Naereah plunged the cloth into the cool bucket. She twisted it damp, then folded it over Havoc's forehead.

Nearly two weeks had passed since the battle with Wolf's Requiem. The time had been spent directing repairs—both of the fortress, and of the people whose wounds ran deeper than torn skin and splintered bone.

They wanted their pound of flesh carved raw from the turncoats—bar-brawl branded traitors, accused of complicity in the corrupted Enforcers' crimes.

Among the slum's leadership, views differed on how they should be treated. Atticus Snow and his growing brood of sycophants had demanded justice in the form of public execution. He was an oily churl. If he called out morning, Naereah was ready to name the day-sun night.

And yet, she was not unsympathetic to his proposition.

Anton had called for clemency and understanding. She had added her voice to his, but with little volume—and less vehemence.

Deep down, she knew they had been dragged mercilessly into an impossible position. They were victims, too—caught in the city's fall. But by their cowardice, she had nearly been taken—her worst fears relived—a slave once again.

Just the thought quickened her pulse, sharpened her breaths, and forced her gaze aside as she blink-dried her tears.

Ultimately, Bethany took the last word. But her leadership had been compromised during her absence. Fewer and fewer would accept her command as law. She was an Enforcer—and after what had happened, the title drew more suspicion than trust. Even the newcomers to the fortress—cautioned against in their own right—cast wary glances at the white coat once they learned of the recent past.

But she was known to have Havoc's backing. Even feverish, weary, and drained, he deterred disorder. More Soldiers had found their way to the fortress, but none among them would have survived a Champion. And of those, not one could have bested her.

He was already a myth, but now he was legend. They spoke openly of his strength, gossiping among themselves about the noble line he must have rejected. Some started saying he was a bastard son of Crest. Nobles were known to toss out seed onto uncultured soil from time to time. No one would be surprised by an illegitimate heir left to wander strange fields.

They fashioned stories of his crimes. He had not killed Aaron for the right reasons—for being a perfidious snake, the memory of whose touch still made Naereah's skin crawl like first-life writhing from a primordial ooze. Instead, it became sibling rivalry just taken too far.

In the seedier parts that had begun to crop up alongside the swelling population, they spoke in whispers about his more savage inclinations. Swapping rumours and tales, they said he had tortured a man for simply staring too long. That he had carved up his parts—bit by bit—until his companion showed mercy and took his life.

Naereah had been there that day. It had not happened the way they told it. Yes, he had tormented the man. And yes, the man's gaze had offended. But he would have defiled a helpless woman—that was why he died.

She did not approve of how he did things. But she would accept them, for now. Growth was a process. He would get there in time.

What she could not tolerate was her role in the tale. She was not his companion. They were more than that.

Sure, he had yet to declare intentions—but they were implied. Four separate occasions. Six times locked lips. And only one of those had been out of spite.

She looked down at the man she loved, a pout on her lips as he slept—careless, as ever. Peeling the damp rag from his head, she dunked it in the bucket, then returned it with a smack to his brow.

He groaned softly and began to stir. She hushed him back to rest.

Whatever he had done to come by his power, it had not come without cost. He was recovering—it was a relief to see. But even after twelve days, he had yet to fully revive. His wounds were not physical—she would have healed them if they were. They were deeper than that. Frightfully deep.

That power… he would not use it again. She would not allow it.

Three knocks came at the door.

Anton. With Sedrick just behind. They entered without a word and each took a seat at Havoc's sickbed, remaining silent for a time.

Then Sedrick cleared his throat—pointedly—and made to speak.

'He's all puckered out, this one. Napping through the end of days. I'm almost jealous. Would be, and all, if not for my dashing good looks, family wealth, effortless charm, and cushy employment—present misfortunes notwithstanding.'

Then, for a breath, he went quiet. The bluster melted from his face, his expression softening into something more uncertain.

'How's our boy faring?' Sedrick asked gently.

'Better…' Naereah replied flatly.

It was not that she did not appreciate the company. She did—very much so. Since the battle, when she was not running the sick ward, honing her runecraft, or attending yet another tedious strategy council, she was by Havoc's side. She doubted he would approve of her all but moving in—but he was unconscious, and she could always remove the second bed before he woke.

What she did not appreciate was what their presence meant. They had only interrupted her care of Havoc twice—and both times, it had been during a crisis she would rather have avoided. The first had been a riot—the turncoats attacked. A clash of furious Inheritors had followed, and it was not without casualties. Even after burning through her Harmony—after recruiting other healers—still, she could not save every life.

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The second had been a coup. Some of the newcomers—and even a few familiar faces—had been cultists all along. They were put down swiftly, but not before sowing paranoia and mistrust.

No—none of the visitors brought anything good. The ones Naereah liked knew better than to disturb her. The others—retainer mothers and fathers with daughters to wed, or wayward lesser noble dames eager to spite their parents—came bearing nothing but irritation and indecent proposals. Her inhuman heritage, they believed, offered a convenient means to sidestep any affectionate claim she might have to Havoc.

'You're needed,' Anton said.

He cast a lingering glance at Havoc, his lips drawn tight—like a disapproving parent. Then he sighed, running a hand down his face before rising to his feet.

'He'll be fine,' Anton murmured. 'It's just—'

'Just what?' Naereah snapped, unable to keep the bitter exhaustion from her voice.

'I cannot say he'll ever be good.'

She had heard it all before. She did not want to hear it again.

None of them had known each other all that long. They had shared much—suffered much—and they cared for each other. But that was not the same as truly knowing someone.

By comparison, she had known Anton far longer than Havoc. During the journey to the Dungeon Cell, she had kept to herself as much as possible. Once inside the Forest, she had done the same—right up until the war band split, and she had been driven into that loathsome cave.

The cave where she had become a thing that belonged to the Temptress.

Where he saw me—saved me—and wouldn't leave me behind, she recalled, a jolt shooting through her heart.

Even still—and from a distance—Anton struck her as fundamentally decent. He had not gone out of his way to be kind, but neither had he treated her with contempt. He did not leer at her as the others did—seeing her as meat, disposable, not someone to regard. Even without Aaron's possessive vigilance, she doubted Anton would have disgraced her. He might even have watched over her himself, as he had with others under his charge. To him, she was a hired hand like any other. That she was alien—or, at the time, just a slave—never seemed to factor into his estimation.

She respected him. Having grown closer since their time after the Cell, she even cherished him. But for all he was—and all he failed to be—she was in love with Havoc. She needed no reminder that it was foolish. That he was scarred deep by some trauma he would not share. That there was a frozen flame inside him, waiting to melt free of its hold and set the world ablaze. That in his worst moments, she feared he would not even spare her.

She knew all of that already. Her eyes were open—but still, she chose to believe.

Inevitable Havoc…

The Seer's lies—she would make them come true. Every false promise Annalise had whispered to ensnare her, Naereah would spit back in her face by turning them real.

Anton's intentions were pure. She knew that. But she was not a slave anymore—her life was hers to choose.

And she would be proven right.

She knew she would.

'Save it,' she said curtly, raising a hand to cut him off. 'What is it this time? Has the Captured Sky burst open, ready to pull us all into the Void?'

'Well, it's not quite that bad,' Sedrick chortled, 'but you're not far wrong. We really need him up on his twos—ready and rearing, his homicidal self.'

'It's bad, Naeres. We wouldn't have bothered you otherwise,' Anton said, holding the door open.

Naereah followed Anton out of Havoc's chamber. Sedrick caught up and gently elbowed her arm. Then, with his lips to her ear, he whispered:

'For the record, I don't share our friend's misgivings about your snoozing sweetheart. It may have only been a dream—still not mirror-clear on that—but I've known him a long time.'

It was irritating—but true. Technically, Sedrick had known Havoc the longest—a fact he was not shy about obliviously rubbing in her face.

'He's got his sharp edges,' Sedrick went on. 'But for the few he trusts, he genuinely cares. More than once, he talked about you. Said the first thing he'd do when we got out was plant one on you. I was watching that night. Promise made—and delivered in full.'

Naereah picked up her pace, her face flushing hot.

They moved through the halls and soon reached the command room. Anton rapped once on the frame, waited a beat, then stepped inside when called.

Bethany was the second person Naereah noticed. The third and fourth were the Brewers—exchanging uneasy glances with the Captain across the near-empty conference table. Elliot sat stiffly in his chair, M'Kajalia resting gently in his lap.

But the first person she noticed was the Lord-Mayor, Atticus Snow. Standing behind his chair were two newcomer Soldiers—former leaders of a stronghold that had risen and fallen within the city. Anton and Sedrick had led the mission to pull them out. Few survived, but those who had were folded into the slum's ranks.

Won over by the Lord-Mayor's assurances, they now served him—twin pillars of power in his growing faction.

'I wonder,' Atticus drawled, 'did you picture this differently? That you'd be holding one of your oh-so-secretive gatherings without me?'

'You would have been briefed in good time,' Bethany sighed.

'Your time, you mean?' he snapped back. 'Why don't we talk about what you've done with your time. You endangered the lives of this city's good people. Led the enemy through our gates. Vanished for days, leaving others to clean up your mess. And now you seek to exclude those who represent the heart of this fine resistance.'

'You slithery stinkard—'

Bethany raised a palm, cutting M'Kajalia off.

'It's fine,' she murmured. 'We have more pressing concerns than petty politics and personal grievances.'

'I wouldn't call any of your failings petty,' Atticus sniped.

'Next to what's coming… none of it matters,' Bethany said—resignation and dread etched into every word.

'Well, spit it out, then,' Atticus pressed.

Naereah was loath to agree with anything that man had to say, but she could not deny her impatience for the answer.

'It's Iris,' Sedrick said. 'She finally talked—didn't much like what she had to say,' he added with an uneasy chuckle.

Fingers laced, Bethany leaned into the table. She sighed deeply, shook her head, then finally spoke:

'What do you know of the Beasts of Undoing?'

'Nothing good,' Naereah said, her pulse spiking.

'Nothing good is right,' Bethany echoed. 'But one of them is sealed below this city—but—'

She paused.

'—but not for very long.'

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