With the storm whirling around him, Havoc raced up the walls of the inner sanctum, streams of forked lightning stalking his trail. From the domed ceiling, he scanned the battlefield below, his gaze snapping across the chaos. He had borrowed Shar's speed—her authority over the winds—but without her ability to walk the ceiling as though it were solid ground, he could not remain there for long.

There!

Below, Myra took aim, lightning crackling along her bowstring, drawn taut. In mere seconds, she would let loose, the thunderous crack heralding a bolt that would hurl him to the ground. She was fast, but Havoc was faster. Sweeping his crimson blade through the air, he unleashed a cleaving force—a crescent of sundering violence streaking toward her, forcing her to dive aside.

Got you.

The winds burst at his heels, launching him toward Myra as she scrambled to stand. His blade gleamed, poised to strike.

A blur.

A gust.

Shar.

She intercepted, her teeth clenched, her knife raised high as it locked against Havoc's descending chop. Yet to Havoc, her act was a postponement, not a pardon; he would not be denied. Shar grunted under the weight of his attack, barely holding him aloft. With fluid motion, he pushed off her blade, twisting mid-air. His leg cleaved down—a brutal strike. Bone crunched. Shar hurtled into a marble column, shattered stone raining down upon her.

Before he could cut Myra down, Shar was upon him once more, her curved blade whipping through the air in deadly arcs, driving Havoc backward in a frenzied dance of unrelenting assault. Their blades clashed, the clanging ring of steel against steel resounding through the domed chamber.

They tore across the battlefield, the ground trembling, pillars crumbling, as though two monsters were razing the land. Shar was formidable, moving with ferocity and razor-sharp intent. Yet against the one who would triumph over fate, she could barely hold ground—she would not for long. As Havoc drove her back, his scarlet edge falling like rain, a blast of cyclonic wind erupted from the ruins of a collapsed pillar. And then, as though time and space bent to her will, another Shar lunged from his side, her blade flashing toward his neck.

Shit.

There was no time to think—only to react. Riding the wind, he launched himself backward, escaping the twin assault by a hair's breadth.

His feet hit the ground, but there was no moment of strain, no burning in his lungs. He had fought them both. He had fought them all. Yet he did not feel weaker. Something was wrong. Or was it right? A stillness pressed against him, a whisper at the edges of his mind—vast, silent, waiting. It should have unsettled him. It did not.

He could almost feel himself sinking.

But then Annalise's voice crashed into him.

'What's this really all about, Havoc?' she purred, pressing into his mind, her presence thick with purpose, dragging him back before he could fall any further.

'Get out of my head!' Havoc spat, his blade crashing against Shar's, forcing her back as he twisted away from a downward slash aimed at his throat by her clone.

'This isn't like you at all,' Annalise continued, undeterred. 'What do you even hope to achieve with this reckless defiance?'

'I said, get out of my head!' He roared, raising his guard just in time to deflect the brutal arc of Shar's descending strike.

With his bare hand, he caught the second Shar's blade by the grip mid-thrust, stopping it inches from his ribs. Then, with all his might, he turned, ripping her from her feet and hurling her into her duplicate, sending them both crashing to the ground.

'You're looking mighty heroic for someone who claims to repudiate heroism,' Annalise mused, her tone tinged with irony. 'Why don't you sit this one out? Let everyone else die while you and I ride to safety. How does that sound?'

As Havoc staggered backward, bolts of fire and lightning shattered the tiles at his feet. For a moment, he considered the Seer's offer. It was true—he was no hero. Even now, as he battled to save an innocent girl, the thought of sacrificing himself for her never even crossed his mind.

He meant to depose the tyranny of fate. He would fight for it—kill for it. But to die for it?

'I wouldn't either,' Annalise said, her voice slithering into his mind like venom. 'A different day—a different fight. Don't lose your head…'

She paused as Havoc lurched away from a razor-edged flash streaking toward his throat, catching the strike mid-motion and forcing both Shar's backward.

'…Over some girl you've only just met.'

In the periphery, Havoc watched as Anton fell to his knees, arms crossed above his head. He roared as lightning and fire pummelled him with relentless fury, the marble beneath him pooling into molten sludge. He struggled to rise, but as the elemental bombardment intensified—the air thick with sulphur and ozone—he was driven back down.

In time, his power would falter—his golden armour shattered—until not even cinders would remain.

Vexing as he was, Anton was principled. He did not deserve to meet such an end. But neither altruism nor camaraderie gripped Havoc's heart—only prudence. The moment Anton fell, the full force of Annalise's disciples would turn on him. Against them all, he would be crushed.

Annalise's enticement rang true, but for now, it did not matter. One step forward. One fight at a time. He truly was not sure if he was ready to die. In the moment of truth, Naereah might yet be forsaken. But that was a problem for later.

Here and now, he would not fail. First, he would save Anton—whatever came next, he would it face then.

As he rebuffed strike after strike, the two Shars lunged at him like lions closing in on their quarry. Still, he waited.

Inch by inch, the Stone Guardsman shimmered into being, its knees rising from its shins as its form solidified. As its stone head formed, a rush of power flooded through Havoc. He could feel the boundaries of the Guardsman's reach—its barriers of ethereal light now his to command.

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He rammed one Shar backward, a barrier of light slamming into her with savage force. With the back of his hand, he struck the other Shar's face, a shimmering cone rippling from the impact, sending her twisting through the air.

He stabbed the Thirsty Strike into a gap between the marble tiles and spread his arms wide. With an almighty heave, he brought them together, unleashing countless shards of shimmering death, hurtling toward Myra and Franklin.

****

Vexing. Truly, vexing.

Though her chant continued, Annalise's attention wavered, drawn to the battlefield. She would succeed—of that there was no doubt—but she had hoped, just once, for things to be different.

Inevitable Havoc—deserving of the title, I suppose.

Myra was expendable, as were they all. Still, it stung to watch Franklin hoist her limp form above his head, preserving his own forlorn existence as Havoc's killing shards shredded her body like a blade through softened wax.

Three times, she had lived through this moment. The faces changed, but the events unfolded the same.

Time and again, he defied her sovereign will. Were some events unchangeable? No—she did not believe so. It was not fate. It was the boy.

From the moment they first met, in times yet to come, she had known he was different. They both wielded a Monarch's might, yet among their ranks, he alone stood peerless.

Calamity's Edge—an unrelenting disaster to all who stood against him.

But there was more to his strength than mere physicality. A darkness shrouded his fate, one that thwarted even the supreme foresight of the Venerable Demons. Even now, she could sense it—a tar-black malice lurking in his soul. Pernicious. Unfathomable.

Other than killing the boy myself, there wasn't much more I could do, she sighed, her chant faltering—only to resume as the surrounding runes dimmed.

There had to be a sacrifice—she would have preferred it not be a friend.

Three times she had scoured the land for a suitable replacement, burning away the last wisps of power within the Ouroboros Gate, leaving her no different from any Soldier Inheritor.

She could admit she had miscalculated in choosing Havoc's sister. But how could she have known he would stroll into the Cell? His origins were unknown in her time.

The last time he thwarted her, it had been for no one special. Just some stray girl, some so-and-so who happened to carry a spark of something different in her veins.

This time, she had been careful. The sacrifice had been chosen with precision.

She could not have foreseen that he would fight tooth and nail to save Profanity's Witch—not when he had once torn his hand free from her gaping chest, her black, molten heart tight in his grip.

In truth, she could not have killed him, nor could she leave him to die.

There were many things she might have done differently to change the course of events, but none to him—not without risking the awakening of his manifest darkness—a power even now she tried to keep from string, her thoughts impelled into Havoc's mind, straining to keep him at bay.

She had moved mountains to keep that fiendish power buried—to delay that terrible might that had foiled her before. Still, it was not enough. Even without that monstrous power, he was too daunting, too relentless—overwhelming the combined force of her hand-selected few.

The writing was on the wall. They would soon fall.

If that girl would just submit, she griped silently, her gaze shifting to Naereah who struggled against her chain even now.

'She can't say I didn't try,' she muttered, her chant breaking as she shrugged.

It mattered not. She would still leave with what she came for. Divinity would be hers.

Everything else? Just details.

****

With a guttural roar, Shar lunged toward Havoc, the winds twisting around her as she crossed paths with her mirrored clone. Together, they spiralled through the air, blades flashing—one striking low, the other high.

Yet it was all for naught. The boy's movements sharpened with each exchange, his rhythm overtaking theirs. With his crimson sword, he deflected the clone's strike, while his blade of ethereal light caught Shar mid-motion, driving her down. The world spun as she tumbled from the ceiling.

Still, she landed on her feet. Nothing less would befit her lady's blade.

But Myra was dead. She could no longer draw from the Seer's bottomless well of Harmony. Without it, Havoc's relentless blows would soon break her—the charm clasped to her wrist already exacted too great a cost to maintain.

To falter now would be an unforgivable disgrace. Yet as her vision blurred, her bones shrieked, and her muscles quaked, she began to wonder how long she could stand.

'Just fucking die, you miserable lout!' Franklin spat, his staff raised skyward, bolts of fire crashing into the walls, chasing the boy who moved with the wind.

But the boy was not alone. As Franklin prepared a greater strike, flames coiling before him, swelling into a blazing orb, a crack split the air. Anton's whip lashed across Franklin's chest, sending him reeling.

'Yield!' wailed Anton, his whip carving through Franklin's robes, searing a deep line from shoulder to waist, blood blooming in its wake.

'Okay, I yield!' Franklin cried, his voice cracking as Anton's whip ignited along its length, drawn back, poised to cut him down.

Cowardly and unworthy—always ill-suited to serve the Seer's goals.

Franklin fell to his knees, arms raised overhead. As his Remnants shimmered and vanished from sight, so too did Shar's replica, dispelled mid-strike toward Havoc's chest.

Shar tried to step forward—but her legs failed her. She dropped to her knees, teeth gnashed, as her body betrayed her.

'I'll not kill you,' Anton declared, his whip lowering to his side, its fire extinguishing.

'But I will.'

Havoc's crimson blade flashed—clean, efficient—severing Franklin's throat without hesitation.

'He gave up!' Anton roared. 'You didn't need to kill him!'

'I don't care,' Havoc growled, turning toward Shar, his heavy steps crunching against fractured tiles.

She met his gaze—and a chill twisted down her spine.

Dark. Empty. A void, absent of anything human.

Had he—had he always been this way?

No. Something inside him had broken—something irreparable.

It made no sense. She had watched him, seen him fight before. Even if his purity was complete, there should have been nothing left. He had practically faced the four of them alone. So how was he still standing?

'Who—what are you?' she stammered, a dread she had not felt since meeting the Seer coiling in her gut as Havoc approached.

'Havoc!' Naereah yelled, her voice slicing through the battlefield. Shar's gaze snapped toward the Selenarian racing toward the boy.

Her eyes whipped across the battlefield, finding Annalise. Her heart steadied at the sight—the Seer strolled toward her, carefree and smiling, as though her feet would not touch the ground.

'I don't—I don't understand,' Shar rasped as she pushed herself to stand, her lady before her.

'Hush now, my dear,' the Seer purred into her ear, her touch light, soothing. 'You served me well—you've made me so proud.'

'But the key—the girl still lives.'

'There wasn't enough time. But it's okay. You were always enough,' Annalise whispered, drawing Shar into her embrace.

'Forgive—'

A wet rasp stole Shar's last words, her heart pierced by the Seer's hidden blade.

Darkness rushed in. Her body failed her. But it did not matter—she had served the Seer's design.

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