a noble house just shy of great, the world had never failed to remind her that she was not even second place—nor third, nor fourth, nor fifth. She was barely a contender. Opportunity and riches poured from the golden heavens onto her younger cousins, while her share was only grey skies and lashing rain.

She was granddaughter to the Beast Mother. That should have meant something. But it had not. For she was her father's child—and no heir of a man would be held in esteem within their matriarchal house.

For that reason, she had been exiled to the Vanguard Floors. Stationed among retainers and commoners alike, she was forbidden to return until she had proven her worth.

Yet despite her disadvantage, prove it she did. It had cost her an arm—and nearly her life—but she emerged from the Twenty-sixth Floor a Champion, seizing in her bloodied grasp a power that could no longer be ignored.

But hers was no glorious homecoming. No palm struck palm in rapturous applause. When she set foot in the Stone Garden estate, she found her welcome spoiled faster than wet eel in a hot summer's noon.

Exiled again. This time: Heureux.

Married off for moderate convenience to her household, and sent out of sight to do as she pleased.

Oh, the family would call upon her when her strength was required. But when invitations made their rounds for high celebrations, prominent events, and occasions to extend the family's power and influence, her name remained ever absent from the post.

She should have hated her family—and sometimes, she did. But as she sat across from the bunglers who had failed to retrieve her prize, she could not pretend it was revenge she wanted.

What she craved was validation.

'What do you mean you cannot find her?' she spat, her grip tightening as the edge of the great oak table splintered beneath her hand.

'It appears they've masked their scent,' Florentia growled through gritted teeth, her eyes glowing scarlet—vacant, as though peering through distant eyes—yet steeped in disdain, and fixed solely on her. 'Heureux is a massive city. We'll find your ridiculous grudge—just give us time.'

'Watch your tongue, cur,' Sylvia hissed. 'Or give me a reason to tear it out.'

'Ladies, please. Let us all get along. We are fellow workers in our Master's estate,' Gloria cooed—her voice like silk cloth laid over spilled wine… wasted all the same.

'If you and all your diviners cannot find one little girl, why should I trust you to uphold the rest of our bargain?'

'We'll find her,' the cur shot back, her tone sheared and abrasive.

It was absurd. If she could only leave the manor grounds, she would track the slave down herself. With the Lycan's Reach fused at the torn edge of her severed arm, her beast-born instincts far surpassed those of the Bleeding Hand's dogs of war.

She would never forget the slave girl's scent. Let her loose upon the streets, and the wretch would be found swiftly—and the Heritage she carried, at last, brought into Sylvia's grip.

'I do not understand why I cannot seize her myself,' she muttered beneath her breath.

'I appreciate your frustrations,' Amheus said, the soles of his shoes tapping crisply against the hardwood as he approached the long dining table. 'But this is a critical stage of our Master's convalescence. We shan't be confined long—only for now.'

She did not need the lecture. She had heard it before.

Even if she had not, she could feel it—the foreign power seeping into her veins, coursing through her body, drawn downward into the manor's depths where their Master slumbered.

They called him holy. She called them insane.

Yet, whether their Master was truly an emissary of some forgotten god or a madman struck by grand delusion—for now cocooned, undergoing transmutation—it mattered little.

He wielded power. And reach.

She would use both while it suited.

'Is it not marvellous?' Amheus sang. 'That we should serve a perfected being—who serves, himself, a still more splendid existence.'

Sylvia bit her tongue as the Prelate launched once again into his doctrine. She could recite it by heart:

Bloodshed into chaos.

Chaos into fear.

Fear into malice.

Malice into power—Pandamonia, as they called it.

And Pandamonia, in time, into Catharsia.

With that strength, their Master would seize a Conqueror's Inheritance, strike down Daylight's Song, and claim the Authority she held—the very force that could unbind their god from its chains.

That chain—link by eternal link—had been forged from the High Edict of Misfortune. And only the Enforcer's patron had grasped the Law within: the Law that, in time, could mature into the power required to draw their god forth from the void.

'Spare me the sermon,' Sylvia snapped, unable to keep her tongue at bay.

'Sister!' Gloria gasped, her eyes thrown wide in horror.

'All is well,' Amheus murmured, amusement curling through his voice. 'We all serve the Master to different ends. It pleases him all the same.' Then his tone darkened, his words dipping to spine-chilling depths. 'But a word of warning, my dear. Our god is not mocked.'

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All around the table held still for a time. It was longer still before any dared to make a sound. But as the miasmic tension thinned in the air, at last, Gloria spoke.

'How goes the other concern?' she sheepishly asked, her tone unblushingly cloy—sweet to the point of rot.

Of course, she meant the Crest lout.

In her younger years, Sylvia had once considered him a match. Privilege and prestige—he had them both in abundance. Yet when she floated the prospect, her matron laughed. As did the others she had begged for support.

Deep in the throes of adolescent delusion—head filled with romance, heart chasing passion—she did what any foolish girl might.

She left home to find her love.

He had not laughed.

He had said nothing at all.

He did not look at her. Did not acknowledge her. Did not even care whether she lived or died.

He merely stroked his soft chin—as though weighing some tedious thing—shook his head, and turned back toward the gates of his manor.

Rejection, once again.

But Sylvia was not petty. She was ambitious. She would strip the slave of her blessing and, with the cult's backing, achieve what none in her line had managed—elevate her family to the peak of nobility.

To become a Lord was all that mattered. The Cell housing such an Inheritance would remain sealed for centuries… but she had no intention of waiting.

Just as their Master sought to take it from Daylight's Song, there was another way to ascend: claim it—from the Black Dragon's corpse.

Killing his brat would be a satisfying first step.

'The young drake is nothing to fear,' Amheus said, his smile stretched think to disbelief. 'We have him occupied for the moment. A taxing drain on resources, but quite necessary—I had not foreseen his arrival to the city. When we are able to move freely, I will personally see to the boy.'

'No!' Sylvia blurted, her chair shrieking across the floor as she stood. 'The Crests are mine! That was the oath—you swore it! Their Authority is mine by right. The Eighth Floor is my domain. The Law of Extinction—gifted to me!'

'You will be given what was promised,' Amheus said, his tone gentle. 'But I fear he may be a touch more than you can handle—at present.'

Absurd.

To her blood and her bone, she was a hunter. And every hunter knew—the prey was never anything more than a shadow of the predator that pursued it.

Havoc Gray.

The whole Floor knew what Theodore Crest sought. And while the hallowed prelate might consider the boy significant, he meant nothing to her.

Dangle the bait. Ensnare the prey.

Elementary.

Fundamental.

The path forward was clear. She needed only to walk it.

She moved before Florentia, planting her palms heavily on the table. Leaning in close—so close they breathed the same air—she glared at the child.

'Find my slave,' she said. Then, without another word, she turned and strode toward the exit.

Two birds. One stone.

Once they were found, she would cast it herself.

****

Naereah had been open. She had been vulnerable. She had spilled her intent and desire for all to see—and he had pushed her away.

If Havoc had said he did not want her, it would have hurt. But she could have accepted it.

It was the uncertainty she could not bear.

He had to feel something. Why else would he have stayed? It was for her. No matter what he might say, she knew—he had stayed for her.

So why?

Why did he turn me away? Why does he still avoid me?

In the day since entering the slums, much had changed. The place was barely recognisable.

With the city at war—criminals loosed, dark guilds rampant, and fiends an ever-present threat—more and more had migrated to the outskirts.

Most were Bereft, but even the ranks of Inheritors had swelled. Possessing a strange array of abilities, they had transformed the place completely.

Stone walls now stood high. Stockades enclosed the outer ring. Barricades and bulwarks were hastily constructed.

It resembled a castle more than a slum. The transformation was astounding.

But the one thing that had not changed was the very thing she yearned to change the most…

She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts—with only modest success.

There were other matters to consider. More important?

Not to her.

But more pressing?

Without question.

She was a Soldier now, and her Harmony was pure. Yet still, she lagged behind others of her rank. It could not be helped. The circumstances of her ascension had been most strange. She had never taken her Third Step within the Servant's Rank, and as a result, her Spirit Chain was stunted.

Where a Soldier's Spirit Chain should bear four Links, hers held only three. One was bound to the Bountiful Chest—it held the plunder of the Cell and could not be replaced. Another contained the Flesh-Weave Needle—a relic now rendered useless. Which left only Skyrend's Touch with which to lend aid.

She was sick of being a burden—someone to protect.

For once in her life, she wanted to be the one others turned to for refuge.

She needed to be stronger.

Standing alone before a practice target, long after the conscripts of Bethany's resistance had dispersed, she extended a charred-silver-clad hand—concentric runes glowing with soft azure light.

The gauntlets had not been purchased on whim. They were a considered investment—worth far more to her than the vendor could possibly have known.

Lightning sparked at her open palm. It wanted to flow—to stream, to strike, to burn the target to ash.

But she would not let it.

Her race was known to most humans as mystical, concealed—wielding their Remnants in ways unheard of beyond their kind. She wanted nothing to do with her people. But that did not mean she would renounce everything they had taught her.

If anything, wielding their teachings for her own ends was a sharper rejection than discarding them outright.

They were the first within the Dungeon—and that time had not been wasted.

Though the gulf between the races had largely closed, there were still ways in which her people excelled.

Runecraft was one of them.

Sequences were mighty, but came at a cost. Runecraft demanded skill—but not sacrifice.

Bound by the limits of the Remnant used, its purpose was singular: to refine and extend that power to its furthest edge.

Through force of will, she made the lightning curve—shaping thunder-born symbols before her outstretched hand.

When the final letter sparked into form, she felt the weight of the world bear down upon her shoulders—the Dungeon's will thick in the air.

Then lightning struck the target.

Not once. But again. And again.

As though the heavens themselves bore a grudge to avenge.

The hounds had been sent for her, and she thought she knew why. But if a second Desmond bitch thought she could lay claim to her—

She would pay dearly for the mistake.

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