Atticus Snow knew what people thought of him. He was an Inheritor, yes. A noble, true. Descended from a line of many mighty men. But when people came to meet him—what they found was disappointment.

How could he compare to his siblings? He could not. Harmony had extended its favour to them with both arms outstretched. Their purity soared. The most coveted Remnants competed to serve them. For him? Not even a whisper.

It had always been this way. Rejection was the one thing he could count on. The Black Drake Guild had refused him. The Enforcers too. Even the lesser guilds had turned their gaze. Oh, they would have taken him—if only to pad their ranks. But as a footman. One among many. A leader of none.

Disgraceful.

He would not stoop so low.

He had options. Connections. Places to go. People who would grind down their backs, shovelling the ground to pave it with gold where he trod.

Why would he settle for less? He would not. Born to nobility—to have, and not to labour. Everything. At the word, it would be laid at his feet, polished to reflect his greatness—gleaming gold; glistening grandeur.

It was his birthright The world, and everything in it.

Then it all went away.

He had been barely more than a child—just twenty-nine—when it happened. He returned home expecting warmth. What met him was the family's cold shoulder.

Banished.

Outcast.

Sent away.

They had no patience left for one who could not contribute.

Better he died, they had said. As a man—live or die as a man. Stand on two feet. They would not foster a wastrel.

In Heureux, he could no longer shame their name. Not that it mattered—they had stripped him of it long ago.

Snow.

It covers all tracks. That was the name they gave to the exiled of their House. A clever contrivance—he would grant them that. Stay still, and the snow remains undisturbed. But let ambition burn hot within the soul, and it will melt through, down to what lies beneath.

Atticus burned with ambition. He always had. More than enough to rise above the dumping ground his family had left him in. In thirty years, he had carved out a place for himself as Lord-Mayor.

To Inheritors of noble birth, the title meant little. It was a token for the Bereft—a hollow commiseration, given to distract and pacify. Nothing more.

But Heureux was different. The line between Inheritor and Bereft ran thinner here. Inequality still reigned—of course it did—but the city had learned to pretend. Fairness. Justice. Integrity. Egalitarianism. Words inked with conviction, honed sharp like a blade. He had wielded them as any weapon, and by them, carved a sliver of real power.

It was not enough.

But what they had offered…

It was a decent start.

'They're all waiting inside for you, sir,' came a voice at his side.

'Well done on bringing this all together, Fenton. None of it would be possible without your support,' Atticus praised, glancing at the man to his right, a cheerful smile playing on his lips.

He relied on Fenton's strength. He even valued his support. But the man himself? Atticus loathed him.

Though the man wore the faint trails of age on his face, he was only forty-three. Yet, he had achieved in a short span what had eluded Atticus for eighty-nine years—a Soldier's Inheritance. And he had come from nothing to do it. Some retainer from here or there. A discarded son of a name barely worth mention.

An affront.

A perversion.

It defied the natural order.

But Atticus would bite his tongue and smile. He was accustomed to such things. In his line of work, there was no shortage of them.

Leader of the city—nominal though the title was—he still held court. The masters of minor guilds came, hat in hand, to seek his approval. It was a farce. They knew it. So did he. How could he refuse the will of someone stronger? One who could wrench his arms behind his back—and twist his hand to sign the name themselves.

The deference he received was never more than theatre. But his was a powerful performance, all the same. Stepping into the role, he acted with flourish—a rendition so convincing some forgot it was play.

That was how many rallied to his cause. The weak and the strong alike propped him up, mistaking their unity for his strength. And yes, it made them mighty. And true, he still despised them. But more important than all of that—they were of use. Their numbers became his weight. Their loyalty, his influence. Through them, he could enact real change. As it had been in government, so too would it be in the fortress. He would seize control—and from there, realise his true ambitions.

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Fenton hurried ahead to open the door, eyes lowered. He gestured for Atticus to enter.

The meeting hall had been thrown up in haste—and it showed. Uneven floorboards. Mismatched pillars. Wall sconces that barely held their torches, slipping loose in their slots.

He took care as he mounted the podium steps. Misaligned as they were, one slip would send him tumbling.

The gathered throng rose from their seats. As he approached the lectern, they began to cheer. A wondrous sound, duly earned. It would become familiar to his ears, or he would die to make it so.

He raised a hand, and the applause faltered. A silent gesture followed, and the crowd returned to their seats. He cleared his throat—slow, deliberate. Then, with every eye upon him, he began.

'Let me begin by extending my gratitude. One and all, I truly thank you. There are many things you could be doing this night—but you are here.'

He paused, letting the words settle.

'These are uncertain times,' he continued. 'And the trials we face forge two kinds of people. Those who depend on others—and those others can depend on. We, here, are the second.'

'Still, I want you to know—no one would blame you,' he said, letting the thought hang. The crowd exchanged uncertain glances.

'It's hardly a secret, is it? The decadence that Enforcer has welcomed through our walls. The Brewers—that perverted pair—are held as her confidants. Their union is an offence to gods and mortals alike, yet she embraces it. Is it any wonder what has become of our refuge? Prostitution thrives. Gambling and drink run rampant. You would not be blamed for giving in.'

He let the silence draw. Then—

'But you have not.'

He swept his eyes across the gathered.

'You have remained sober-minded amid rousing decay. That is why—' he paused, letting pride burn through his voice. '—That is why you are the best of us.'

The crowd would not stay their hands. They leapt to their feet, howling praise more intoxicating than any drink or folded leaf. Boots crashed against the floorboards. His name rattled the hanging chandeliers. Dust fell from the ceiling—but it did not choke the moment. Nothing would. This was his hour. He would seize it—not only the day, but the week, the month, the year.

Raising his palms, he beckoned for silence. Only when the last man was seated did he go on:

'Because of the Enforcers' incompetence, this city is at war. Their weakness has cost us dearly. Many of us have lost more of the ones we love.'

He let the words hang, heavy in the air.

'And now—led by one of their own—what little we preserved through their failures stands forfeit once again.'

A drumming murmur spread through the crowd as Atticus's gaze swept slowly across the hall. Neighbours exchanged worried glances. When they began to still, he cleared his throat—sharp and sudden. The hall snapped to attention.

'By now, you've no doubt heard the rumours,' he said, his voice dipped in solemnity. 'You've heard whispers of peril. Gossip about what you're not supposed to know.'

He leaned forward slightly.

'The Prime Enforcer says you shouldn't. She spits lies in your eyes—but all for your sake.'

Disgruntled jeers and hissing resentment sliced the air. Atticus stepped from the lectern, walking to the edge of the stage. He raised his arms inward, conducting the noise like a maestro mid-crescendo. When it reached its peak, he slashed a hand outward. Silence fell.

'I say this instead—' he breathed, voice slow, heavy with promise. 'You deserve the truth.'

'That's right!' shouted a little man at the front—puffed up, inflated by the sweltering heat of Atticus's raging passion.

The crowd roared their agreement—as if they ever had a choice. They were his now. He felt it. And Atticus had no designs of letting go.

'The Beasts of Undoing…'

A hush fell. As though on cue, a chill passed through the crowd. Spines stiffened. Faces turned pale. Whispers died on dry tongues.

'The Wraith Eater,' Atticus continued, his voice cutting through the gathering gasps.

He returned to the edge of his stage, lowering himself onto its splintering lip, he locked eyes—one, then another.

'This is what she's kept from us. This is what she still seeks to hide. On the precipice of complete collapse, she would have us ignorant as cattle—ambling into the abattoir.'

A woman shrieked from the back. She collapsed into her lover's arms, sobbing about their child's lost future.

'Worry not, the Enforcer has a plan,' he drawled, irony rolling from his tongue. 'She seeks to marshal the city to its defence. Unite the clans that have risen in disorder, descend to the depths and strike down the invaders before they unseal the Beast,' he rose to his feet, brushing splinters from his trousers before pacing the stage.

'It's a solid plan,' he said lightly, drawing uneasy laughter from the crowd. 'No really, it is. There's only one tiny flaw in its conception.'

He returned to the lectern, letting the question hang in the air. The crowd sat at the edge of their seats, practically grasping for him to continue—gasping as though his words breathed air into their lungs.

'What—what is it,' a woman cried at last.

The crowd locked to her lead, clamouring, not for answers, but for permission. Like lambs before the shepherd, they were lost without his guidance.

'Bethany's leadership is unequal to the task.'

'We need you to lead us!' someone cried. It did not matter who.

Soon, they were on their feet, pleading for his leadership like drunkards begging for bread.

'Of course I will,' he murmured—his voice lost to the noise.

'Of course I will,' he said again, louder. The crowd swelled, chanting his name.

'Of course I will!' he bellowed, flecks of spittle catching the firelight as the crowd roared his name.

'It will not be easy. And it will not come without cost. But united under a competent leader—it can be done.'

Fenton joined him onstage, a rolled scroll in hand. He unsealed the parchment, and with a flick of his wrist, the city's underworld was cast overhead.

'You are not fools,' Atticus said, voice low. 'And I will not speak to you as if you were. Beneath this city lies a vast network of catacombs—a city beneath the city. Built to bury what should never be unearthed.'

He raised his hand toward the projection. It shimmered—then ignited with light.

Sketches gave way to motion. Dust-choked tunnels came alive, crawling with Dungeon-Spawn: Scratchers and Slashers, ghosts and ghouls. Shadows stirred. Flames flickered.

Burning corpses in golden armour marched through narrow causeways. Bloat-corpse giants hunched beside sealed iron doors. Creatures of mud and stone slipped through fissures—reforming as they emerged, more monstrous than before.

'That is what we will face,' he said grimly. 'But I'll tell you something—We will not meet it head-on. Let the Enforcer rally the city. Let her build the army. We will be there when it happens. And when the time comes, we will take it for ourselves. Let the others do the fighting. We have already paid our share. They will clear the danger. They will stop the Sect. And when the dust settles—when the losses are tallied—not a single one of us will be counted among the dead.'

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