'Take me, my mistress. Bruise this supple meat. Make me squeal—cry your name in agony, so that the Master might comfort me,' Iris gushed, eyes wide—afflicted, a scarlet glint of derangement gleaming through her adoration.

Sylvia stood over the broken toy, lips curled in revulsion. She could admit she had been excessive in her treatment of the pet Enforcers—scalpels, pliers, corkscrews to their bleedy parts—but she had not foreseen this result.

She had only been bored, and they had been there. There was nothing more to it. Captives of war were wares to exploit. So much better when made stout to endure. Yet over the days of her indulgence, she began to notice a disquieting shift in their demeanour.

Where once, when she arrived, she would turn the jailer's key slow. They would cry out and whimper, and she would delight. She would step into the dank, and they would cower. They would sing for death's mercy—she would bask in the tune. She would wait for their wounds to mend, then do it all again.

But then they misstepped the agreed-upon dance. No longer did they cower when she arrived—they clamoured, clambering over one another to be first beneath her hand. As if they had forgotten it was torture—sharpened for her amusement, not theirs.

Sylvia could tell it was no act. She could smell it on them—excitement, not fear. And that saccharine reek of arousal, thick in the air, turned her stomach with every whiff.

She left them be after that. It was no longer fun. The manor was brimming with pertinacious nobles who well knew how to scream. But when the Enforcers were deemed safe to roam, they refused to leave her side.

They became transfixed with the notion that she was somehow divine. Lunacy, of course—but not without its uses. After all, they had led her here: within grasping reach of her prey, and the Heritage of her birth.

She looked down on that miserable creature and forced a smile to her lips. She was admittedly cruel—life's ill-treatment had made her that way. But she was not entirely without a heart. Her Enforcers had worked hard for her gains; their sweat, tears, and blood sprayed across the courtyard were proof of their labour. She could spare them some praise.

The slave was cornered. There was nowhere left to run.

And Sylvia—Sylvia was in no rush.

'Very well done, poppet,' she said, scratching under Iris' chin like a dog.

She widened her gaze, locking eyes with the surviving Enforcers—the few not yet carved into bloodied chunks, irrevocably crushed, gouged, or otherwise discarded.

'You have all served the Master splendidly. You will surely be rewarded in the next life… or the unlife—or whatever it is they have you believing.'

'Sylvia of the house Desmond!' somebody yelled.

An Enforcer approached—but not one of hers. She would have remembered that crimson hair, those pin-freckled cheeks, pinched lips, high nose, and fiery eyes. She would not have forgotten that face—writhing in pain and despair.

No—that memory would have flushed her cheeks at night in a way no man ever could.

'You stand accused of high treason against all sapient life within the Dungeon. Of conspiring with cultic forces whose ends are apocalyptic. Of aiding and abetting mass murder, false imprisonment, grievous torture, and defilement. Of terrorism, high menace, and conspiracy to kidnap an Inheritor under Guild protection,' the red-haired Enforcer pronounced.

'Surrender yourself into my custody at once. You will plead guilty. Your execution will be scheduled once this crisis abates.'

'Say again?' Sylvia blurted.

She glanced across the courtyard, lips parted—lost for words.

Whatever resistance they might have had, it was hopelessly outmatched. She was a Champion. A veritable powerhouse among Inheritors. She had already grasped the First Clause of Extinction: the Rule of Hunt.

The slums were surrounded by her Dogs of War. They were not even needed. None of them could resist her. She could tear them limb from limb—with little effort and no remorse.

They must make Enforcers in a workshop—mad by design, deranged at manufacture.

'She's Bethany Tailor,' one of the Enforcers groaned.

A male—in grim shape. His intestines were spool-cradled in his arms as he knelt. Even with the Vampir's Heart, Sylvia doubted he would last long. And he had expended his utility; she would waste no potion on his care.

'Ah. The captain of this ship of fools,' Sylvia mocked, recognising her at last. 'How kind of you to offer your underlings to my service.'

'Shut up—'

'I'd love to tell you I treated them well—'

'I said shut your mouth,' Bethany growled.

'—But as you can surely tell, I play rough with the gifts I'm given.'

'Final warning!' Bethany sneered.

'Or what?' Sylvia laughed, spreading her arms wide—eyes sweeping the field.

'Or this.'

A raven hovered above. And from the sky, a boy dropped—white sword in hand. The blade pierced her shoulder, but not deep. She was a Champion. He, a mere Soldier. She bore the Dungeon's favour, and would not fall so easily.

She swiped to grab his leg—intent to dash the runt against the stones, to splatter his grey like abstract art flung across canvas. But she caught only air. He had vanished—and returned to Bethany's side.

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It was a curious thing. Bethany held a whistle, white as bone. The boy smeared Sylvia's blood across its surface, and the Enforcer blew.

A soul-cutting noise.

Then silence.

Then laughter.

Sylvia's—cuttingly sharp, even to herself.

'Was that it?' she jeered. 'All that for a drop of blood?'

A rumbling growl spread across the courtyard. The Dogs of War thrashed their heads side to side—frenzied barks, teeth snapping at the air.

One by one, they broke rank from the ring around their prey—turning to face their mistress, teeth bared, dribbling gruesome drool. The fibres of their sewn-together flesh twitched and coiled—preparing to pounce.

Sylvia's eyes flashed wide, then narrowed to a point. She glared at the Enforcer—her smile all teeth, without cheer.

'You bitch,' she mouthed.

Bethany raised her middle finger in reply—sharp, silent, and smug.

Sylvia burst into a sprint.

She did not get far.

The dogs were upon her—jaws aflame, gnashing at her ankle; claws raking across her neck.

****

It was a solid plan—something to note in her report. Slippery and cunning; exactly what was needed against a superior foe.

Even after everything, it stung to admit Havoc's value. She had been sent to kill him, after all.

But he was innocent—at least of the crime she had been charged to sanction. And credit where credit due: Havoc was more than brute force.

They had not had much time for strategy after escaping the dream. Even less once Havoc charged. The moment he saw the healer, all reason was lost.

He had not paused to review options. They would have reclaimed the girl in due course. But no—he did not care.

Rash is what rash does. And in that case, rash was a boy with a sword who would not let another so much as touch the girl he favoured.

It was almost romantic. If he were two decades older—

She shook her head and cleared the thought.

With the little time they did have, Havoc dictated his scheme. Though it was hazy and taxing to retain, she had spent years trapped inside Dracule's bleak nightmare. Havoc and Sedrick had not experienced the passage of time as she had—but they were there too, for a number of years.

While she had repeated the day again and again—wallowing in misery, too broken to even dream of escape—they had been adrift.

Ripped from Dracule's constructs, they had wandered the Dungeon Cell.

But as it happened, they had not wandered aimlessly.

Sylvia and her hounds were always going to break through—that was the inescapable outcome. Any move not directed at preparing for the breach was dithering. Whistling past their own graves.

Havoc had known that from the start. From the moment he let her blunder—let her retrieve the lost Enforcers. According to his curt retelling, his plan had been simple: take his allies and leave. He would have offered the same to the Brewers. Even to Sedrick, if he could.

As far as he was concerned, everyone else was already dead.

Then something changed within the dream. Something changed within them all—but none more than Havoc. He had always carried that cold darkness in his eyes. But now, it had been sharpened with conviction.

Where once he sought only escape—now, he wanted Sylvia's head.

And he had found the means to claim it.

The Severing Scream…

Bethany rolled it between her fingers—the Remnant gifted to her so she could take her revenge.

She did not know where they had found it, or what they had faced to claim such a prize. But to the core of her being, she was glad they had.

All they needed was a drop. Blood taken from the enemy and smeared on the pipe. With that done—and the wind blown—the beasts would go mad, driven to frenzy against their marked prey.

Bethany made no attempt to hide her satisfaction. She did not want to. The very hounds Sylvia had loosed were now gnashing at her throat. After what that psychotic wench had done to her men—there would be no mercy.

Here and now.

On this night.

Justice would be served—even if Bethany had to drag the bitch down to the gates of hell with her own vengeful hands.

'Now, healer!' she cried, gaze snapping to Naereah. 'Do it now!'

****

Naereah's heart reeled; her lips still sparked from Havoc's kiss. She swung from excitement to desire. From gratitude at his return to exasperated fury that he had broken his word and gone off without her. From sorrow at the senseless loss of life—to shamefaced thankfulness that those she cared for had endured.

Her heart was a mess. But her mind was at work.

This was what she had trained for.

This moment.

This night.

Havoc might have broken her shackles—but only she could make sure she stayed free.

The hounds latched to Sylvia's flesh and did not relent. They gnawed. They gnashed. They clawed and lunged—never tiring, never slowing. No thought for pain or self-preservation. Only purpose. Only fury. They threw themselves at her, again and again.

But she was a Champion. The hounds alone were not enough.

Swelling with might, Sylvia underwent a wolfish transformation. With claws and fangs of her own, she tore into the beasts, matching their fury with her own.

The dogs' only advantages were their numbers and regeneration. They swarmed her in a mountain of meat, their fury piled high. But still... they could not keep her down.

She clawed her way back—ripping through hide and sinew, bursting free to rise atop the heap.

They kept lunging at her, and she tore them apart—limb from limb. If they gave her even a moment's pause, the consequences would be dire. A Champion had forged no fewer than seven Links in their Spirit Chain. Even if some Remnants clashed with others—or were held in reserve for utility—there was no telling what she might unleash if given the chance.

Naereah had no intention of giving her that chance.

'Now, healer!' Bethany cried, snapping her gaze to Naereah. 'Do it now!'

She rolled her eyes. She did not need to be told.

And would it kill her to actually use my name?

Whether directed to or not, Naereah would not have missed the opening. The runes had already begun to spark before her open palm. If anything, it took gall to depend on her after only letting her in on the plan at the last possible moment.

Havoc had run off with another woman for days—gods knew where they had been. Then, in the midst of violence and madness, he sent that seducer to ask for her help.

The Stewards knew she had not forgotten how he had snatched Bethany's hand. It had been for the mission, yes—but this was no time for good sense.

She pouted as she shaped the thunder-born symbols, subduing their will to disperse. Then, as the final rune flared into place, the Dungeon's will descended upon her.

The night burst with golden hues.

Then again. And again.

The thunderous fury of the heavens rained down upon the Champion.

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