Captured Sky

For an instant, Anton's legs locked. His eyes widened, a growling gasp rumbling in his throat. He could not believe what he was seeing. It lasted only a heartbeat—air thinning in his lungs, breath stolen by the sheer egotism of the boy he called companion. But that heartbeat was all the Bloat-Corpse Giant needed.

Tight in its sickly green grip, the monster's club came down like a crashing star, the air breaking as it fell. Anton tore his gaze from Havoc's covetous indifference—the boy's eyes fixed not on the struggle, nor even the cries of the woman he claimed to cherish, but on the Remnants gleaming from his triumph over the Abomination.

He crossed his arms to shield his head as the club struck. His bones wailed beneath the shattering force. The beast swung again—its blow catching his side with a sound like cracking timber. Ribs tore through flesh as he was hurled away, pain barking like maltreated hounds as he struck the ground.

'What are you doing!' Anton cried, his vision of Havoc blurred by tears.

He forced his broken ribs back into place, blood spilling from his side as he fought to rise. He staggered—nearly fell—yet held his ground, braced against collapse by the tremor of the Corpse Giant's advance toward Naereah.

He lurched toward her, agony tearing his side with every stumbling step, gaze snapping to where Havoc sat—legs crossed, eyes closed to the peril he had forsaken them to. Naereah did not even look up as the giant loomed above, its stout, pallid flesh casting its shadow down upon her. A wet, guttural sound slapped the air—laughter to Anton's ears, cruel and mocking—as the monster raised its club high, ready to bring it down in pulverising finality.

Anton's pulse surged. His lungs seized. Anguish ravaged him—not only from his breaking form, but from his chest—spreading through him like burning fissures as the last drips of Harmony ran dry within his Core. He collapsed, his bestial frame shrinking back to the measure of a man. His claws retracted into trembling fingers, bristled fur sloughing from his flesh before fading into nothing.

'He's dying!' Naereah cried, palms pressed to Sedrick's chest—her voice lost to helpless ears as the monster towering above drew back its arm for a crushing blow.

Havoc did not so much as flinch. Anton could only watch through ragged breaths, blood spattering the ground with every exhalation.

Selfish! he raged, though no words escaped him—watching dust pour from Havoc's fist, power flaring where he sat, yet withheld from those in need. All he ever cares about is himself!

It had been that way since their first meeting. Havoc had known that she-devil's schemes from the start, yet he had kept silent when others needed him most. The only thing that had ever mattered to him was his own cursed persistence. Nothing had changed.

No—one thing was different. Power.

In the Forest of Desire, Havoc had stood as a Servant. Now he was a Soldier—one who could contend with Champions. Where before his cowardice might have been forgiven, now there was no excuse. Once, spite clung to his bones like frost; now it spread outward, infecting the world—his heart cold, no, frozen, against the raging fever he would see blight all things.

The memory of Havoc's blade against Franklin's throat flared in Anton's failing mind. The warlock had been a venal man, yet had surrendered. He was no threat. The image shifted—flared again—to the bedevilled Enforcers. They had barely enough Harmony to keep themselves intact, yet Havoc slew them all the same with blithesome precision. Only Iris had been saved, and only because Anton had thrown himself upon her—one spared a devil's wrath.

There stood none Havoc truly cared for. None he would not leave. None who measured more than mere convenience—useful for its moment, only to be discarded when its value was spent in his eyes.

Now he and Naereah had served their purpose. Havoc would watch—uncaring, unflinching, unmoved—as violence sought their end. The giant's club fell toward Naereah. From the corner of his eye, Anton glimpsed six-legged wolves breaking toward him. No longer did they cower at a distance; they loosed a ravenous cry as the horse-sized beasts charged to tear him limb from limb.

Anton closed his eyes. Tears for his wife and daughter trailed down his face.

I'll always love you. The thought was there, but it came as a blood-sloshed croak.

He braced for the end. Yet—

It did not come.

In its place surged sweltering heat—black flames turning about the arena, searing air and stone alike. He choked on an acrid stench, wrenching as scorched rot and burning flesh assailed his senses.

He glanced toward Havoc, who sat no more—a great blade gripped in his fist, rivers of lightless fire gushing from the steel.

Clad in black-plate armour, Havoc flourished the sword, sending forth another torrent of flame as the howls, cries, roars, and whimpers of every Soldier-Spawn across the colosseum fell silent. The fire did not merely burn; it consumed. As it washed over the monstrous forms, it drew back like a building tsunami, returning to its source—the monsters purged from sight.

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Iron clanked upon stone at Havoc's approach. Anton strained to stand, yet was held back by Havoc's palm pressed to his chest. Havoc's hand slid to the torn flesh at Anton's side, sending a jolt of anguish as iron-clad fingers grazed the wound. Soft warmth crept through Anton's muscle and bone; his bleeding was stemmed, his injuries closing at Havoc's silent command.

After what had seemed like an age, Anton's breaths came easy at last. He inhaled reluctant gratitude. Yet before he could release it, Havoc was gone. He had moved to Naereah's side, crouching over a dying Sedrick.

A muttered exchange followed. The words did not reach Anton, yet he felt their weight. Naereah stepped back, her head swinging sharply in protest. Havoc rose to her level, pulling her close with one arm, his lips near her ear. He took her by the shoulder. She nodded once, then stepped aside. Her Remnant of storage shimmered into being upon the ground.

Havoc reached into the chest. A desiccated heart jerked in his grip, red, white and black mist steaming from his hand. He returned to Sedrick's side, holding the man still. Then, as though tearing through Sedrick's chest to crush his heart, Havoc thrust—driving that thing past his ribs, mist streaming from the impact.

Sedrick convulsed. His skin blanched to corpse-pale. He howled into the smoke-filled air, then fell still.

Anton did not know the extent of it, yet he was certain—utterly certain—that he had witnessed a terrible thing.

****

Amheus' eyes tore wide. The bone-dragon's maw came down upon him. The ground beneath his feet caved in, exploding on impact. Stone and soil rained from the sky, clattering over the crater driven into the earth.

Even wreathed in folds of shadow, his body could not withstand the blow. He lay broken, bones jutting from grievous wounds, while filth from above poured down to bury him as though he were one of the dead.

It would not stand.

By the power of the Vampir's Heart, beating its sacred rhythm in his chest, his bones slid back into place, blood drawn from the dirt to fill his veins once more.

He would not be subsumed by the grave. By his Master's blessed hand, he would rise above it.

Against the weight of the world brought down upon his head, Amheus rose. He gathered the shadow from his top hat about him and sent it surging upward through his earthen tomb, breaking to the surface to stand beneath the pale night-sun.

'Slay him!' Amheus roared, blood and saliva flecking from his lips as he gave the command.

The seven giants, knit from countless lives, cast their gazes down upon the Drake. The fibres of their bare-muscled forms pulled taut, and they began to move. Faster than their titan stature would suggest, one among them slammed its palm into the ground. The earth rumbled where it struck.

Were the Drake anyone else, Amheus might have been certain of his death. But Theodor Crest stood at the apex of his breed, his prowess at his Rank rivalled by few. Even his elder brother—the War-Master known as the Gilded Wyvern—had not boasted such might at Theodor's age, though three decades lay between them.

The seven giants rained down blows upon the ground. Dust choked the air with every strike of their fists and every slam of their gore-slicked feet.

Theodor's response came swiftly. One after another, the giants staggered upon their feet, stagnant blood oozing from bloodied lines carved from the crowns of their heads to their sexless groins below. They stumbled. They fell. They split apart, their halves sliding from the rest where they lay.

A violent wind tore through the dust-clouded air, sweeping the ground clear to reveal Theodor—unharmed. Black scales caught the listless gleam of night. For an instant, the Drake stood coated in full-bodied plate, the signature armour of his Guild. Yet in the next, the armour melted away, revealing formal wear beneath—a white shirt set sharply against his black waistcoat and trousers.

'Was that it?' Theodor chimed. Straightening his collar, he made casual strides toward the Prelate. 'Hardly worth the wait you put me through.'

Amheus opened his mouth to speak, yet before a word could come, the Drake struck. Theodor lunged. His feet had not reached the ground before his fist caught Amheus beneath the chin with bone-snapping force. Amheus palmed his face. He looked down. His lower jaw lay broken in the dirt.

'I will admit,' Theodor jeered, 'I had hoped for better.'

Amheus did not register the pain as the Drake's fists rained upon him—shattering ribs, bursting organs, tearing flesh like a spoon through slow-cooked meat.

Theodor reached into his gut. His grip closed around the Prelate's bowels. He wrenched his arm back, intestines spilling from the breach. Then, with both hands, he whirled the bowels about him, dragging Amheus from his feet as he spun. He released. The Prelate hurtled through the air, splattering against the shimmering veil cast about the Desmond estate.

Amheus had known pain before. Yet nothing like this. Nothing like the all-consuming burn of having his body burst like an overfilled skin, nor the encroaching torment of his broken form knitting itself back together as whole.

Even as he splashed into a puddle of his own blood—his limbs twisting to shape, his jaw weaving anew from its rent remains—his upper lip warped into a smile. His lungs reinflated, and blood-choked laughter sputtered and slushed from his throat.

It would not be long before his Master awakened. Even now, he could feel Him stir. When He rose from His rest, vengeance would fall like a kingdom laid to ruin, the ground running red with the Crest fool's blood.

Amheus needed only to buy time. Of that, he had plenty—immortal as he was. The Drake might have his fun for now, but the final laugh would break from the Prelate's lips.

Yet still, there was more—he could feel it. Another soul brought to the Master's cause. Deep beneath Heureux, he had been birthed, bound snout to tail, a loyal dog to the Sect, even if he did not yet know it.

And though the new thrall still slept, not all his senses lay slumbered with him. Amheus could hear through his ears, breathe through his nose, taste the sweet bouquet of his longed-for prize.

Havoc Gray.

He would have him—and present him as a gift upon his Master's transcendence.

'I enjoy a good jest as much as any man,' Theodor quipped, wings spread wide as he hovered in the air. 'Try this one for measure: by the time we are through, even death will seem too kind.'