They had been betrayed. That much was clear now.

When the wards surrounding the slums began to flicker—moments after Bethany vanished—Naereah had grown suspicious. That suspicion deepened when the Enforcers refused to explain themselves, scrawling runes into the stone, pitched with blood and liquid gold. When the chanting began, she was nearly certain. But it was only when Iris stepped into the centre of the fortress square—arms raised high, calling for surrender and demanding the "slave" be brought to her—that doubt became impossible.

Havoc was right. It was a trap! He's never going to learn to trust when people keep betraying us like this!

The situation was dire, but not yet lost. The corrupted Enforcers had struck without warning, seizing control of over half the fortress-slums before resistance could form. Their ranks swelled with cowards and turncoats—over seventy Inheritors who preferred self-preservation to doing what was right. They had hostages. Men, women, and children—powerless and afraid. And beyond the crumbling walls, the hounds waited at the gates.

By contrast, the resistance was mostly comprised of the Bereft. They had not chosen their allegiance—sides were chosen for them.

For those who walked the infernal path of Inheritance—the cults, dark guilds, the scholarly demons—there were many uses for a Bereft life. Too many Remnants hungered for organs and bone. Too many rituals demanded sacrifice and blood.

And the forces led by Iris were proficient in both.

From the far side of the compound, Naereah watched in horror as the victims were lined up—forced to kneel on gravel and muck. The Enforcers stood behind them and drained the life from their bodies. Their shrivelled remains never even struck the ground before crumbling to ash—the flame of life extinguished like a wick blown to the wind.

More were made to dig their graves. Once the work was done, they were hurled in after. The enemy was indiscriminate—a child ripped from her mother's arms, a husband dragged from his grieving wife. Piled atop one another, their screams were silenced as the boulders fell.

All that remained was flesh-rend paste. And even that was defiled. Diluted with water, mixed with flowers and herbs, the Enforcers turned slaughter into a medicinal bath.

Save for the gore clinging to her frame, Iris had climbed out as naked as the day her wretched mother bore her. She called out to the resistance and offered terms they would not accept.

'Hand over the slave. Assist with the wards. This is not our will—every death is on your hands.'

Open battle had been sporadic and swift. They clashed on the scraggly court between the far ends of the fortress walls—fire, lightning, shadow, and steel. Each engagement ended in retreat, neither side willing to overcommit.

The enemy had numbers, but no spine. A rampaging Anton—all muscle and claw—was deterrent enough to buy the resistance time. But time was all they had. And it was running out.

The enemy cycled through rituals, draining strength from the warded barriers. Only a day had passed since a hound nearly breached them. It had been repelled. But the writing was on the wall.

'You shouldn't look,' Anton whispered as he entered the command room.

Naereah stood at the window, peering down as the Enforcers' atrocities seared themselves into her lightless eyes. Her heart ached. She did not think she would ever forget the screaming—the helpless grovelling for their lives, the pleas denied while she could only watch.

She wanted to charge in and save them.

Was that not what power was for?

Helping people?

Saving them?

Havoc would not have hesitated. He would have found a way to save them all. He would not wait for councils and meetings—a ramshackle bureaucracy of tedium and delay. He would just act. And, somehow, it would all work out.

But Naereah knew it was not that simple. Too many lives were at stake. It would feel right in the moment—justice served, swift and satisfying—burning a hole through Iris' maggot-plagued heart. But the moment after, when they turned on the captives—soaking their blood into gravel and grass—she could not choose that for them.

She felt guilt enough already.

'This is my fault,' she murmured, tears dripping from her chin.

'No it's not,' Anton said gently.

'It is,' she snapped. 'You know it is. None of this would be happening if she wasn't coming for me. Even then—back in the bunker—I could have left with Havoc. I could have—'

Anton rested a palm on her shoulder, cutting her short. She turned to face him, her vision clouded, her body trembling with sorrow and rage.

'The only people at fault are the ones out there. No one here blames you—'

'Speak for yourself,' came a voice from the door.

This was Atticus Snow—Lord-Mayor of Heureux. An Inheritor, technically, but of little use. If the Dungeon had ever seen promise in him, it had long since withered—squandered on vanity and excess. Still a Servant, still on his first step, the only Remnant he possessed was a mirror that granted youth and long life. His Anchor was just as pathetic: he could speak to trees. Not command them. Not even direct them. Just talk. Naereah could not ask the foliage to be sure, but she doubted they fancied him either.

'I say we hand them the girl,' Atticus grumbled. 'It's only a matter of time. We all know those dogs will break through. If we give them what they want, they might leave us alone—long enough, at least, for help to arrive.'

'That's not going to happen,' Anton growled, stepping toward the Mayor—who promptly stepped back.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

'Threaten me? Me? Do you know who I am?' the Lord-Mayor spat, eyes wide with indignation.

'Everybody knows who you are. You never stop raving about it,' Elliot Brewer sighed, entering the room with his wife's fingers laced in his.

'That's my husband,' M'Kajalia beamed, puffing out her chest as she waddled proudly by his side.

It was absurd. All of it—an act. Everyone was frightened and furious. Naereah could see it in their stiff movements, their too-bright smiles. No one was deaf to the suffering that wailed through the night. But what else was there to do but cling to the illusion of normalcy, even as civility had long since slipped its leash?

More filed into the room. Before long, it was full—improvised leadership taking their places along the desk. Naereah recognised some of them: Inheritors who had aided in the swift fortification of the slums—their uncanny abilities remoulding shacks into watchtowers, and raw wood and stone into castle-like walls enclosing the settlement. Others, she knew less well—late-come merchants and guildsmen gathered along the way.

This was the resistance's leadership. Just regular people, in far over their heads…

'We need to find Havoc—' Naereah began, but was curtly cut off by Atticus' derisive snort.

'Not this again,' he scoffed. 'We all understand you're sweet on the boy. But face it—he left you. Him and that bitch Enforcer who led us to this.' He glared around the table, locking eyes with one, then the next. 'We're the abandoned—the left behind. The miserable souls expected to sink with the ship, while the rodents we harboured have already scurried off.'

'He wouldn't do that,' Naereah hissed, her eyes like arrows, locked with his.

'Oh really? Where is he then?' Atticus rose from his seat and, with dramatic flair, ducked beneath the table. 'Is he here? I can't see him. Havoc, if you're under the floorboards, give us a sign and we'll fetch you at once… No?'

His shirt had come untucked from his waistcoat. He smoothed it back into place and straightened himself before sitting down once more.

'I suppose he's not there.'

'It has been four days…' someone muttered—just a little too loud. His partner's ears were not the only ones to hear.

'He wouldn't leave me,' Naereah growled—Anton's hand on her shoulder the only thing keeping her from wrapping her fingers around the Lord-Mayor's throat.

'So you are saying he would leave us?' the Lord-Mayor pressed, his luck wearing thin.

Naereah wanted to deny it. She opened her mouth—but the words would not come. She knew the man Havoc would one day become—but that was not who he was now. He would leave. Abandon the rest to cruel fate.

But not without her.

He would never leave without her.

'I take your silence to mean I'm right,' Atticus smirked, his life-coddled smile smug and smackably broad. 'In that case, whether we find him or not is a distinction without difference.'

'If anything, it'd be worse if he showed up,' a woman muttered under her breath.

'What do you mean by that?' Anton snapped.

The woman slumped into her seat as the room's attention turned on her—unwilling to speak what the Lord-Mayor voiced with smug delight.

'She means he has a transport Remnant. I saw it myself—when he stormed the Skull's Eye's lair.'

'When we saved you, you mean?' Anton growled.

'Saved me from what?' Atticus jeered. 'From the same danger we now face? At least those brutes were reasonable. My ransom was worth more than my life. These zealots, the ones your boy went and brought to our door…'

He let the words linger—then drove them home.

'They drink blood like wine and bathe in our guts. We have all seen it.'

He looked about, palms open, inviting support. Some gave it freely. Others waited to see which way the wind blew before nodding along.

'Our only hope of negotiating is that girl,' he said, jabbing a finger toward Naereah. 'And if Havoc turns up to whisk her away—just as she all but admitted—'

'Now hold on,' M'Kajalia snapped, but Atticus barrelled on.

'—then we'll be nose-high in shit with no paddle in sight.'

He had a point. A cowardly wretch—but he had a point. The hounds would soon breach the gates. And even before then, many more would die. Too many already had.

'Who here has gone without loss?' Atticus asked, a chilling calm cutting through the fevered pitch. 'Everyone here has lost someone. Some when the city fell—a bleak day for us all. Others during the days that followed, when Heureux descended into criminal rot. Others still, these past four days.

'We could not prevent the cult's attack. No one is to blame for that. And the dark guilds and fiends now roaming our streets—unfortunate, but unaccountable. But the losses we face now… the wives and mothers. Husbands and fathers. Brothers and sisters—'

He paused.

He sighed.

His eyes even dampened—as if he could feel sorrow for anyone but himself. Then came the final blow. It struck deep, like a nail hammered through wool hung on silk.

'Our sons and our daughters… For those losses—we bear the blame. It grows with every second we hold the slave back from her master.'

Tears flowed freely. Naereah turned her face away, but she could not hide them. The room remained silent, broken only by the soft tremble of her whimpers.

Then, she stood.

With a quivering sigh, she pushed her chair back under the table and moved toward the door. Anton's hand caught her wrist—but she slipped free. Her mind was made. They had suffered long enough. Because of her.

'Don't be stupid,' Anton called, hurrying to block her path.

'What's the plan?' Naereah asked coldly.

'What are you—'

'You want to stop me, right? Then tell me the plan,' she snapped, fresh tears streaking down her cheeks.

'I... I—' Anton stammered.

'I... I,' Naereah mocked, her grief sharpened by scorn. 'You don't have one. Neither do I. This is—this is the best I can do.'

'I won't let you. He'd never forgive me...'

'Then he should be here!' she screamed, all restraint lost.

She tried to push past, but Anton would not be moved. He held her—her fists beat against his chest before they faltered, replaced by sobs. She clung to him. Wept into him. And then, with her palm pressed to the back of his neck, she loosed a spark of lightning.

He fell to his knees.

She ignored the Brewers' pleas. They could not keep her from this—no one else even tried. She stepped into the courtyard.

Iris.

That smile. Equal parts vile and deranged.

'Safe and sound—all in one piece. The mistress will reward us greatly for this.' Iris glanced at one of the turncoats, then gave a sharp jerk of her head—a wordless command.

The coward moved to seize Naereah.

A slave. Only a slave. I'll never escape it.

Resigned.

Despaired.

Havoc?

He came with cold fury—blade arched and falling.

Her captor lay dead before he could touch her.

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