Harper did not care. She did not care about the Dungeon's will. She did not care about the trial's rules. In the moment, her very life and death fell to insignificance—she was not going to let Rosella die.

She threw herself between Rosella and certain death—the newly advanced Slasher-Spawn's razored claws carving down. Her khakkhara swept up, its bells clamouring as the ornate head caught the strike. The impact rattled through her arms, but she held fast. With her free hand she drove a palm into the monster's chest and drew upon her staff's might. Ruinous force surged through its frame—bristled hide tearing from muscle, flesh peeling from bone. The beast crashed to its knees, heartbeat faltering between exposed ribs, as the last shreds of its flesh sparked away in rapid decomposition.

She had been fearless in the moment. Her only thought was to move, to act, to save. Her heart beat in her chest, but it had thrashed for another—its rhythm so urgent it drowned all else. She barely heard Bethany's desperate plea to hold her ground. Sedrick's grip slipped from her sleeve, scarcely noticed. Rexford's appeal never pierced the moment. Her ears caught only Rosella's cries, and the call to save her life.

No—there had been no fear in the moment. But fear came after, as it always would: frosted jolts of terror spiking through her veins as a twisted surge of power coiled across the arena, heralding the Abomination's return.

Stone ground to dust beneath its tread, its greatsword slung flat across its shoulder. It advanced toward Harper, a quizzical cast upon its fleshless face, the dark flames in its sockets flickering as though with surprise. Then it shrugged—as if bored already—and closed the distance in slow, insouciant steps.

For the second time, the battle stilled. The Spawn crept toward the arena's borders, their steps uneven, careful not to stir a stone lest the Abomination's gaze fall upon them. The bandsmen's eyes clung to Harper—she felt their weight—each gaze a mirror of fear. In most she saw the cold glint of dread, whether for themselves or for her she could not say. Others shuddered with sympathy, their minds doubtless straying to Lydia—slaughtered like swine beneath sundering steel, severed from soul for the sin of stepping into strife where only stillness was sanctioned. From others still she caught a glint of something stranger: a raised brow, a detached curiosity. The Lord-Mayor's forces seemed more taken by the spectacle than the horror, gazing at her with calculating calm—as if her peril were a puzzle, its missing pieces already scattered nearby, waiting to be sighted and slotted into place.

Harper had little time to dwell on their indifference. She could not weigh it against the dread pressing closer, bearing down like a falling sky. Her knees quivered; they buckled. She dropped to the ground, head bowed as though kneeling in solemn prayer.

'I could have expected such folly from the others—but you?' the Abomination hummed, its skull tilting, the black fire within its sockets burning steady. 'You heard us clearly. You knew the rules, did you not?'

As if straining against a lunette clasped by terror, Harper lifted her tear-blurred gaze to the blackened flames smouldering where mortal men would have eyes. Her tongue rasped against the dry walls of her throat as she swallowed down jagged knots of breath. Words scraped her larynx, spilling as broken whimpers.

She had known the rules. Perhaps not at first, but from the moment Lydia soared into battle, the Dungeon's discordant fury had whined through the melancholy of its ever-present song. It had willed the Servants to struggle and die if unworthy, or to triumph through the steel of their resolve. The Dungeon's trial was orchestrated with precision—its score composed, no note astray. No dissonance would be endured.

For her inconsonance, she would be silenced—her silver cord hewn short by the greatsword poised above her head. She glanced to Rosella, who stood as if fettered, eyes wavering, paintbrush shuddering in her trembling grip. Rosella's lips shaped a silent apology as tears slid from her chin, striking the stone below.

'It's alright,' Harper lied, forcing a taut smile, her gaze fixed on the woman she had given everything to save.

The Abomination loosed a breathless sigh, contempt oozing from each movement. It drove its blade into the ground and knelt. A gauntleted hand cupped Harper's face as the black fire within its skull flickered close.

'Your song ends before its time,' it whispered, almost tender beneath the menace of its words. 'If you had patience…' Its voice drifted, skull swaying side to side. 'It hardly matters now. No—enough to say this: for you, nothing will ever be alright again.'

It rose to its full height and reclaimed the sword, lifting the blade above her head. In moments, it would be over. Everything—finished. Her hopes, her dreams, all for nothing. Harper would never see her parents freed. She would never feel their warmth: her cheek pressed to her father's barrel chest, her mother's doting hand running down her weary back.

Unshed tears spilled as she closed her eyes, bracing for the end. She did not know how it would feel. Perhaps a sharp anguish, a moment's silence, then darkness—then nothing at all.

Instead, there came a heat. Coaxing sweat from pores she had never known, an oppressive warmth washed over her. Her breath hitched. She opened her eyes. For an instant she thought herself cast into hell—rivers of fire raging across the ground. But as she choked on burning air and wiped clear the tears from her eyes, she saw she was still within the arena, now lit crimson by streams of fire. Where those streams converged stood Rexford, his blade ablaze, locked against the Abomination's descending cut.

Sparks burst from Rexford's scarlet armour, and fire took hold. Flames wrapped his indomitable form, until he was no longer man but a towering plume of living fire.

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The flames coiled around the Abomination, churning the stale air into a cyclone that rose from floor to ceiling. The whirlwind folded in on itself, tightening, brightening, a serpent of fire devouring its own tail.

As though nature itself had heard Harper's cry, the flames would not relent. Sulphuric fumes thickened the searing air as the stone floor cracked, burst, and melted beneath the storm's fury.

Yet—

It was not enough.

Steel clashed against steel, a resounding clang that split the inferno. From the firestorm a figure was hurled, smashing against the far wall, cracks spidering out like ruptured veins. Rexford—battered and bleeding—hung half-buried in stone.

Torrid gusts swept over Harper, the faltering inferno snuffed out by a single swipe of the Abomination's blade.

There it stood: unharmed. Unfazed. Unfinished. The smouldering flames within its skull fixed on Harper where she knelt, and it advanced. But before it could reach her, a blinding light cleaved the air, smashing into its onyx-plated shoulder and halting its stride.

It turned, glaring toward the mound of bones. Harper followed its gaze. There stood Bethany, arm outstretched, scarlet eyes locked on the Abomination, fury and resolve etched into her features.

The Abomination only shook its head and pressed forward. Yet it had taken but a step before light struck again, spearing through the black flame burning in its socket.

It sighed and raised its greatsword, pointing the tip toward Bethany. Its skull swayed slowly from side to side. The message was clear—no further distraction would be endured. Whether Bethany understood, Harper could not say. But when a third blinding strike cracked against its onyx plating, it was just as clear the Field Marshal did not care.

As though exasperated, the Abomination dragged iron fingers down its skull and shook its head. Another beam of light shattered against its temple. It sighed. A fresh blast struck its armoured chest. Then it turned fully toward the bone mound. A sustained stream of brilliance seared across its frame, sweeping up and down, boring into the onyx plate with blinding defiance.

Bathed in searing radiance, the Abomination turned to Harper, raising a solitary finger.

'A moment,' it murmured. 'This shall not tarry long.'

Its words had barely faded when Harper lifted a trembling hand, pleading for mercy. The Abomination vanished—reappearing high in the air, blade poised to cleave Bethany in twain.

The greatsword fell, Bethany's fate all but sealed. Yet it did not reach her—her head held high, eyes unwavering. Before the blade could cleave her skull and shatter her ribs, leaving her bloodied halves sprawled upon the mound, a blaze of fire streaked across the battlefield. It slammed into the Abomination mid-air, driving it from its course.

Blood streaked from Rexford's brow, yet still he stood. Cracks webbed his crimson armour. His legs shook beneath him, but he levelled a burning blade at his foe.

Harper did not think him a fool; he must have known it was hopeless. Even if they fought as one—fierce, unyielding, sparing no thought for their own survival, striving to bring the Abomination to heel—she doubted they could prevail.

So why?

Rosella came to Harper's side. Crouching low, her damp eyes met Harper's, her trembling breaths warm against her face. She spoke:

'Tell me he's coming,' Rosella pleaded. 'That help's on the way. That this isn't where we die.' Her voice faltered, cracking as she took Harper's hand and squeezed tight with desperation, fresh tears wet in her stare. 'It's not a trick. Not if it's you. I—I'll believe it if it comes from you. That we can hold on. Not—not long, just long enough. I can believe that, but only if it's from you.'

Harper parted her lips, denial on her tongue, but she bit it back. She glanced past Rosella across the arena, where Rexford, Bethany, Sedrick, and even Eudora encircled the Abomination. It stood with blade raised, one arm folded behind its back.

'If I had patience…' she murmured, recalling the Abomination's words.

Rosella's hands still clutched her own. Harper squeezed back and gave a nod.

'Help is coming,' she whispered, conviction taking root. 'Just a little longer. Not too long—just long enough. Do you believe me?'

'I do,' Rosella replied without pause.

'Do you trust me?'

'With my life, Captain,' Rosella said, fresh tears streaking her cheeks.

'Then go back to the others.' Harper paused, glancing forward as the Abomination slipped past Rexford's scalding swipes, Sedrick's explosive thrusts, Eudora's crushing blows, and Bethany's scorching beams with ease. 'This isn't a battlefield you can stand in. Leave it to us to buy time. You've done your part.'

She turned her gaze to the gathered Servant bandsmen, then rose to her feet.

'You all have,' she said. 'Leave the rest to us and—' Her grip tightened on the shaft of her priestess' staff. A surety she had not known since losing her parents swelled in her chest, each breath deepening it into certitude. '—have faith.'

They would not prevail—it was impossible. But they did not need to. They needed only faith. She had faith: the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of what she could not see, yet heard all the same. She was a Listener—keyed to the Dungeon's tune. And the tune had changed.

She did not know its meaning, only that it had meaning. Something had stirred, shifting the Dungeon's will, granting them time. To prove themselves, yes—but it was more than that. A path had opened. She would walk it to the end. Though its turns and bends were hidden, she knew what waited there.

Havoc.

He was coming.

Even as the Abomination caught Rexford's blade and sent him hurtling with a bone-crushing kick. Even as it endured Eudora's battering strikes, scarcely yielding before driving her back with effortless counters, its other arm never leaving its back. Even as it shrugged off Sedrick's explosive jabs, nearly disembowelling him with a single lash. Even as it stood unscathed beneath the blinding fury that sought to cleave it apart—Harper's heart did not grow heavy.

She would fight beside her allies against unwinnable odds, unburdened, certain her faith would be acknowledged—certain this day would not be her last.

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