Sweat dribbled from the tip of Bethany's nose. Her breaths came in staggering rasps—laboured as though they paid rent. The day-sun hung high in the humid noon, its smothering heat wrapping about her like fur steeped in thermal springs. Her charcoal shirt clung to her frame, contoured and slick, as though stitched to her skin with water-work threads.

For most, this was not a day for training. It was a day for sweet teas and shaded grounds, for making headway on neglected reports—or whatever gentle labour was customary among the civilian throng.

For all her ambition, Bethany was still human. Muscles ached from practised drills; her lungs burned with exertion. The edges of her discipline frayed, threatening to unravel. But there was work to do.

She could not afford to come undone.

Hands clamped to her thighs, she drew a slow, steadying breath, then straightened her back. A streak of her sleeve wiped the sweat from her face. Channelling Harmony into her Spirit Chain, she pulled a golden spear from shimmering air.

Lumen's Bane.

Of the unbound Remnants Sedrick had brought back from their dream, this was one of the few that had called to her. It had murmured of its powers in modest whispers—sceptical she was its rightful Inheritor, yet willing to take the chance.

When bound, it lacked the instant resonance she had felt with Judgment's Bind—the chains lost in their flight from the bunker. Those had moved as though her limbs extended, synchronised wholly with her will.

Lumen's Bane did not resist her. It obeyed, precise to her intent. And yet, where the chains had pushed themselves in her service, the spear seemed to hold back.

She was determined to change that—determined to break through the Remnant's reluctance and draw out its full power.

With a burst of Harmony, the spear flared incandescent in her grip. Golden light blazed to blinding, forcing her eyelids shut. A heartbeat later, the glow guttered. When she opened her eyes, the Remnant was gone.

Vanished from sight, but not from perception. Like a tether knotted to her soul, she felt its pull at the edge of her awareness.

Across the cragged training field, fenced in by wire, stone figures stood in rigid lines. Backs straight, shoulders squared, hands clasped behind them—were they flesh instead of lifeless, she might have been proud to command them. Instead, they were targets, their shattered sisters strewn across the ground at their feet.

As if readying orders for a battalion's assault, she raised an arm—then dropped it like an executioner's blade. Light followed, a piercing ray that lanced through a chiselled torso. Then, as though seizing the mane of a stampeding horse, she flung forward a hand, straining to wrest command of the Remnant.

Her muscles wailed in protest. Breath caught in her chest as if she had taken a heavy blow. Sweat stung her eyes, but she did not relent—and a heartbeat later, she forced the weapon back under her will.

Her shoulders ached as she pulled herself upright, but the effort was not wasted. From the blackened gravel where the lance had landed, motes of light fluttered into the air. They drew together, slowly reforging the spear. When the process was complete, she unleashed it again, shattering a second stone target.

Bethany repeated the motions, wrestling to seize control anew. But this time, as she pulled back, something snapped. As if barged aside by the uncouth sky, a force slammed into her and hurled her onto the rock-coarse dirt.

'Godsdammit!' she cursed, pounding the ground as if it meant her ill.

The gravelled earth crunched behind her, and soon after came words:

'They're notoriously haughty—Remnants of light. Even with Blessed Harmony, I struggled to tame the few I once possessed,' said Rexford Thorne.

Though clad in full-body armour, he made no clank or clang as he stepped toward where Bethany lay. He extended a hand. She looked aside, lower lip pinched between her teeth, cheeks scrunching as though she had bitten something sour. Yet she took his hand and let herself be hoisted up.

She stumbled into him, her face pressed against his armoured chest. Where she had braced for cold steel, his crimson plates spread warmth across her cheek.

Rexford steadied her by the shoulders. Then, as though bound by some oppressive code, he unclasped and stepped back—cheeks flushing red like a miscreant caught.

With stiffened tongue, Bethany muttered her thanks. A beat later, she asked:

'What brings you here?'

'The same as you, I suspect.' His brows creased; a sigh followed. 'The others—they've yet to grasp the severity of our task.'

'But not you?' Bethany pressed.

He smiled faintly. A solitary chuckle escaped, and he shook his head.

'No. I understand it too well. I might not look it, but I've roamed this cruel world just shy of a century.'

Bethany's brow shot upward. With greater strength of will than it took to command her Remnant, she composed her features, greeting the revelation with a nod.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Inheritors were not immortal, but their ageing slowed. Though she herself was uncomfortably ripe in her thirties, in the right light, on a good day, she might pass for late adolescence. A Servant could expect to see one hundred and twenty years, a Soldier closer to two hundred. Champions stretched toward three hundred and fifty, War-Masters to six hundred. As for the limit of Conquerors or Lords—nobody knew. Even before humanity was snatched by the Dungeon, no records told of either rank dying of old age. For certain, they rose and they died—but in apocalyptic wars and undoings, never once in the comfort of sleep.

No crease of time betrayed Rexford's age, yet neither did he seem immature. She would have marked him for late forties, perhaps early fifties—judging only by the way he carried himself. To learn he was near old enough to be her ancestor came a surprise.

'I've seen the outcome of Undoing,' he said, a faint quiver in his voice. 'I've seen the world crack open like a sun-spoiled egg, the dark filth seeping through from the Void…'

He paused, eyes drifting, then hardened with a resolve Bethany recognised.

'It cannot be allowed to happen. Not here. Not while I draw breath.'

Gentle laughter, softly mocking, drifted on the breeze and pulled Bethany's gaze aside. Aurelia floated there, parasol raised, sailing the wind's trail. With scarcely a sound she touched down, snapped the sunshade shut, and it vanished into her Spirit Chain.

'How noble, good sir,' she teased, twirling a finger through bundled strands of her cherry-blossom hair. 'I had you figured for a good-toward. A shame, really. For a man as handsome as you, nothing's quite so striking as bold shades of grey.'

She drifted closer, closing the space between them, and Rexford staggered back as though fending off plague.

'Bashful one, isn't he?' Aurelia smirked, her elbow brushing lightly against Bethany's side. 'Still—on the topic of grey, I hear you're keeping a special one all to yourself.'

She turned to Bethany with an exaggerated pout.

'Daddy always said it's rude not to share. Why not be sporting with me? Point me his way, and we'll see who he likes best.'

From the files the Enforcers kept on Aurelia's alleged offences, whatever words her father once shared were decades out of date. He was dead—she had killed him. It could not be proven, but everyone knew.

The tales differed with each tongue that told them, yet they agreed on certain notes: he was a decent man, disapproving of her evils. Behind high walls and closed doors they quarrelled. She staggered out, lips stained with blood. And her father? He was never heard from again.

Beneath the blossom hair and pink frills, Aurelia was a vicious thing. Havoc slept, but stirred in his slumber. For a moment Bethany wondered if Aurelia might rouse him; if her venomous presence was enough to pull him from rest—hand already to the blade.

She shook the thought loose, though not without reluctance.

They needed him, yes—but only when whole. She hoped he would wake before the operation began. If not, they would press on without him, leaving instructions so he might join when able.

'He is indisposed,' Bethany said, her tone flat—leaving no room for further question.

'So it is like that?' Aurelia purred.

The smile never slipped: polite, proper, poised. But it did not touch her eyes. They froze instead, glinting with a chilling menace as Bethany met her glare.

'I say we spar for 'im,' Eudora boomed, drawing every gaze to her approach.

The giantess locked her hopeful gaze with Bethany's stern, scarlet eyes and gave a nervous chuckle. Raising her thickset hands, she shook her head.

'No prize needed—but we should spar,' she pressed. 'We're going to be fightin' together, and there's no quicker way to learn each other's ins and outs.'

Bethany wanted to refuse, if only because the idea came from Eudora. Yet she could not—because Eudora was right. For two days they had spoken—strategy and quarrels in no equal share—and in three more they would depart.

Simply crossing the city was fraught with danger, to say nothing of the peril awaiting them beneath Heureux.

'A splendid idea,' said Caspian Fleur, sparks sputtering from the bowl of his pipe as he sauntered near.

With her face set stern, Lydia clung to his shadow, her sabre already firm in her grip.

'Then it is decided,' Eudora cheered, laughter rising to shatter the sky as she pounded her fist to her chest.

'Count me out,' Aurelia sighed. 'Boorish play is quite unfitting for a lady, would you not agree?'

She glanced to Bethany for support—but found none.

Bethany had not warmed to the notion, but Aurelia's reluctance only spread fire to its kindling.

'I'll have the pretty boy first,' Eudora howled, a grin broad across her lips, a finger stabbing toward Rexford.

'No,' Caspian yawned, rolling his shoulders and neck as his arms flopped wide. 'It is not often I feel such a strong connection.' He turned to face the armoured man, an easy smile tugging at his lips. 'I would like to explore that with an exchange of blows—if you would have me.'

Rexford glanced to Bethany, then asked:

'What say you? You brought us together. Until the city is safe, you are our leader—as far as I am concerned.'

His words drew a scoff from Lydia, and a wry smile from her captain. The brutess only turned aside, shoulders heaving as though to smother mocking laughter. Aurelia rolled her eyes, though she held her tongue. And Bethany herself strained to keep her lips pressed tight and her eyes from widening.

When at last she trusted her composure, Bethany cleared her throat. All eyes turned.

'To first wound only,' she said. 'And with restraint.'

'Agreeable terms,' Caspian said with a smile, his floral robe slipping from his frame.

It did not fold where it fell. Instead, it slipped through the ground—and from that place a rose began to grow. Slight at first, it swelled rapidly, until thorn and petal alike towered above the group.

Rexford drew the sword at his hip and stepped back, motioning for the others to clear space. When they had, he kindled the blade in flame, its point levelled at his foe.

Bethany watched closely as the two men squared off. She would be entrusting lives to their hands; the situation allowed for nothing less. And though necessity ruled her, she could not deny a quiet eagerness to see if those hands were strong enough to bear the weight.

With how they had wrangled during talks, it was only a matter of time before they came to blows. At least this way, it was controlled.

This is fine, she told herself, eyes fixed as the combatants measured their distance. This is fine, she repeated, as smoke curled behind Caspian and fire licked from Rexford's blade. This is fine, she forced herself to believe.

The thought went up in flames the next moment, as torrents of fire spewed from Rexford's sword.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.