'Open the gates!' Bethany cried, her voice gritted with urgency.

Without pause, she bounded down the stone-slab steps of the jury-rigged watchtower and sprinted for the towering wooden gate at the edge of the slums.

Metal bars had been slotted horizontally across its length—half already unlatched, the rest in the process. Her patrols worked in tight formation, hauling the iron beams from their catches with practised speed, and set them aside.

With a groan, the gate creaked open.

Bethany did not thank the guards. There was no time—only the moment, and the need to run.

Perchance to save.

She dashed past the threshold of the slum-born keep, boots crunching gravelled stone, leaping over sun-dried corpses as she rushed to meet her fellow Enforcer.

'The healer!' she howled.

Dropping to her knees, she slid across broken stone—rough edges tearing through her trousers—catching the battered Enforcer just as she collapsed.

This was not what she wanted.

She had longed to prove herself. To distinguish herself among her peers; to show she was more than the sum of her ignoble origins.

But this?

It was too much.

She had always known she was destined to lead—but leadership was meant to come in stages. First a captain of few, then a few more, then many. In time, perhaps, she would have borne the weight of hundreds. But instead, the need had come all at once. Within days, they had been placed in her care—men, women, children—growing in number by the hour, their survival bound to her competence. Her command.

She once thought herself ready.

She was not.

But that mattered little now. It was done.

She was an Enforcer Prime, bound to carry the burden of the helpless—sworn to protect those under her charge.

To her fellow enforcers, she owed that duty all the more. And now, as she cradled the trembling frame of a woman she had led into Heureux—blood sputtering from the Enforcer's lips as she rasped shallow breaths, the weight of that duty pressed down upon Bethany's shoulders with crushing solemnity.

'Where is the healer!' Bethany howled, as the woman's pulse faded beneath her ashen skin.

'I'm here!' Naereah called, her footsteps pounding closer from behind.

The Selenarian crouched beside the wounded. She examined the woman's injuries, gently tracing her hands across her body. Her touch lingered where blood soaked through the fabric of the torn Enforcer's ensemble, as two men approached from behind bearing a wooden gurney between them.

'Dismiss your Armour,' Naereah said—her voice firm, unwavering—as she pressed her hands to the woman's shoulders, snapping her back from the brink of unconsciousness. 'Order her!' Naereah snapped, jolting Bethany from the tangle of anxiety tightening in her gut.

The Enforcer's white coat was no mere garb. It was a treasure—woven from the ivory feathers of their Lord. Flawless, incorruptible, it had been sanctified into a Remnant, laced with Daylight's Blessing in every thread. It warded against misfortune. It repelled interference.

Normally, a boon.

But when healing was needed—and the patient could not discern harm from help—the same blessing that shielded them could twist aid into agony.

At Bethany's command, the woman's uniform shimmered and vanished her form. Exposed, her pale, claw-rent skin seeped with yellow and angry-red. Only blood-slicked cloth clung to her nakedness as she quivered upon the cold stone. Frail and small, her head rested upon the lap of the captain who had blindly led her to this fate.

Bethany did not even know her name, yet she commanded her. She had hand-selected her men. Chosen them to follow her into this. And then, believing she would move faster without them, she had left them to the hostilities of the city.

She could not have known what would befall. But that did not matter.

These were her men.

And each of their deaths was a weight borne by her judgment.

They should have been safe in the Noble Quarters—that was the report. That's what Preston told me. Once the slums were secure, we were meant to go and find them... So how did this happen? How did everything turn to shit?

'Cap—captain,' the woman wheezed, her words broken by wet, gurgling coughs.

'Save your strength,' Bethany said—soft, but commanding.

'Please, the—' the woman rasped, forcing the words above Bethany's hushing tone. '—others. You… save the others.'

With that, she slipped into unconsciousness.

So pale. So still. Only the faint, quivering rise of her chest betrayed the breath that yet remained.

****

Flanked by Anton and Sedrick, Havoc waited in the halls of the improvised infirmary. Countless shacks had been torn down, their jagged remains cannibalised and reforged by the uncanny into the reinforced structures now rising across the slum's skyline.

It had not been easy. But it had been quick. Within days, Heureux's outskirts had been reshaped by the hands of a few Inheritors.

It had been necessary.

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He was glad for it.

Yet as another man was wheeled past—his black suit torn and hemmed with blood—Havoc could not deny the bitter tang rising in his throat.

Stone Garden's elites could have done the same with ease. They had the power to transform the slums that had raised him.

One hospital—just one—would have made all the difference.

But they had not.

Because they did not care.

To the powerful, the lives and deaths of the powerless were not even worth the trifle of consideration—let alone the effort of the slightest exertion.

He had known that his whole life. But knowing, and seeing—those were as far apart as the captured sky and the lowest crevasse.

The infirmary doors swung open, and Naereah stepped out. A bloodstained gown clung to her slender frame, pale-blue skin pressing through the thin fabric. Her transformation was no less striking than the slum's. She remained lean, but had soften in places. No longer the image of famine and need.

She had always held an alien draw, but it had long been hidden behind privation and doubt. That was no longer true. It had not been true for some time now. This was not the first time Havoc had noticed her growing allure. But as her pitch-black gaze locked with his—unyielding, firm, seared with uncompromising desire—he looked away.

He knew what she wanted.

And he did not have it to give.

He had been right to avoid her these past few days. If circumstances had allowed, he would not be facing her now.

'Stop avoiding me,' Naereah mouthed—her voice barely more than a breath, her eyes honed to a point, sharpened with accusation.

'You kissed me, and stayed for me—then rejected me, and abandoned me!' she said, louder now, her voice edged with frustration. 'If you want me, then have me. If you don't, say it plainly.'

As Havoc stood, she stepped in—closing the distance. She left no space between them. If he wanted to leave, he would have to push past.

But as she pressed herself against him, her hands cupping his face so he could not look away, in that moment—he did not want to push her away.

He took her wrists in his hands and moved them aside. Her eyes wavered, swelling with tears.

'I under—' she began, but the words caught in her throat—cut off as Havoc pulled her in by the hips and pressed his lips to hers.

It was madness.

Her lips were soft.

He would never be what she needed him to be.

But in that moment—he did not care.

He was a reprehensible bastard. A murderer. A thief. Greed was not the worst of his sins.

'This doesn't mean—' he began, only to be silenced as Naereah's lips found his again.

'I know,' she breathed into his ear. 'But I can wait. Just—please, don't push me away. Not again. Not ever. I'll wait until you're ready. But I'll wait by your side.'

A nod in place of a vow, he pulled her in again.

Their lips met once more—parted only by the curt clearing of a throat, and the gentle nudge of a shoulder to ribs.

'If you two are quite finished—Iris has woken. You're all needed for the report,' Bethany murmured, her tone flat as she pulled Naereah from Havoc's hold.

Sedrick clapped his hands twice before standing.

'Reserved seating, as requested. Havoc Gray, you are a man of your word,' he quipped, slapping Havoc on the back as he followed Bethany through the infirmary doors.

Havoc moved to follow, but Anton's hand caught his arm. He pulled him aside—his face stern, his eyes hard.

'I have two daughters, you know,' he said coldly. 'When they grow up, if a boy ever treats them the way you've treated Naereah—'

His jaw clenched.

'—I'd strangle him with my own hands.'

Havoc jerked his arm free and shoved Anton back into the wall. He had not meant to use much force—but as a Soldier, his strength was near its peak. The infirmary wall cracked on impact, dust pouring from the fissure left behind.

'Stay out of it,' Havoc snapped, as Anton pulled himself upright.

'Make up your mind,' Anton shot back. 'She's already been through enough—and you've become another trauma to endure.'

'Sanctimonious bastard,' Havoc muttered under his breath.

'Pig-headed brute,' Anton said louder, as Havoc let the door close behind him—only for a slight smile to curl his lips when Anton pulled it open a moment later.

****

'We—we never made it to the Noble Quarters,' Iris said, her voice frail and low. 'The devils struck before we arrived. We fought them off. But—even when they retreated, there was no end to the bloodshed.'

Seated around the Enforcer's sickbed—Naereah close to one side, Anton on the other—Havoc waited for her to continue.

He had heard this story before. The details varied from mouth to mouth, but every refugee to the outskirts told a similar tale:

The fiends struck first. Then the city fell to violence and crime. Dark Guilds, flooded the streets, bandits, outlaws, and worse followed in their wake.

The city was eating itself.

The bastilles were open. So were the jails. asylums and military keeps.

He had heard it before. But for the first time, he did not believe it. He could not say why. Her injuries had been dire when she arrived—life clinging by threads. Even with Naereah's healing, she still looked moments from death.

They could not have been self-inflicted.

It was ridiculous to suspect.

But he was suspicious all the same.

She said the right words. Paused at just the right moments to underscore her vulnerability—her fear, her panic, her hope. Yet when she spoke, all Havoc heard was deceit.

Crimson lies spilled from pale, crusted lips.

'You—you have to save the others,' Iris wailed, tears streaking down her cheeks, soaking into her tangled auburn hair.

'Of course, we will,' Bethany said with conviction, her tight grip warping the sickbed's rail.

'You said the Guild had five Soldiers,' Havoc said, his tone edged with distrust. 'Two Soldiers working together is more than enough to handle a group of Servants. There's no way they'd let any of you escape—'

He leaned forward.

'—not unless that's exactly what they wanted.'

'Havoc!' Naereah gasped, her eyes wide, glaring.

'No—he's right. They did let me go,' Iris groaned, her teeth clenched tight as she strained to sit.

'Rest,' Bethany ordered, gently nudging the Enforcer back onto her pillow.

'They said… it was more fun that way,' Iris whimpered, collapsing into the bed. 'Said it wasn't enough sport. That the game was in the hunt… the feast in the—in the catch.'

'Monsters,' Anton growled, nostrils flared, fists clenched tight.

'They're—they're my comrades… my friends—my brothers and sisters in arms,' Iris sobbed, fresh tears springing to her eyes. 'Yo—you can't leave them with those… those animals. Captain—please, save them.'

Bethany rose from her seat, the night-sun casting its glow across her stern expression. Her shoulders trembled slightly—fury barely restrained. She turned to Havoc, no hesitation in her eyes.

'This night, you prove your worth to the Guild,' she said in a low growl. 'Dead—all of them. Those are your orders. Will you comply?'

Havoc did not trust Iris.

But he did not need to.

He trusted himself to safeguard his interests. And if it earned him an ally in the Guild he was soon to join, all the better.

He met Bethany's gaze and gave a slight nod.

A perfect opportunity to test himself against others of his rank.

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