Bethany was no fool. She knew what loyalty was. It was her men's suffering in her negligent absence, yet following her commands all the same. It was barely-mended Enforcers—stripped of their dignity, tortured for days—charging headlong into battle, mere days free from captivity. It was the diamond core of her guild: unbroken, unbreakable, unimpeachable. Absolute.

Even after all they had endured, they stood the line—protecting the innocent, driving back evil. For them, Bethany would bear the crushing weight of leadership. She was ambitious; that had not changed. But in the furnace of Heureux, ambition had refined into something sterner. Experience. Authority. She had learned more of command in these few short weeks than in the decade prior—what now seemed a mere rehearsal.

Yes, she wanted to rise—to lead. To claim nobility, and one day stand at the head of a distinguished line. But her highest calling was to the guild. To the men and women who would live and die by her directive. For them, she could not falter. She could not grow weary, or inept. They had earned more than that. They had earned it in blood.

They had proven their loyalty. She would prove hers.

Beyond reproach.

Beyond question.

Beyond accusation.

Beyond the vexing paranoia of some outlaw knave.

How dare he cast doubt on my men?

Hands resting on the command table, she balled her fists tight—her breath catching as she struggled to contain her outrage.

He had accused them so languidly. No fury. No conviction. No zeal to veil the poison in passion. Just a tug of her sleeve, and venom whispered to her ear.

'They're the trap. Corrupted—all of them,' he had sighed. 'Do what you want, but if you want to keep the people safe, you should kill them all… I'll do it, if you want.'

He was clearly a monster, but she had hoped he might become a useful one. She was wrong. He was a feral creature. Beyond redemption. Too dangerous to be left alone—too bestial to stay leashed for long.

Anton, at least, she could concede, was an honourable man. Just shy of nobility, he hailed from the retainer class—his bearing clean, his discipline precise. His circumstances—his associations—were unfortunate. But the man himself held himself rightly.

And Naereah… Bethany had since learned the girl was of royal blood in her homeland. It was little wonder, then, that she was not the villain Bethany had once believed.

But Havoc—

A knock at the door shattered her reflections. With her cursory acknowledgement, the door swung open.

'The squadron has returned, ma'am. The enemy was routed completely. Zero casualties,' Iris said—her voice steady, her chin high.

She was phantom-white. So pale she seemed almost translucent. Without the covering of her tailcoat and pressed linen shirt, her slow-beating heart would surely show through her ribs. The trauma of her ordeal lingered in her quivering, emerald eyes—but still, she stood resolute.

'Excellent,' Bethany said, her eyes forced level with her subordinate's. She would not look away from the outcome of her negligence. 'And the men—how did they perform?'

Faint colour rushed to Iris' cheeks, and her face softened. Even her eyes seemed, for a moment, less haunted. But then she straightened—composure restored.

'Our presence in the conflict was… superfluous. Havoc Gray—the asset, ma'am—his contributions to the assault were singular.' She paused, her flush deepening. 'He defeated three enemy Soldiers single-handedly. I have never seen anything like it. Terrifying… exhilarating. I am just glad he'll be—'

She caught herself. Something flashed in Iris' eyes—something Bethany could not quite name. A moment later, Iris cleared her throat and stiffened once more.

'That is to say, he is an invaluable asset to the mission, ma'am.'

Bethany frowned, though the reproach went unspoken. She prompted Iris for the full report, then waved her away to resume her duties.

Before long, another knock sounded at the door—Sedrick, this time.

Despite his remissness, he had proven himself a competent officer when necessity demanded it. In truth, there was no one in the city she trusted more. She quelled the fever rising within her, but Havoc's suspicions were no small thing—and not so easily dismissed. They were infectious. Sedrick alone had remained at her side since the fall. He alone stood untouched by the shameful heat of rising doubt.

'They're a pale bunch—white as ghosts. But I've yet to see anything truly misgiving. They've been through much. Some time. Some wine. Skirts and gents tastily fine. That'll put the rose back in their cheeks—no doubt on that,' Sedrick quipped, his nonchalance maddeningly reassuring.

'Good,' she murmured, then added, 'As expected. Forgive my overcaution.'

'Think nothing of it. These are mad times—mad. When the adversary's a corpse, it's little wonder you'd start eyeing unpinched cheeks and sallow lips. But sickly smiles come hand in hand with ghastly guttings. They endured grievous torment for days. It's a wonder they stand at all.

'The other matter—have we made any progress?' she asked.

'Afraid not,' Sedrick sighed. 'I don't know what confoundment's been placed around this city, but we're not getting through. Nothing's worked so far.'

Strange symbols lit the night. Runes Bethany could not decipher—even with her years of careful study. But after all that had unfolded since the city's fall, she believed she had uncovered their function, if not their form.

The first was a ward: a sealing perimeter that held all within the borders of Heureux, and kept all others out. It had allowed the underworld element to act with sickening impunity. It was powerful. Nothing they had tried had so much as weakened it. A fraction of the Justiciar-General was stationed on the Eighth Floor, a mere few hundred miles from this place. That the ward had not been breached from without was a harrowing testament to the Bleeding Hand impostors' planning—and their endorsement.

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The second was some means of transfiguring the dead. Whenever those symbols shone, the fallen would rise again as fiends. It was an insidious power. They had done what they could to keep the slums secure, but there were many wounded—some direly, some unto death. When those runes burned in the sky, every death became an outbreak they had to rush to contain.

They had taken in hundreds of civilians. It would not take long to be overrun.

The third, she only suspected—but hoped, deep down, to be true. They heightened aggression. She had walked the city streets and seen the works of beasts. Not all the evil was being committed by monsters. Fathers disgraced their daughters. Mothers throttled their young where they lay. Perhaps it had always been inside them—she prayed to the gods it had not.

If she was right, then it was the cult's doing. And the symbol of their occupation was the cause.

'We haven't so much as gotten a word out,' Sedrick continued. 'Not by Carrier Crane, Fragment, or otherwise.'

Carrier Cranes were used for the rapid dispersal of information—silver-feathered birds that knew no boundaries between Dungeon-Floors. If news broke in the day, they would have it spread by waning noon. Bethany had sent a party to retrieve several from the information bureaus. She had hoped they could send for aid.

But it seemed even they could not breach the ward.

'What of our own wards?'

'They're holding,' Sedrick drawled. 'I'm telling you, whatever happened last night was a fluke. We set them up in haste—a mistake here or there is hardly surprising.'

'A fluke?' she murmured, barely aloud.

It must have been.

What else could it have been?

The door burst open, and Eagan Vasara stormed into the command room. For the briefest moment, Bethany thought she saw red in his eyes—but when she looked again, it was gone.

Her second lieutenant had been among the captured Enforcers. The only one of them to have obtained a Soldier's Inheritance, the Devil's Smile had made him suffer more than most. Even mended, Bethany struggled to look at him. He was the crystallisation of her folly. Her failure had been stomped, quite literally, down upon his broken spine.

'The hounds, ma'am!' Eagan gasped. 'The ones you warned us of. They've been spotted—near the site.

Cold dread twisted in Bethany's chest. She drew a steadying breath, then gave a single nod.

It was fine.

So long as their wards held—so long as there were no other flukes—it was fine.

Yet again, the door crashed into the wall. This time Preston, his face twisted in panic.

Bethany stilled. Preston had become a jumpy sort since the fall. It might not be that bad.

'The wards, ma'am!' he eked. 'They're failing.'

Her heart plunged into her gut.

The door flung open once again. She did not know this man, but she recognised the fear in his eyes.

'A Champion, ma'am. The hounds—the scouts have sighted a Champion at their head. Early reports say she's Desmond. Sylvia Desmond. Wolf's Requiem herself.'

What in the hell is happening?

The room spun. Or perhaps it was her mind. One thing after another—how could she contend?

Havoc's warning echoed. She shoved it aside, then stood, her metal chair screeching across the wooden planks as she rose. She stuttered to speak, but indecision caught her throat. Her past errors had already cost too much. The wounds may have healed, but they ran deeper than bone.

She could not—would not—fail them again.

Havoc… It has to be him.

He was the outlaw.

He was the killer.

He was the one who had sown seeds of mistrust against her own men.

And now that she thought on it—had the hounds not named him their own?

Brother Havoc…

That is what they called him when they assailed the bunker.

'The wards—are they holding?' Bethany barked.

'For now, ma'am,' the nameless man replied.

'Lieutenants—take a guard. Only our most capable. Detain Havoc at once,' she ordered, her heart thrashing in her throat.

'That's folly,' Sedrick said—but fell quiet when Bethany met his eyes.

'Precaution. It is only precaution. Use any pretext that works. Keep him on side, but keep him contained. Just until the danger has passed.'

This would be another long night. She could feel it in her gut. But by the Stewards themselves, she had to get it right. Too many lives dangled on her every word.

****

Sylvia Desmond was not a patient woman, and she would wait no more. She had languished within that vapid estate long enough. Tonight, she would hunt.

She did not care that her abscondence might threaten their plan. If she had one word of praise for those raving zealots, it was: resourceful. If she had a second, it was: adaptive.

They would readjust to her needs—and everyone would claim what they sought.

But me first. We will have what we want—but me first.

She breathed in the night.

She could almost taste them.

She was close.

The Dogs of War bayed at the night-sun as its rays showered the withered grass and stone-grit field.

The outskirts.

She would not have thought to go there. Secreting away with the rats and the fleas?

Beneath contemplation.

Yet her beastly instincts could not be denied. This was the place.

The Dogs of War had been easy to lay claim. They were pups—she was a wolf. And the Enforcers she had planted? By the time she was through with them, they would lap up her piss and call it sweet-wine—if she so much as whispered the word.

They now served her. As would they all—one day. The day their mother falls along side the dragon, and she takes his Inheritance as her own.

It would all begin this night. The night their wards come down. The night they could hide no more—she could hide no more.

That the slave girl was involved in her cousin's death was irrelevant. In fact, Sylvia was grateful. Had Lucia not died, Sylvia would never have had a claim. That pampered bitch had been given everything. She did not even want the slave until Sylvia had craved her first.

The slave was a toy to her. An amusement. She never understood her true worth was cattle.

There it is.

A wolfish smile cut into her lips as the world fractured before her. Her thralls had done their job, and the wards were falling. Before long, a fortified hold emerged before her eyes, the scent of human flesh rushing in at once to wet her tongue.

She turned to the dogs, nuzzling their gruesome flesh as though it were the softest fur.

She howled into the night. The dogs echoed her cry.

The wait was over.

The hunt began.

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