Not a single one will be counted among the dead...

With spirit, with verve, Atticus had spoken those words. The crowd swallowed them whole, a sweet morsel soon to lodge in their throats. For they would choke—because the promise was a lie.

'Do we know who it is, Sir?' Fenton asked, arms folded at Atticus' side.

'Patience,' Atticus shushed, irritation edging his tone. 'He will reveal himself when the time demands. For now, be assured—all progresses as foretold.'

He turned back to the training grounds, where two men postured at one another. A break in the clouds let the noon sun blaze across his face, and he squinted against its glare.

'Come,' he directed, lifting a hand against the bright, sweat slicking his brow. 'We'll watch from the shade.'

For all its austere stonework and hastily raised towers, the ever-expanding fortress-slums were barren of trees. The few green outgrowths that once stood had been felled—their corpses hacked and repurposed into dull furniture, slats, and planks. Wasteful. Pathetic. Did they not have men who could coax oak from the soil? Others who could replicate what they built? To butcher living nature just to spare themselves effort…

Profligates, to the last.

To most, his Anchor—granting him speech with trees—was dismissed as little more than a curiosity, the punchline to a weary jest. They failed to see the truth. Where sprouted the leaves, so sprouted his ear. Bark, trunk, and root betrayed all; no secret was spared.

By the winding roots he first reached out, and by the whispering leaves he found the way—led to the place where he would be welcomed in, sheltered within stone walls, all the better to mislead them. From there, he was set to undermine and to wait. And when the world was to crack open—when reality softened, ripe for remaking—he would reforge his brittle soul in the furnace of creation.

He moved toward the last standing elm, rooted on a rise above the training grounds. In hushed tones he murmured thanks, his hand tracing the rough bark as he sank into its shadowed roots. Rooted in place, the sun free from his eyes, he turned his gaze back to the blustering oafs as they pranced around one another, all pomp and exhibition.

The armoured fool struck first. He levelled his sword at the pipe-smoking clod, wreathing the steel in a gaudy spiral of flame.

The fool must have fancied himself Steward's own sent—vomiting torrents of fire like rivers from hell—but Atticus knew he could eclipse such trifles, had Harmony not seen fit to squander its favour elsewhere.

The flames rushed the clod. He stood unmoved. The blaze should have devoured him—but a monstrous rose unfolded instead, its petals bowing to shield their fool of a master.

A petal blackened and fell from the rose, yet from the stem swelled a fruit. When it struck the earth, fire spread. The blaze coiled in on itself, knotting to a blazing orb that burst outward—hurling the torrent back upon the fool who first cast it.

Sulphur choked the air, the ground cracking and bursting against the heat. Even in the elm's shade, Atticus sweltered, sweat streaming to his eyes. He wiped them clear, only to be stung with more a heartbeat later.

The armoured oaf stood unbothered, as though the heat bowed to him. He sheathed his blade, and with that cheap gesture, the fire was gone.

The combatants bobbed their heads, a mutual recognition of their preening urge to tout. Then, with sword unsheathed, one fool lunged at the other, fire trailing from his edge.

'It almost doesn't matter which one he sent,' Fenton murmured, his jaw slack as a simpleton's.

Atticus spared him a glance, a stiff smile fixed on his lips. How easy it was for Fenton to watch without spite—blessed by Harmony as he was. He could not conceive the chasm between those the Dungeon advanced and those it spurned.

It was disgraceful. An affront—that he should wither for want of soil while the unworthy rose, acorn to oak. It was not inequality he despised; such things were natural, inevitable, ordered like wine. It was his place in the order that thundered his temples and tightened his jaw.

That would soon change. He would make it so.

If power could be seized without violence, he doubted he would choose it. There was a savage satisfaction in taking by force. It was his birthright. To have been denied so long?

Unforgivable.

The people would pay.

He rose, gesturing Fenton to follow.

'I believe we've seen enough,' he averred, straining to keep the venom from his voice. 'There is still work to be done. Our people must be ready for when the moment is come.'

****

Bethany's eyes widened as the duel unfolded. The men came together in a blur of lethal grace. Waves of heat rolled across the grounds, Rexford's blade blazing with ever-searing flame as he struck.

Caspian did not yield. Feet planted, shoulders squared, he caught each scorching arc, smoke coiling and lashing in answer.

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She had commanded restraint. Perhaps they obeyed—but if this was holding back, she shuddered to think what full abandon would bring.

In three days, they would depart. Without clear leadership, the venture was doomed. She needed mighty allies—that much she could not deny. But cooperation was no less vital. Perhaps it was more so.

Yet with such strength, could they be led? A body with too many heads would tear itself apart.

Bethany fixed her gaze on the combatants, their fluid blows landing with bone-splitting force. At times they moved so swiftly she was forced to surge Harmony into the Inquisitor's Gaze merely to follow.

They could be led. The question was whether she was the one to lead them.

Weeks ago, she would not have entertained a flicker of doubt. But crushed beneath the weight of mounting failures, she had let uncertainty creep in.

It could not be allowed to remain. Yet try as she might, she could not banish it. It lingered far too long like an uninvited guest.

'We get it already!' Eudora bellowed toward the field, snapping Bethany from her thoughts. 'Your manhoods would drown you if you dipped them in a pond—so finish it up! I want my turn before the day's gone.'

'Watch your tongue, you shameless cur,' Lydia spat. 'You will speak of the Captain with respect—or not at all.'

Eudora turned to her, a toothy grin splitting her lips. She uncoiled to her full height, casting her bulked shadow over Lydia as the woman stood to meet her.

'Or what?' Eudora pressed, lowering her head until her brow hovered a breath from Lydia's nose. 'What're you goin' to do about it, little girl?'

'Don't push your luck,' Lydia scowled, her tone dangerously sharp.

'Don't push yours,' Eudora snapped, shoving her back three paces with a hard palm to the shoulder. 'I'm about sick of your cheek. Who d'you think you are, talking to me like that?'

Lydia gave a cold chuckle, her smile all menace.

Bethany thrust herself between them, arms flung wide to hold them apart.

'That is enough,' she declared, her voice carrying the weight of confidence she no longer felt.

'And you—' Lydia sneered, eyes narrowing on her. 'What makes you fit to lead? First night I'm here, I already heard of your lapses. You can't be trusted with a dog on a leash—never mind the lives of our guildsmen.'

The accusation struck true. Were it a physical blow, it would have floored her. But Bethany held her ground.

'I've made… mistakes,' she admitted, her gaze dropping. Then she lifted her head, locking on Lydia's glare. 'I won't deny it. People died because of my errors. I won't justify it. I won't excuse it. Their screams will haunt me as long as I breathe. But…'

She stepped closer, eyes burning into Lydia's.

'That's exactly why I'm the right leader. I care more for the lives on my shoulders than anyone here. I have more to redeem than anyone else. I've stood and I've fallen, but I'm still standing. Who else has that endurance? Who else will keep pressing forward when all else falls away?'

Her chest heaved, not from confrontation but from conviction. As the words left her lips, she realised she truly believed them.

To stumble was human. True defeat lay only in surrender. That was not in her. There would be no giving in, no breaking down. The weight was heavy — but she was the only one who could bear it. To shrug it off would only crush those who could not.

For a moment, Lydia was silent. Then a scowl twisted her face.

'A fine speech,' she sneered, spitting at Bethany's boots. 'I'd trust you to speak at our burying. No question soon if we stick with following you.'

Boots crunched the stony ground. Rexford and Caspian approached the group.

'That's enough,' Caspian said, dabbing his face dry, the pastels of his floral gown shimmering under the daylight.

'No, Captain. It is not,' Lydia barked, whipping her glare back to Bethany. She jabbed a finger into her chest. 'She is weak—you know it. I know it.'

'Maybe,' Eudora cut in. 'But she's got one thing on you.'

Lydia's gaze snapped to the giantess, her sabre sliding into her grip.

'And what would that be, you odious clown?' she growled.

'Unlike you—she's not a bitch.'

Lydia's nostrils flared so violently it seemed flames might burst free. A vein throbbed at her temple, her eyes narrowing to a razor's edge.

Then she smiled. Then she laughed. Then she lunged—sabre flashing for Eudora's neck. Eudora crossed her arms to block, taking the strike full on. The force blasted her off her feet—not a stumble, but a flight across the grounds. She ploughed through the last of the statues, stone shattering in her wake, before slamming into the wired fence. Metal snapped like twine over flame, coils whipping loose as her body tore through.

But Lydia was not finished. She crouched low, a growl rattling in her throat—then snapped forward, as if the far side of the field had yanked her on a cord. In a blur, she was upon Eudora once more.

Eudora was already on her feet. Blood streamed from gouges along her arm, but the limb still held. Spear gripped tight, she met Lydia's fury with her own, driving the tip down with crushing intent. Lydia did not take the blow—she would not have lived if she had. Where the spear struck, the earth split and cratered.

'Stop this!' Bethany cried, but her voice went unheard.

'They're tough girls,' Caspian shrugged. 'Let them have their fun.'

Lydia closed the distance in a heartbeat, blade arcing down toward Eudora's spear. The ground split beneath the giantess's feet—yet when she swung back, her strike cut nothing but air. Lydia was already gone, tugged aside as if unseen hands had yanked her clear.

Bethany glanced toward Rexford as his hand drifted to his blade. Relief surged—he had held them back before; he could do so again. But then she caught herself.

They did not respect her. To them, she was weak, unfit to lead—someone to humour, not obey.

If she leaned on Rexford now, every thread of her command would unravel, cut loose from the hem.

No—this she would handle alone.

She caught Rexford's wrist as his blade cleared leather, a subtle shake of her head bidding him stand down.

On the field, Lydia and Eudora tore at one another like cornered beasts. Steel crashed against spear, each collision an eruption, their fury thundering through the air.

Bethany surged Harmony into her Spirit Chain. Lumen's Bane flared to life. Forcing down her doubt, she moved without hesitation. She thrust the spear into the light—and it obeyed.

A beam seared into the earth, not a strike but a circling blaze. It spun around the combatants, nine full revolutions of burning brilliance before it burned itself away.

Back straight. Chest high. Shoulders square. Bethany strode forward.

'Enough,' she called.

And the moment the word fell, they obeyed.

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