'He's not been detained. We have questions only he can answer,' Sedrick lied to Bethany's satisfaction, even as Anton, Naereah, and those two peculiar publicans deepened their frowns 'We couldn't hold him against his will if we tried—you know that.'

Bethany had expected resistance to Havoc's detainment. She had not expected it to sound with one voice. She could not say when it began, but he had become a hero to the refugees. A dark, living legend. A singular symbol of hope.

At first, his myth had been contained to the slum-born—the natives of their salvaged, cobbled-together fortress. But soon even the newcomers had begun to revere his name—Inheritor and Bereft alike.

Only hours had passed since his vexingly public escort from the stronghold's heart to the holding keep, yet the unrest had not abated. It was fuelled, in no small part, by the unravelling of their wards—lowered just long enough for all to glimpse the hounds at the gate. She had personally reapplied the molten silver, dust-ground bone, sun-dried offal, and white-oak ash into the stone-etched arrays, draining her Harmony as she burned through defensive Fragments meant to last weeks longer—just to repair the breach. But she had not been fast enough to prevent that harrowing sight.

Now that all knew what waited beyond the gates, they were terrified. She could not blame them. Even so, it stung—that in their hour of need, they did not look to her. They turned their backs and gazed instead toward Havoc. His name on their lips, praying he would save them.

'I want to see him,' Naereah growled, her pitch-black eyes sharp as daggers.

'You are needed where you are,' Bethany replied, her tone ironclad as she met the girl's glare.

'Ladies, please,' Sedrick interjected, stepping between them with open palms, his voice coaxing calm. 'Nothing untoward is happening—only strategy. We didn't force him, and he didn't resist. We just need him to help assess our options.'

'Then why can't we see him?' Naereah snapped back.

Bethany brushed past Sedrick and faced her again. 'He's the only one of you with an official proffer to the guild. Some matters cannot be shared with outsiders.'

'Bullshit!' Anton this time. 'You've conscripted every Inheritor here—and no small number of the Bereft—to your cause—'

'The cause of keeping us alive,' Bethany hissed, her patience fraying.

'Even so, we have a right to know what's going on!' Anton pressed, undeterred.

Outside the command house, the chanting grew louder. Bethany drew back the curtains and peered down. Torchlight swayed. Fists pounded the air. Spittle launched from screaming lips. They did not know what was good for them—that was why they cried his name. Calling for his release.

'You're under a lot of pressure,' the Ajna'Ramadi soothed, waddling forward like a toddler—expression soft, voice low and reassuring. As though the bar wench could possibly understand the burden of command.

'We're grateful for everything you've done for us—' she paused, her voice catching, tears glistening in her emerald-rimmed eyes. 'You saved our lives. And everyone out there trusts you with theirs… But so did Havoc. And we need him. We're all scared. We need him.'

Bethany bit down on her lower lip. Her breath caught—uneven. Her fists clenched tight.

Who was this pervert to say what was needed?

What did she contribute?

The wench had been a burden from the start. That she—or her equally deviant husband—still lived only added to the load. It did not lessen it.

Bethany could stomach Havoc's companions and their reprimands—infuriating though they were. At least they added something. Naereah the Healer. Anton the Warrior. They had earned respect the only way that mattered: through rivers of blood.

Both Soldiers.

Both upright.

But this barmaid? What gave her the right to speak on matters of command? That she had come to represent the masses?

Ludicrous.

'If ever I need instruction on pouring ale—or disgracing my bloodline—I shall seek your counsel,' Bethany snapped. 'Until then, kindly stay out of official concerns.'

'Bethany!' Sedrick recoiled, as though struck.

'That is Captain, to you,' she bit back. 'I will thank you to remember your station.'

The world lurched. The command house groaned. The floorboards shrieked, dust spilling from the ceiling as a tremor rolled through the earth. Insatiable growls tore across the sky—low and guttural, savage and sure. Outside, the night snarled. A wolfish grin split the face of the night-sun. Red eyes flared madly in the heavens. A monstrous maw carved itself across the sky, projected in shadow and flame.

Even the crowd below fell still and looked up. Bethany did the same. For a breathless moment, there was silence. Then came the laughter—vicious, cruel, triumphant. The screaming followed soon after, as the crowd scattered like ants beneath a falling boot.

Like a face behind shattered glass, Wolf's Requiem peered down upon them.

'Little pigs, little pigs… let me come in,' howled the sky—laughter cascading as snarls rippled across the heavens.

'Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin,' Sedrick muttered, an uneasy smile playing thin across his lips, dread behind his eyes.

Bethany snapped the curtain shut and turned on the dissenters.

'Do you see what I contend with?' she said—her voice taut, the world refusing to still. 'I do not have time to debate strategy with outlaws and civilians.'

She strode to her desk, yanked open a drawer, and pulled free a Fragment.

'Get that monstrosity out of my sky,' she barked, hurling the slate at Sedrick. He caught it between two fingers without flinching.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

She pushed past Naereah and Anton and opened the door. Her face was stern, her eyes set. Without faltering, she strode from the command room, pausing only to instruct Sedrick to join her once his task was complete.

This would be a long night—marking the start of an even longer day, if they survived that long. There was no point delaying.

She would speak with Havoc Gray. Once and for all, she needed to know.

Could he be trusted?

****

Torches lit the hall. Slotted into stone, they bathed the holding keep in fragile light. It was quiet down there—and empty. Bethany had dismissed the guards, sending them to other duties.

Face in her palms, she sat outside Havoc's cell and trembled. They could not see her like this—unravelling. Undone. As scared as any of them. Hopeless. Useless. Clueless—no more fit for these trials than an infant to be queen.

Her white coat seemed to shine less brightly. At first, she thought it was just her imagination. But no—it was true. She did not know what that meant, only that she had never felt so alone.

The tears came freely. She let them pool in her hands.

Then she muttered a prayer. Not to the gods—Steward or Sentinel. Not even to the Lord, though she prayed She had heard. Her plea was to herself: for strength to keep the people safe, wisdom to act without error, perseverance to endure tribulation, and courage to never give in.

'Don't waste your words on gods,' Havoc called from his cell. 'They hate us—that's why we're here.'

She stiffened in her seat and flicked her tears to the ground. Had she known he could hear her, she would have held herself together a moment longer.

'Are you coming in, or do you want me to come out?' Havoc asked, stepping up to the iron bars.

The bars were for show. Bethany knew they could never hold him. His imprisonment was pure theatre. The wards within might suppress a Servant—perhaps even a Soldier with a weaker foundation—but Havoc could tear through them like parchment. Still, she was an Enforcer Prime. Appearances mattered. Even if they offered only the illusion of control, sometimes illusion was enough to make things feel just a little more manageable.

She gestured for Havoc to move back, then stepped into the cell. They sat across from one another at a small, round wooden table.

Neither spoke. She let the silence stretch between them, wielding it like a blade. Silence was a tool—meant to unbalance. A guilty conscience yearned for noise, for something—anything—to distract from the shame gnawing within. But when she met Havoc's eyes, there was no guilt. No remorse. No shame. No fear.

Only stillness.

He looked hollowed out. Soulless. Like a corpse that had not yet stopped moving. It had started with the Devil's Smile—that emptiness. And it had followed him in the week since, as Bethany had set him from one battle to the next. He never argued. He simply nodded and obeyed.

If any part of his humanity remained—if he had ever possessed it—she could not see it now. Not through that absent gaze. Haunted. Vacant. As though peering past the present into a time long buried.

'Why did you kill them?' Bethany asked.

Havoc's brows arched.

'You asked me to—'

'Not the dark guildsmen,' she cut in, snapping her head from side to side. 'They were vile. Cruel. Their execution was just.'

She leaned forward, voice tightening.

'I am talking about the nobles. Aaron Crest. Lucia Desmond. Arrogant little snorts though they were, their families are pillars of humanity. They would have grown to bear the weight of the world's crushing indifference.'

'Would you believe I was innocent?' Havoc asked.

'I would not.'

'Good,' he sighed. 'Because I'm not. But I didn't kill them… not for lack of trying.'

For the next forty minutes, Havoc recounted the events of the Forest of Desire. Sedrick arrived partway through, prompting him to begin again from the start.

He spoke of Abominations and Cradlefiends, Cryptlords and shattered nightmares. Of sorcery and prophecy. Of a Seer turned saint by deceit—and of the madness sown deep within the nobles, cultivated to bloom in their destruction.

He had not told her everything—that much was clear. But of what he shared, she believed him. She could not say why, only that she did.

'Remarkable,' Sedrick said quietly. 'And you were only a Servant? No wonder you're dauntless. Compared to that, this must feel like a resort.'

Sedrick and Havoc continued their muted exchange, but Bethany paid them little mind. Her thoughts were pressed flat against the wall of her reeling mind.

If she had misjudged him—what did that mean?

Their mission had always been a farce. But if the guild was complicit…

No. She shook her head, dragging her thoughts back to more immediate concerns.

The other Enforcers.

Havoc had called them corrupted.

Was it true?

Had she let barbarians through the gate?

Had the failing wards been their doing?

Warding was part and parcel of an Enforcer's training. From the lowliest recruit to the highest Warden, all were taught the craft. They had to be—for they walked in the light of Daylight's Song, the greatest wardstress known among the human Lords.

She had burned through years of resources earned in service to the guild, fortifying the outskirts' defences. They were powerful—nigh impenetrable to any below a War-Master's Inheritance. But to construct a ward was also to be schooled in its unravelling. Perhaps not swiftly, but it was feasible. Another Enforcer could tear them down, piece by piece—even if the array locations were known to only two.

'We have been betrayed…' she whispered.

Then, louder: 'Lieutenant! We have been betrayed!'

She leapt to her feet. Behind her, the cell bars slammed shut.

On the other side stood Iris—smiling.

Egan loomed at her right. Preston flanked her left, cradling a desiccated heart in his hands.

The other Enforcers filed into view behind them. Their eyes glowed bloodshot red, twisted veins threading through the whites. Their pupils ran vertical—slit like a predator's.

'Hypocrite,' Iris hissed. 'How dare you accuse us of treachery, when you betrayed us first?'

She stepped up to the bars. The Enforcers behind her moved in unison, chanting low. Runes carved into the stone began to thrum with light.

'You are an Enforcer!' Bethany howled. 'Do not do this!'

'Do you know what they did to us?' Iris growled. 'You could not possibly know—could not begin to imagine what it is like to have your kidneys pulled up through your nose. To have your skin peeled loose, then bathed in salt—washed in vinegar.'

Untempered madness burned in her eyes. Haunted, yes—but beneath it, something more. A manic zeal Bethany could only describe as worship.

'Endless night after endless night,' Iris wailed. 'Still we waited. For you, Captain,' she spat. 'We waited. But you never came. You did not save us. He did.'

'He did,' the Enforcers echoed.

'He came to us in our dreams. Baptised us in agony. Showed us the way. We serve the mistress.'

'We serve the mistress,' the others repeated.

'We serve the Master.'

'We serve the Master.'

'We serve our god.'

'All glory to the Adversary of Life,' the Enforcers proclaimed.

Bethany gripped the bars—then recoiled with a cry as they seared her palms.

'Rest well,' Iris growled, 'in a dream more real than you can imagine. When you wake, the wards will be down. And as the mistress commanded, you will be in the Master's hand.'

Blinding light burst within the cell—and the world fell away, as though it had never been at all.

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