Lucia had been patient. The long-suffering bride-to-be had endured degradation and humiliation all for the love and for the life that she deserved. She had bitten her tongue too many times. Forced too watch her future husband wag his tail, tongue lapping the air and drooling puddles beneath his feet as he leered at her slave girl.

What does she have that I could possibly lack? she asked herself, incredulity coiling in her stomach like a serpent's bone-crushing grip. Her nails dug into her palms, but the dull ache did nothing to distract from the heart-piercing resentment slicing chamber by chamber.

As she watched Aaron stomp toward the two miscreant mudlarks, his fists balled and his face flushed crimson, Lucia could only ask herself: where was this righteous fury when her honour had been at stake?

Reaching the boy-lout, Aaron yanked him away from the slave-girl. Grabbing Havoc's collar in a white-knuckled grip, he hoisted the clod overhead, his jaw clenched tight with barely restrained fury.

'You will keep your filthy hands away from her. Do you hear me?' Aaron roared, his face so close to the lout's it could almost be mistaken for intimacy.

'Whatever could be troubling you, my good man?' the lout replied, his tone a measured mockery of noble decorum. 'I simply cannot imagine what has you so out of sorts. It was my understanding that the lady was free to pursue as she pleased. Even were that inaccurate, you are spoken for, are you not? I fail to see how I could have offended.'

He finished with a wide grin, his voice carrying just enough to reach the edges of the crowd now gathering. Spectators exchanged glances, their murmurs rising like the rustle of dry leaves, as the tension coated the air.

With fists clenched tight, Lucia stood silent as Aaron's unintelligible, sputtered response mingled with the whispers, chucking, and pitying glances directed toward her.

Aaron released his grip on the boy, who landed lightly, brushing imaginary lint from his collar with an exaggerated flourish. Havoc's grin widened, his mocking gaze dancing across the crowd before settling on Aaron. The spectators exchanged knowing glances, their amusement a searing blade pressed flat across Lucia's cheek.

'Go comfort your bride,' Havoc said, brushing Aaron's shoulder while he glanced past him, setting his sight on Lucia. 'I believe you have much grovelling in your future to redress this slight.'

Havoc leaned close, whispering inaudible provocations into Aaron's ear. Aaron's chest heaved with restrained fury, but Havoc did not wait for a response. With an almost dismissive air, he turned and grasped the slave-girl's hand, leading her away from the group.

As Havoc retreated, silence fell—a taut, fragile thing that shattered under the weight of loud, rolling laughter.

Aaron glanced sheepishly at Lucia, mouthing words she did not care to interpret. Her glare cut past her philandering bridegroom, burning into the receding form of the slave-girl.

Enough is enough! The words echoed in her mind, fury rising from her chest, enflaming every nerve and clouding her vision in red.

'Do not take another step, you gutter wench!' Lucia screamed, her voice sharp and shrill even to her own ears, cutting through the laughter like a jagged blade.

Even she was uncertain of what she would do next. For years, she had endured Aaron's barefaced imprudence, tempered only by the thin veil of discretion he afforded her in public and the assurance that his name would one day elevate her to where she belonged—the highest echelon of elite gentry.

More recently, it was the knowledge that he would soon be hers—truly hers—that had guarded her from his most garish intemperance. The Seer had shown her the path, she need only walk it.

She had feared all was lost the day that brazen hussy had defied her command inside the dilapidated temple within the City of Monsters. But fortune favoured those who could stake it all on what they deserve. When that scarlet-trollop had pulled every Fragment from her coffer, Lucia carefully swept the collection until she found exactly what she needed.

With the Fragments of Mind and Soul, the potion nestled safely between her breasts, and her Remnants, she possessed nearly everything for the powerful Sequence that would bind her love to her forever. All that remained was the timing—and it was not now. Natheless, there was no excusing that lightskirt's continued existence. Even if the street-wench still had her use, she could be hauled underarm—her legs and her spine broken clean.

Before she even registered her own actions, twin talismans shimmered between her pinched fingers. With a sharp flick of her wrist, they sliced through the air. The talismans twisted and tore, each ripping into the wind as they transformed, forming towering wolves—one crimson red, the other cobalt blue.

'Have your senses taken flight?' Aaron shouted, his arms outstretched as he stepped between Lucia and Naereah, his wide eyes betraying his disbelief.

A sharp twitch pulled at Lucia's eyelids as the man she loved stood as a barrier against her righteous recompense—another shattering blow to the fractured plain of her pride.

She did not hesitate. Pouring every drop of her roiling ire into a mental command, she sent the crimson wolf forward. With a single swipe of its massive paw, Aaron was flung aside like a discarded coat, lifted clean from his feet, dropping with a heavy thud, then sliding across the ground.

No one is laughing now, are they? she thought, the cool wash of satisfaction momentarily easing the churn of her rage.

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Like a doe caught between a cliff and the huntsman's bow, the wanton-strumpet trembled as she glanced between Lucia and the lowbred clod who stepped forward—another infuriating hindrance to Lucia's virtuous indignation.

This ends now!' a man shouted, his voice etched with coarse authority.

Clad in golden armour, Anton rushed forward, placing himself between the group and Lucia's bounding wolves. His whip ignited along its length, embers and ash cascading from the lash. With a sharp snap of his hand, he drove the wolves back, advancing without a trace of fear.

'If you continue this idiocy, you'll make enemies of us all!' he roared.

Only then did Lucia notice the gathered unwashed, their weapons glinting in the pale light. Across the mountain passage, cross-brow faces and sharp eyes fixed on her, their silent condemnation more cutting than Anton's words. Her lips curled into a sneer, but the sight of something in the distance arrested her fury.

A glimmer—faint but unmistakable—drew her gaze. It grew with each passing moment, closing the distance at a rapid pace.

Dread cut through her rage like a razor parting sting. She had no intention of allowing this day's slight to go unanswered—she would have satisfaction. But as the faint glimmer became a fractured nightmare—a barrelling storm of glass and malice—survival took precedence over pride. She could not guess how much the Abomination had grown in power, but as it rose, blotting the horizon from view, she gripped her priorities with resolute clarity.

This is not over, she swore silently. Climbing atop the sapphire wolf, she snatched her fiancé in the beast's jaws and spurred it forward, indifferent to whether the others followed.

****

Sat across a laid-out ground cloth, Aaron's chest heaved as he opened his eyes, the dregs of his Harmony restored to viable levels. For a fleeting moment, his mind was clear, unburdened by thought or pride. Though his face was drenched in sweat, his features held a glow of cool serenity—a facade soon shattered.

As his taut muscles eased, the strain of restorative meditation faded, and reality came roaring back. The events of hours past tore through his thoughts like an ill-tempered bull. His grip paled as his fists tightened, molten resentment flushing his skin with an irate hue.

Disgrace—unforgivable, insurmountable disgrace. That low-born beggar had dragged his name, his honour, into the mud. The fool had pushed his magnanimity too far. No longer. He was Aaron Crest, rightful heir to the Great House of Crest, and no trifling provincial would make a mockery of him and live to spread word of the occasion.

He had already fallen so low, enduring countless indignities unbefitting his station. It was all for love—a love that had been trampled beneath muck-stained boots, and spit upon by the very object of his affections.

Calm yourself, he commanded himself. It is not she who has spurned you, the fault is with the rogue. He forced his appetite upon her, and she was too timid to refuse. His jaw tightened as the thought hardened into conviction. She does love me—I know she does. Her eyes call for me.

Havoc was not the alone in blame. His fiancée—that coltish devil—had her share to claim. Without her insatiable ambitions, he would already be free to declare his love. There was no doubt in his mind—Naereah was waiting for him. He could not blame her. She deserved better—a love untainted by schemes. But as long as that treacherous vixen prowled the edges, her claws ever poised, Naereah would remain shackled by fear—fear of the scorn of illegitimacy.

Anger surged his veins, hot and unremitting, but with laboured breaths, he forced the inferno to cool.

This humiliation will not be for naught. I need only wait a little longer, he thought, the words a salve to his blistered pride and scalded heart.

It was true—one way or another, all things would be resolved. With the fractured Abomination close on their heels, they could not rest for long before facing the next Spawn along the gauntlet. The path was merciless, and each step demanded more from the group. But after that, only one Spawn would remain before Aaron, his love, and the Seer slipped away to enter the Temple of Desire alone. Once there, he would seize the Tears of Desire—for Naereah's sake and for his own glory—along with any other treasures within. Then they would flee this dreadful place, his claim to a Soldier's Inheritance cemented at last.

But not before I make that insolent guttersnipe suffer, he resolved, a rumbling growl in place of spoken word.

He had originally planned to bait the boor on a hunting trip, ensuring only one of them returned. But that was no longer feasible. Dumb-witted as the boy might be, there was no disguising Aaron's intentions now. Still, subterfuge offered other possibilities.

As his mind turned over his next move, his gaze drifted across the camp. He walked past tawdry canopies and fur bedding tucked close to the mountain wall, the charred logs of burned-out fireplaces still radiating faint warmth.

Even by the low standards to which they had been forced to adapt, the state of their supplies was disheartening. With no choice but to abandon anything that could not fit in their meagre spatial-storage Remnants—and with the extortionate toll demanded by Naereah's coffer—there was little left to go around. The loss of their threadbare tent was another blow. Simply possessing his own bedroll was now a privilege; most survivors had been forced to bundle together on the few that remained.

The night carried a sharp chill, creeping down Aaron's tattered, knee-length tailcoat to raise his hair and frost his breath. Each exhalation hung briefly in the air, an ephemeral phantom of his discomfort. Still, he pressed on, carving a distance between himself and the slumbering masses.

He halted his steps as one of the damned groaned loudly atop his bedding, tossing and turning, hands clenched tight across his stomach. Aaron recognised the man but could not recall his name. He was one of the useless—incapacitated immediately in the previous battle by the Dungeon-Spawn's opening barrage. Aaron had seen him face the six-armed giant prior, wielding his spear like a knave, his Harmonic purity nothing worth boasting.

He sneered, looking down upon the young man. He could not fathom why his love had wasted her time patching the wounds of such a snivelling runt. His continued breaths only signified they would cease later.

Thank the Stewards, not everyone I hired is so singularly useless, he thought, shoving down the unwelcome question of what it said about him that such incompetence could thrive on under his command.

As the man settled, Aaron pushed further, his spirits lifting as he caught sight of his man. Though fallen low, Franklin was a man after his own heart. Noble in blood, even if no longer in station. Proof that true nobility endured all degradation.

Of all the simpletons and dullards Aaron had hired, only one had consoled him following his disgrace. Only one shared his insight into what must be done to keep the dunghill rats in line. He was not among the Seer's fawning scrubs. He had the intellect and ambition to recognise opportunities and seize upon them.

Only four could leave the Forest of Desire—if Franklin acted correctly, with loyalty and poise, there was no reason the fourth place could not be his.

After all, it was truly gratifying to have an ally on whom he could depend.

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