The iron rods screeched with sharp, grating protest as they scraped free from the gate's latches. Posted guards dragged them aside, and the gate swung open. With arms folded tight to her chest, Bethany waited at the threshold. Sedrick, Naereah, and the innkeeping pair stood close at her side.

After a week of protracted, wearisome talks, the other encampment leaders had finally agreed. Overcoming the freshly sown tribalism and paranoia had been no easy feat. Even securing an audience required hours of wrangling with agents and go-betweens.

Bethany understood their reluctance. It had not been long since the city fell to chaos—yet already, the camps had drawn their lines. Fervent rivalries had spoiled the blood between factions. Each cast blame in every direction but inward. Skirmishes broke out often. They scrabbled for the city's dwindling resources, even as dark guilds and prowling gangs struck at their flanks.

Still, her lips tightened at the thought of their short-sightedness. They knew the dangers—they had been told. Whatever grudges they clung to, none could compare to the weight of the threat that loomed overhead, poised to fall—dragging them to their graves.

The threat posed by a Beast of Undoing could not be overlooked. Where they sowed, calamity grew. And it would spread—far and wide—drawing all it touched into a well of despair. A Dungeon-Cell—aberrant and perverse—corrupting all who fell within, twisting them into Abominations.

Not on my watch.

She would never allow it. If she had to stop it alone, she would. And if others were needed, they would be dragged—kicking and screaming, protesting and perturbed—into action.

The acrid bite of failure clung slick on her tongue. By her errors, many lives had been lost. It haunted her—voices she could not even recognise calling at night during fitful unrest. Their every accusation held true. They many condemnations inescapably convicted. She was guilty, it could not be denied. And while the weight of it was crushing, she forced it behind her, letting it drive her ahead.

Never again.

What ever it would take.

She would redeem her mistakes and keep Heureux safe.

The first faction leader sauntered past the threshold into the fortified slums. He cradled the wooden heel of a pipe between forefinger and thumb, its gently curved stem resting just above his chin as his lips pressed down on the bit. Embers flared in the bowl as he drew in a slow, smoking breath. When he exhaled, the fumes pooled at his heel like a tide—pushing him forward, toward where Bethany stood. His petal-sewn gown fluttered in the breeze.

Bethany had never met the man before, but she had exchanged words with his lieutenant—who now trailed in his wake. An unpleasant woman, if Bethany had ever met one. A stark foil to the leader's apparent affability.

The collar of her military tailcoat stood starched and high. Beneath it, she wore a stiff, plated bodice that held her posture elegantly straight. Her double-layered skirt barely shifted as she marched—its fabric so firm it seemed more sculpted than sewn—yet it did not hinder her stride.

No, she moved as though the world itself carried her forward—perhaps in fear of what she would do if it dared to slow her down.

Deep-brown armoured gloves wrapped her hands, the sleeves trailing toward her elbows. She did not smile as she approached. Bethany doubted she could. A smile would have looked wrong—slashed across that stern, leathered face like a lion in a clown's mask, bright red where its nose should be.

The next of the leaders was a woman. She did not walk through the gates—she glided. A white parasol was clutched in one hand, and with it, she seemed to drift on the breeze, her frilled pink dress aflutter around her.

This was Aurelia Bell, a field captain of the mid-tier guild Lullaby's End. Despite her delicate mien, the rumours she inspired painted a very different image.

Sadistic. Cruel. Unforgiving.

When Bethany had first arrived in Heureux, she had intended to seek the woman out. If her crimes could be proven, her capture would have earned prestige with her Guild.

A man fully plated in form-fitting scarlet armour walked in next, his ebony cape rippling in the wind. A sword hung at his hip. Bethany recognised its edge—Vane Salamander. A fire-blade Remnant, and one of the best. Forged by the artificers of the Black Drake Guild, it was not given lightly. Only those with high connections could obtain a copy—its Prime, a jealously guarded treasure of the Crest Household.

By his side walked a young man. Clad in drab steel plating, there was little in his appearance to catch the eye. He wore an earnest expression, as though he had yet to see the world—but Bethany saw the hard edge carved into his frosted blue eyes.

Gruff, thumping, throaty laughter heralded the next leader's approach through the gates. At first, Bethany thought it was a man's—a notion only partly dispelled by the figure's nurture-shaped bust and well-rounded hips. Her towering frame rippled with muscle; every step she took seemed poised to fracture the ground. Knives could have been whet on her marble-like torso, bared beneath the furs that wrapped the rest of her body.

Behind the woman, her attendant skulked. He was her converse in almost every way. Where she exuded presence, his was barely felt. Even when eyes met his, they seemed to slide off—begging to look elsewhere. Wiry and gaunt, he was swallowed by his cloak, its hem trailing along the ground as he walked with a staff.

The last to enter did so without notice. One moment there was no one—then suddenly, there he stood.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

A ridiculous man, if ever there was. He wore clashing colours that seemed to shift with every movement, as though even fabric refused to agree with him. A coin spun idly on his thumb. As it flipped into the air, he vanished—only to reappear among the others, standing as though he had been there all along.

Bethany stepped forward, approaching the gathered leaders. She extended a hand toward the pipe-smoker—only for it to be struck aside by the woman at his side.

'Keep your hands to yourself, Enforcer,' the woman spat, stepping between Bethany and her captain.

For his part, the man only chuckled. He drew on his pipe, and when he exhaled, the plume of smoke twisted into the shape of an arm. It drifted forward, clasped the woman's shoulder, and gently nudged her aside. With that, he stepped in and took Bethany's hand.

'Please forgive Lydia's rudeness. She's had some bad experiences with your kind,' he said, tone confident yet relaxed—like the sky itself could burst open, and he would remain unfazed.

'Enforcers?' Bethany asked.

He chuckled again and shook his head.

'No. Women.'

Sedrick stepped in, clapping a broad palm on the floral man's shoulder with a warm laugh.

'We all have some of those, I dare say,' he drawled, as the two clasped hands.

'Excuse me!' the muscle-bound woman cut in, her voice cracking through the air. 'It's not like you men are much to look at. You all talk a big game—but when it comes down to showin' what you've got, you flop and fail worse than the ribbon between your legs!'

'Too right!' Aurelia called. She drifted through the air until level with the barbarian, placing a white-gloved hand on the woman's furred shoulder and showing her support with a tight squeeze.

'This is ridiculous,' Lydia growled, returning to her captain's side.

She cast a glare at Bethany, furrowed her brow at the sight of Naereah, and when her eyes fell on the Brewers, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

'What could we possibly gain by joining with creatures like this?' she sneered, her gaze locked on M'Kajalia.

'Now hold on,' Sedrick objected, stepping toward the obnoxious thing.

'Oh, I'd love to see you try, little man,' Lydia smiled—without warmth.

A sabre curved into existence in Lydia's grip. She thrust the point toward Sedrick, forcing him back a step—prompting a deep, phlegmy laugh from the barbarian behind.

Then a polearm surged upward from the ground. The barbarian seized the rising shaft and spun the forming spear in a controlled arc above her head.

'This suits us better than dull talk,' the barbarian boomed, sweeping the point from one leader to the next.

It did not take long for the others to draw arms. Sedrick summoned his rapier with a smooth roll of the wrist, then levelled its tip squarely at Lydia.

Behind the pipe-smoker, tendrils of smoke unfurled—dozens of them, coiling outward with graceful precision. They lashed toward the barbarian, snipping strands from her mane with surgical care.

Aurelia, by contrast, looked bored. With a long yawn, she stepped aside. In her place hovered a creature—petite, yet strangely majestic. Its shimmering form shifted from sapphire blue to glimmering verdant hues, each scale catching the light in hypnotic rhythm. Slender wings flickered behind it.

But when it turned to Bethany, there was no face. Only rows of teeth.

Then the scarlet knight drew his burning blade from its scabbard. With a single flourish, fire poured forth—rolling like fog across the ground, scorching withered grass and cracking the stone beneath. A river of flame swept between the disputants, and all eyes turned to him.

'Enough!' he called, leaving no room for question. 'The threat that we face is too grave for us to squabble like children.'

He re-sheathed his sword, and the fire died down, leaving a glowing ring in its its stead.

For a while, no one moved or spoke. Then, one by one, each Remnant was dispelled. Clamping down on the bridge of her nose, Bethany sighed. Things had not gone as planned—but better than she had dared hope. Still, she wondered whether common cause could truly be found among such a group.

The city's catacombs would allow no room for disharmony. Not with the cult. Not with the spawn. She needed powerful allies—that much could not be denied.

But what good was their strength, if it turned inward against each other?

She needed a power so great it could keep the rest in check. Something they could all unify behind.

Undeniable.

Inescapable.

Inevitable.

Havoc.

But he was still asleep.

She did not know what he had done to himself to achieve that transformation. Whatever it was, it had come at a cost—hers. Here and now.

Every day he rested, her position grew more precarious. Discontent with her leadership did not surprise—but what had surprised her was just how organised it had become.

Centred around one man.

Atticus Snow.

Her mind spiralled at the thought of his name. The short-sighted fool who endangered them all.

She heard the whispers. Each day they swelled—discontents passing secrets. Rebellion. A coup. A new and shining regime.

She wanted to blame them, but could not. She was all too aware of her failings.

If stepping aside were truly best, she would shed the burden gladly—and let another shoulder sag beneath its weight.

But she could not.

Because it was not.

She was not special. She knew that now. But what she was… was present. She was an Enforcer. Bound by duty. Sworn to protect the innocent.

That could not be passed to another.

No. She carried that burden.

Naereah caught her trembling hand, and she steadied.

She carried the burden—but she did not carry it alone.

She took a deep breath and cleared her mind. Then turned to face the gathered leaders—back straight, shoulders square, chin angled high.

She was ready.

'I did not bring you here to play games,' she barked, drawing all gazes. 'You are here because what must be done cannot be done alone.'

She stepped forward. No doubt, she appeared more confident than she felt—or had been in some time.

'We work together, or we die alone. So come,' she said, pushing past them toward the command house walls.

'There is much to prepare, and little time in which to do it.'

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