Florentia hated to admit it, but she had never fully shed the unease that squirmed in her gut whenever the Prelate was disturbed. She was not eccentric like her brother—scrawling doctrine, poetry, and prose onto slick skin flayed from a heathen's back, the pulse still warm beneath the touch, the wails lingering a moment longer. And yet, she was no less devoted to her Master's cause.

The sect was her home—she remembered no other. Only Silas knew the life they lived before. But he would never speak of it. On everything else, he would not shut up. He was maddening—a challenge to love. His endless prattle was a trial without reprieve. More than once, her hand had strayed to her blade. Whether to silence him or deafen herself, she could never say. But she knew the irritation of his voice. It demanded action—violent, swift, irreversible.

And yet, for all the words her brother had spoken, he refused the only ones she wanted to hear.

Who were their parents?

How did they die?

What horror had crept in before memory's making—leaving a wound deep inside, unfathomably wide, and unthinkably aching?

How had it filled with malice?

No—she knew nothing of her earliest past. Yes, it disturbed her. But ultimately, it was irrelevant. Whatever path she might have walked, had her parents lived to guide her, it was not the life she knew.

Her parents were a hazy dream. The Master, a vivid reality. She had fantasies of a normal life. But the Sect harboured no delusions. They offered only truth—austere in substance, relentless in pursuit.

For the Sect, she had pledged her very soul. Their teachings were the air she breathed. Their yearning throbbed in her chest, unceasing. Their triumph was her delight. And their torments—

Those were hers, also.

The Prelate had not expected the wolf-bitch to take off alone. He had expected, if not better, then at least more foresight.

She was a Champion.

Now she was dead.

They did not know how. The scryers had been blocked by a darkness blacker than black. Still, they knew she had fallen.

Ding dong. The bitch is dead.

Florentia never liked her anyway. Haughty. Overbearing. She would have put her down herself, if given the chance. Sylvia called herself a wolf. Florentia would go along with that. But the breed mattered little to the fleas of her bedfellows.

And yet—she felt the loss. Sylvia was a Champion. The Sect did not have those to spare.

A few remained in the Vanguard, harrying the disciples of that odious bird. More were scattered across the Settled Floors. When not melded into high society's grief and gossip, they spilt life in darkened alleys—the Master's rivals cut at the throat. Three Champions were bound to the Sect within Heureux, and another stood watch upon the outer borders.

Of the noble filth who had come to their cause, a handful had clawed their way to the Champion Rank. The Sect would endure them—until the final rite. Then, when their use was complete, they would be discarded.

For now, they were needed. All of them.

The city roiled with malice—fear curdled to rage, grief to hatred. It gathered like smoke beneath the captured sky. And through the Champions, it flowed.

Pandamonia—made potent—passed through their Cores, refined, and was fed downward. To the Master where he rested—where he cocooned to be transformed.

When the wolf had been in the house, leashed to the grounds like a very good girl, there had been balance.

That balance had shifted.

The remaining Champions strained to make up her lack. The flow faltered. The yield diminished. The burden's new split, was nearly more than they could bear.

The situation was dire—made worse by the Drake. He was loose now. Theodor. And they were not prepared.

When that woman arrived—frail and naked, save for the blood shed with every step she took—Florentia had thought their problems were solved.

They were not.

She was a Champion, yes. But she could not remain. There was work to be done beneath the city grounds.

Worse still—Florentia was bound to go with her.

They had marshalled their remaining Enforcers—those who survived the Prelate's slaughter—and with their lacking skill, raised wards to keep the young Drake at bay.

The wards would not hold.

Not for very long.

The Prelate could have torn them down with ease. He was gifted in their unmaking.

As for the Drake… it would buy the Sect some time.

Perhaps enough.

Perhaps not.

Perhaps they would all die screaming before the Master awoke.

That doesn't sound so bad…

At least not to her.

'Why wallow on a willow yet to wilt?' Silas droned—his voice tugging at the hairs on the back of Florentia's neck.

She glanced at her brother, lips curled into a scowl.

'Speak plainly,' she growled.

Soles sharply tapped against the hardwood flooring. A moment later, Gloria stood beside her.

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'I find your brother's lyricism simply charming,' Gloria cooed, turning to face her. 'He only means there is no cause for dismay. Things have not gone exactly to plan, but neither have they toppled. Blood still courses through the streets—we even have the resisting bands at war with one another.'

Florentia shifted her glare to that woman, her lips curling as though she had tasted spoiled cream.

'Excellent news. Men of every tongue will be delighted to hear it,' she mocked.

'I—I do not follow—' Gloria stammered.

'I didn't know you were a translator—as well as a whore,' Florentia spat, her voice edged with disdain.

Despite the apprehension tightening her chest, Florentia allowed herself a moment to savour the woman's startled turn.

It did not linger—but it was delicious all the same.

On the Desmond wretch, she and her brother were of one mind. They hated her.

Florentia could have endured the high-nosed snobbery. Even the revolting way she ate—back straight, taking dainty little bites. Obnoxious, yes, but not enough to justify the fervour of her ire.

No. Her hatred was simpler than that.

She had said it once already.

She had meant it when she did.

Gloria Desmond was a filthy whore.

The Prelate was a holy man. That she had seduced him to bed—carrying another man's child...

As vinegar is to milk, so too was the thought of that wench with her saviour.

'Children, behave,' the Prelate called from the spiral stairs at the rear.

His top hat—ever crowning his head—tilted slightly to the side. His mantle ruffled over a pressed shirt, trailing to his calves. A blood-red tie hung from his throat, knotted just off-centre. His shoes, habitually polished, bore a single splotch of crusted green.

Florentia doubted anyone else would have noticed. But she did.

And the squirming in her gut writhed a little faster.

'You don't need me for this,' she groaned as the Prelate approached.

He softly squeezed her shoulder, and slouched down to her level. His eyes were bloodshot and slit like a serpent. Yet as he gazed into hers, it was not a predator she saw. It was the man who had tucked her in at night. Who read her tales—epics of the times promised, but yet to come. When life and death bore no distinction, and the Master ruled with Them across every realm.

'It's worth fighting for, is it not?' Prelate Amheus asked gently.

She scrunched her lips and looked away, nauseated by the thought of affronting him with her reflexive temerity.

Swallowing her gall, she forced her gaze back into line, met his eyes—and gave a terse nod.

'Then is it not also worth putting this envy aside?' the Prelate whispered softly.

Her gaze dropped to his chest, her shoulders trembling.

The surge of emotion was too tightly wound to unpick. Fear, impotent rage, jealousy, indignation—all vied for place, and none made themselves clear.

All she knew was this:

She did not want to be her escort.

She did not want to bring that breeding bawd beneath the bowels of the borough.

'I wish we could get along, my sweet,' Gloria purred into her ear.

'You serve Him with your might. Me—with the fruit of my womb. A fruit too sweet to resist. Yet poison enough to spoil the sea.'

She stepped back, resting a hand upon her faintly distended stomach.

If Florentia could not smell the swirl of foreign blood inside her, she would never have known the tart was pregnant. Though she was far along, potions and charms cloaked her condition well.

Florentia doubted her late husband had known.

Perhaps he did.

It was just the kind of thing the wench would have told him—right before cutting his throat.

Her lips parted, a sharp word poised on her tongue—

—but before she could cut the trollop's ego, she was silenced by the clank and squeal of opening doors.

Down the stairs. Up the flight. On every level, doors burst open. And from them, the Sect began to march.

Dark hoods cloaked their ashen faces. Their robes slipped like sands against the rain, shifting about their bodies as though spun from molten shadow.

Men and women, dozens of them. Most were Servants, but a number were Soldiers—the dense pulse of their Harmony throbbed in the air, impossible to miss.

Less ignorable still was the Champion: Octavia Le'Buteur.

Granddaughter to the Striker. Their foremost patron. The Conqueror who, even now, kept Daylight Song at bay.

'You seem to be faring much better,' the Prelate hummed.

He took Octavia's hand—so pale it was nearly translucent. With a delicate kiss, he offered greeting. Then, a slight bow of the head—formalities complete, as decorum obliged, he stepped back.

'I have your hospitality to thank,' Octavia smiled. A chilling thing. 'I'm even more grateful for your contributions to my collection.'

'Think nothing of it,' Gloria said—speaking on matters she had no right to name.

'What is ours is yours. And what is yours—'

'Are mine to keep,' Octavia finished with a chuckle.

Florentia imagined she laughed to disarm. But all it did was drive a shiver down her spine.

'Funny,' Florentia managed dryly.

'Yes, I thought so,' Octavia replied without pause.

She reached out and brushed the back of her hand toward Florentia's cheek—

—and Florentia recoiled.

'Spirited, this one,' Octavia crooned. 'A pity. I met another just as lively. I would have cherished the set.'

'A rose's thorns may cut the palm,' Silas said, moving beside his sister. 'But the dog that guards the garden—

—bites, and does not let go.'

A growl simmered beneath the cadence of his verse.

Octavia stared at him blankly. Then, slowly, she tilted her head from side to side—and pointed.

'What in Steward's name is he saying?'

'That we should all get along,' Gloria cut in, a smile stretched thin across her lips.

'Quite right,' the Prelate added.

He strode toward the manor doors. With a flourish, he threw them wide. Frosted air crept into the estate as Sect forces moved into formation. They marched as one onto the vast court.

'You have but one goal,' the Prelate called. 'The Wraith Eater must be set free.'

He took position at the head of the throng. Octavia stood beside him. Then came Florentia, Silas, and the harlot close behind.

'Your lives do not matter. Give them freely to the cause.'

'Given freely to the cause,' the crowd called back, their voices rising to tremble the sky.

'Let all who stand against baptise you in their blood.'

'None can resist the Master's will,' they answered in unison.

'Collapse the city into the Cell,' the Prelate chanted.

'The Master's word, our hands be done.'

'Exquisite,' Amheus breathed. 'Now go.'

At his word, the Sect's forces sank into the dark.

Shadows swarmed like riled snakes, sliding across the grass, pooling beneath Octavia's feet.

For her part, she only smiled—

—and drew a bristled broom from nothing into her grip.

'Will you be joining us, dear?' she asked, her grin broad as she glanced toward Florentia.

With a darkening scowl, Florentia melted into the shadows.

She moved to join the rest.

Then, together, they vanished.

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