Golden stalks of wheat stretched far and wide beneath the cloudless noonday sky. The day-sun hung high above, warm and blinding. Soon would come the harvest—back-sweating work in sweltering, unquenchable heat. But Havrelius did not mind. With the harvest came the festival—song and dance that gave life and meaning to every swing of the sickle, every turn of the millstone.

'Havoc!'

His sister's voice rang out behind him, cheerful and light, with no small touch of mischief. Since before he could crawl, she had called him Havoc. It suited him better. He was trouble, after all—never still, never silent. Always finding his way where he ought not go, tumbling from one danger to the next with devil-may-care laughter trailing close behind.

Hurricane joined him in the field, the breeze twirling her skirt about her heels. She greeted him with a smile, as she always did—then struck a heavy blow to his shoulder, as was her way, before shoving him aside and declaring a race.

First one to the knotted elm beyond the field's fence.

The farmhands smiled politely he sprinted by. The elderly neighbour rolled his eyes, while his wife laughed and waved. Havrelius caught up to his sister, sidestepping her lunge as pulled ahead. He reached the tree first—just as he always had, ever since he turned fifteen.

'You cheated,' Hurricane snarled.

'How'd you figure?'

'You were meant to let me win,' she shot back without shame or delay, her lips drawn into a petulant pout.

She could not hold it. Not for long. Not while a smile was already breaking through her scowl. That was just who she was—unable to stay mad for long, even when pretending.

'How are the crops?' she finally asked.

'A touch too soft, a tad too green,' he said, plucking a kernel loose and rolling it between his fingers. 'Nearly there, but nature can't be rushed.'

'Thanks, Dad,' Hurricane replied, a smirk tugging at her lashes. 'Now we're on the topic of fatherhood, don't you think it's time you made an honest woman of Naereah?'

Havoc looked aside, his cheeks aflame.

'She's the most honest woman I know,' he coughed, praying Hurricane would take the hint.

'Then marry her already,' she pressed, a twinkle in her eyes as she stepped in, backing him up against the tree.

Oh, my boy. I could not have known. Such modest aspiration—but it is not real. Deep down, I do not think you would even want it to be…

With the voice that intruded upon Havrelius' mind came visions of blood and battle—monsters and madness. He clutched his head, sinking to his knees.

'It isn't real, Havoc,' Hurricane said, rushing to his side. She drew his head into her lap and gently stroked his hair. 'Listen to my voice, not the nightmares,' she hummed.

Since he was a boy, it had always been there—filling his thoughts with dread and despair. He would see his parents dead. His world alight. The woman he cared for most in rags, stricken and bleeding, an ivory tail coiled around her frame, squeezing the life from her eyes.

'Is he quite alright?' asked Hyrborne Bethany Loomwright from atop her winged steed, her husband, High Warden Loomwright-Grace, seated at her back with one hand about her waist.

'You honour us with your presence,' Hurricane said quickly, shifting to one knee, her head bowed low.

Havrelius mirrored his sister as the noble mount descended with a soundless beat of its wings.

'My friends, rise,' Bethany allowed graciously. 'There is no distinction between noble and common—Inheritor and Bereft—save this: Fate has handed us the duty to guard those who cannot guard themselves. But it is no difference at all.

Everyone has a duty. You tend the farms that feed us. Carpenters carve the frames upon which we rest. Performers, dancers, painters, and musicians give us a reason to clap and lose ourselves in their works. Even the tailor has her task—clothing our backs in splendour and grace.'

Hyrborne Loomwright was the pinnacle of nobility. Kind, just, gracious, wise. She was powerful—yes, incomprehensibly so—but she did not lord that power over others. Instead, she fostered peace among all, and equality.

People like her were why nobility could be trusted with power. They cared for the people—truly cared.

Tell me, boy—does that ring true in your ears?

Wings beat like a war-drum above. Havrelius looked skyward—there, a mighty dragon circled the clouds, weaving in and out, carving laughter into the heavens. Then it dived. A man clung to its back, his joy rising above the thunder of golden wings.

'Hyrborne Sedrick Bogata, stop making a fool of yourself this instant,' Bethany called, her voice motherly-stern.

Hyrborne Bogata stepped to the head of his mount as it soared above. From his inner pocket, he drew a cloth and tied it across his eyes. Then, with a bow, he leapt from the sky—somersaulting backwards, five full rotations—and landed with a flourish.

'Incredible,' Hurricane trilled, like wind chimes on festival morning.

'Not even half as impressive as you, my dear,' Sedrick chimed, lifting the blindfold from his eyes.

'I would thank you to act with the decorum befitting your station,' Bethany insisted.

She dismounted her steed and moved toward Sedrick, her lips pinched with stern intent. But then a grin broke through. A moment later, the two embraced—laughing merrily, as though the world beyond were not shrill with screaming…

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Ah, you hear them then? I think it is time you woke up.

'It's been so long—too long,' Sedrick laughed. 'I believe it was back in Heureux. Decades ago.'

'We were so rash back then. Just children, really,' Bethany said.

'May it always be that way,' Sedrick quipped.

Havrelius could not keep the smile from his lips if he tried—and he did not want to. The laughter, the joy—it was infectious. A fever dream he longed would never break.

A dream all the same, you know, his Captive Spirit recalled to mind.

'My friends,' came a man's voice in the distance. Deep. Rich. Warm.

Havrelius recognised it at once—and tears welled in his eyes.

'You honour this land with your presence,' the man continued.

'Father! Mother!' Hurricane sang.

Before they even reached her, she had already run to meet them. With a leap, she wrapped her arms around their necks, their arms folding in to embrace her.

Tall, tanned, and toned, Havrelius' father stood as the very image of strength—yet his grip was gentle as he took his wife's hand.

She, in turn, stood with heartbreaking beauty—ageless, serene, radiant—

Dead! the Spirit mocked, as Havrelius' mind was assailed by the sight of her lying prone on the ground—her clothes torn, a jagged shard clutched in her grip, driven deep into her neck, still slick with her blood.

'If I might be so bold—what brings you to our village?' Havrelius' mother asked, as she curtsied before the nobles.

'To honour your son, of course,' Bethany said with a smile. 'And the Master we all serve.'

Havrelius recoiled, as though a blade had been hurled his way. Quizzical glances flashed in his direction, and his cheeks flushed hot as he caught himself.

Of course he served the Master. Who else could he serve?

Dracule Marchand De Sable—the bringer of peace to the realms, who ushered their god from the void, uniting death and being in eternal unliving.

Through His sacrifice, Havrelius was given new life—not one of violence, where the blood would not wash clean, but of peace everlasting: together with the people he loved, believed lost, and would never be parted from again.

It is not real! the Spirit howled.

'I know!' Havoc screamed back, ignoring the worried stares from his family and friends. 'But does that have to matter? Isn't this better than real?'

The earth began to quake. The sky burned scarlet. From the boundless heavens—unsealed at last—a man descended, and all fell to their knees.

'You are correct, young man,' Dracule proclaimed. 'This is a dream—your dream. My dream. A dream we could force down reality's throat until it chokes upon our design.'

Get up, you fool, the Spirit hissed. Did you not boast that you were the blade destined to cut the gods? And now you kneel to a man? Even in your dreams, you are pathetic.

'That failure you hoist with you does not understand,' Dracule said gently, his viperous slits seeming to peer straight through Havoc's soul. 'It does not know the weight you carry—I do.'

He stepped forward. His black coat fluttered in the breeze, revealing the regal scarlet lining at its tail. Resting a hand on Havoc's shoulder, he knelt—eye to eye. Not above. Not below.

Equals.

Brothers.

Fellow workers, forging a better world.

'That suffering and death are all you have ever known—that is life's error,' he said softly. 'existence should not be so fragile.'

Then he leaned close, and whispered a name into Havrelius' ear. A true name—full of power and force. Primordial in its command, all-consuming in its hunger.

In that name, he saw stars collapse. Entire worlds drawn into darkness. All life withered, crumbled—until nothing remained but dust and silence.

But then it was reborn—evermore, everlasting—within Them, who had seen through the weakness of living.

Havrelius tried to speak that name, but he could not.

All he could say was:

'The Adversary of Life…'

'Yes,' Dracule breathed.

'No!' his mother cried, breaking through the seduction.

He turned to his mother—where she stood with her throat slashed, speaking through pale lips, eyes rotted, maggots writhing in hollow sockets. Yet still she held her arms open. Her love unconquered by death.

'Is this what you prefer?' Dracule asked, his tone stiffening with distaste.

'Havoc, no! I cannot go back,' Bethany wept as she crawled toward him, clutching his wrists. 'Out there, I failed.'

'That is correct,' the Master intoned.

'I could not protect my men—I betrayed them. I could not protect the people. They will all die for what I have done. I cannot lead them. I cannot save them. I cannot—' Her breath caught, and tears streaked her cheeks like an anguished river. 'Please… you cannot take this from me.'

'I have been watching, even as I slumbered,' the Master said. 'Even before my rest, my god spoke of you. A child of violence and strife—a wandering frenzy with no ambition beyond his next meal. That is no way to live.'

He was right.

Havrelius—

No.

Havoc.

He could not go on as he was—blood ever dripping from his blade without meaning. He had known it the moment he butchered the Devil's Smile: vengeance was not enough.

He looked ahead, seeing the phantom of the man who murdered his parents—and his blood ran cold.

How was that man any different from the beasts and savages that had bled beneath his blade?

He isn't…

What would Havoc have left when he finally killed him?

Nothing…

There would always be another. The powerful. The cruel. Their boot would always press against the necks of those who could not raise their heads.

Does it even matter which foot wears the boot?

Vengeance was hollow.

Justice? A myth.

Love? He did not know.

But power—

That was real.

He yanked his wrists free from Bethany's grasp and rose. Facing Dracule, a thin smile curved his lips.

Monsters birthed monsters. That was what he was—a predator soaked in blood. Inescapable. He could never have been anything else.

But there was still a choice.

He could choose his prey.

To their extinction, he would hunt them.

'Thank you,' Havoc said, as the Truecourse formed in his grip.

Then, without pause, he struck—Dracule's neck sliding clean from his shoulder.

The world cracked like shattered glass. The sky tumbled down.

Havoc's will was reforged like a blade—and he would see it carved into the bones of the world.

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