Captured Sky

Bethany swept down her hand. Light obeyed—an incandescent spear lancing through the rotted mass that barred the tunnel's exit. Rexford charged after her, flame spiralling around his blade. Crystal light flared across his scarlet armour as he leapt; the blaze at his heels drove him skyward to meet the towering corpse. His sword came down—a comet of fire—cleaving through putrefied meat and bone, scattering blood and ash in its wake.

The ground convulsed beneath the monster's fall. Even as the air sparked with the fumes of its decay, the earth refused to settle. Dust poured from the rocky sky; stones clattered loose, the terrain trembling beneath Bethany's boots. Ahead, the passage sealed itself as three new tunnels tore into solid stone. The Dungeon had shifted again—its malice reshaping the way forward.

'Godsdamnit!' Bethany snarled, slamming her fists against the sealed egress.

The fury passed quickly, leaving behind the ache.

They had been close; she was certain of it. The air had tasted of inevitability, the glimpse beyond promising a meeting of fate: pillars rising toward a vast chamber, torchlight lining a path that led to a giant door, ancient patterns spiralling its surface.

This was not the first time their advance had been thwarted—nor the second, the third, or even the fourth. Seven times they had come this far; seven times they had been driven back. On the first, she had glimpsed movement—a black-robed figure vanishing from sight, its hem whipping against the deeper passage as its wearer slipped inside. On the fourth, a cultist had paused to meet her gaze before diving aside as Lumen's Bane carved the air. On the fifth, she had drawn blood at last—the wretch too slow to escape her parting strike.

She was ready—more than ready—to be done with this place. To storm the chamber. To crush the cultists. To end the threat that loomed overhead. After that, she would stand down—perhaps never to rise an Enforcer again. Too much failure. Too much loss. Too much now pressing upon her heart.

Even before Heureux, she had watched comrades die. The Vanguard Floors were no place to forge bonds—least of all for an Enforcer. When every shadow hid a dagger and every smile masked intent, losses mounted and traitors unmasked. But this was different. She was no longer a fighter obeying orders; she was the command beneath which her men had died. Her choices were no longer her own—they carried the weight of every soul she led.

She had not felt that weight when she raised her hand against the Abomination. But Sedrick had. Caught by the neck, he had been dragged into his grave. Another failure. Another death. One more lost—and it was her fault.

A sharp breath slipped past her gritted teeth before she exhaled. She turned from the sealed path to face her weary host—eyes sunken, shoulders sagging. Some shook their heads, slipping off their packs before slumping to the ground. Others pressed fingers to their temples or dragged hands through sweat-matted hair in silent despair. A few rummaged through supplies, pressing skinned water to heat-parched lips as the air shimmered with the lingering blaze of Rexford's strike.

All were disheartened—none more than she.

From the rear of the formation, the Lord-Mayor emerged, flanked by two attendants, his stride unbroken as he approached the still-smouldering corpse.

'You know what to do,' he said, giving a curt nod.

With practised motions, his men set to work—daubing the carcass with black phials of preservative sludge, halting its decay. They wound its limbs in endless sheets of ivory Inserva, wreathing the creature in folds of blessed pall.

Sharp murmurs slipped from lips to ears. Bethany's host cast pointed glares toward Atticus and his men. She knew the shape of their objections, the sound of their complaints. To most, a Soldier-Spawn's corpse was a prize too rare to relinquish. The power bound within its bones could elevate even a seasoned Soldier. For Servants—especially those of poor Harmonic purity—it was a fraying lifeline, a thread they might grasp if they ever hoped to reach the final Step of their common Inheritance.

Purity decided everything: the potency of a Remnant's power, the type of powers that could be bound, the very pace of an Inheritor's advance. A single battle could raise the pure; the impure might need a dozen to match it. Unusual for her class, Bethany's Purity was high—mere hairs below the nobles she still aspired to stand among. Most of her fighters were average at best. Only the Lord-Mayor ranked beneath them. Even with mountains of corpses at his feet, she doubted he could forge a new link in his Spirit Chain.

Yet throughout the expedition, he had monopolised every kill. Not through force or plea, but simply because he alone possessed the means. Those who had carried the preservation tools were dead, their wares lost. Atticus alone could halt a Spawn's decay—and unless she wished to splinter her ranks with dissent, she had to let him. So she nodded along with empty gestures toward a fair division when all was done.

'He doesn't even fight,' someone said—too loud. Atticus only smirked, motioning for his men to continue.

'I stand as eager as any of you to continue our righteous march against the zealots,' bloviated the boorish buffoon. 'Yet perhaps we should esteem the Dungeon's wisdom in stalling our cause. Each hour we tarry rings not with bells, but with gold in our purses.'

He met the army's sour gazes in turn, patting shoulders, grasping hands, feigning fraternity as his men withdrew with the spoils.

'Take heart, one and all! By the end of this plight, our fortunes will rise like a breaking bank—flooding us with riches beyond all foresight!'

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His sycophantic laughter trailed after him toward the rear of the formation, leaving behind only clenched jaws, shaken heads, and the bitter taste of contempt. Yet before long, a few of her fighters rose, trading clipped, weary glances before trailing after the path Atticus had cut.

'He's harmless,' Rexford shrugged, his crimson armour melting away into rich fabric, revealing the waistcoat, shirt, and trousers beneath.

Bethany lifted a brow at his disarming. She swept her gaze across the supplies, halting as her eyes caught familiar threading. She gestured to a man nearby to toss the sack into her waiting arms, then rummaged inside, drawing two slates from a pouch.

'Here,' she said, flicking the Fragment of Renewal Rexford's way. He caught the slate between two raised fingers. 'Until Havoc catches up—you are our strongest member. We cannot have you depleted. You should have said you were close.'

Rexford smiled and nodded once. Then, with a strange sadness in his eyes, he ground the Fragment within his closed fist, dust spilling between his fingers as Bethany felt his power surge.

'Gratitude,' he said—the sadness still in his eyes even as his armour reclaimed its scarlet gleam.

She answered with a nod of her own, then leaned back against the tunnel wall and slid down its rugged surface to sit.

'He isn't harmless,' she sighed, glancing at Rexford as he settled beside her. 'I don't know what he's been plotting, but I know it isn't harmless.'

'The Lord-Mayor is a tiny man with eyes that trouble his stomach,' Rexford replied—a strange unease in his tone. 'Do not concern yourself with his petty profits. It's all he has; he will never advance.'

If it were only about tokens, she would not be concerned. Wealth without talent could take one far, but never far enough. It could buy the finest Remnants, yet without the talent to wield them, they were of little worth. It could purchase lavish comfort, yet without the power to defend it, the strong could always tear it away. Potions and Fragments could be bought, but also had their limits. Useful to a Servant, diminishing for a Soldier, and to a Champion, scarce worth the cost. Those of true value were prohibitively expensive—and rarer still beyond the crafting guilds.

Atticus was sharper than all that—wily enough to see past the limits of coin. She caught it in his eyes, a gleam that looked toward worlds only he could imagine. His was a dangerous stare, raising gooseflesh along her back, the skin tender beneath her shirt—sensitive to the wrongness the Lord-Mayor exuded.

Then there were the marks—patterned burns that had seared across shoulders, calves, backs, and chests. At first, she had only spotted them among the Lord-Mayor's trusted cohort. But now, even some of her fighters bore the brand. A memento, they had lied—a hot-pressed reminder of these trials.

Steedshit.

She knew rune-script when she saw it; she knew the sorceries that could be wrought with symbols, burns, and a willing accomplice.

Black magics spread through the Vanguard like plague—curses and rituals fed by sapient lives. Often, they were little more than cantrips: minor enhancements meant to disguise a weak foundation, scarcely worth the cost of lives if such a thing could be valued. Whatever Atticus was scheming carried a different taste—an acrid pang of malignant spite that would see dozens dead in pursuit of wicked things.

'He isn't harmless,' Bethany repeated with a sigh. She found a water-skin among the sack's contents, brought some to her lips, then used the rest to cool her face and wash away the grunge. 'You've shared words with him in private. Has he let his plottings slip?'

There it was again—a flash of sadness across Rexford's face.

'His gaze is fixed upon profit,' Rexford said. 'And on currying favour with the higher castes. He offered patronage for me to turn to his side. He was not pleased to have his advance refused.'

She inclined her head, thoughtful. Her eyes shifted to Rexford, shadowed by doubt. Her instincts told her he was an honourable man. Her instincts had been wrong before. She would withhold her concern until Havoc caught up—better to challenge his threat with a threat of her own.

Polished shoes tapped crisp on stone as Peregrine approached, his frock of clashing colours glimmering beneath the pale glow of the crystal-light.

'Which way?' Bethany asked.

Peregrine tilted his head to one side, his eyes darting left and right as if tracing rapid motion.

'The first tunnel ends in certain death,' he hummed, his voice baring no doubt. 'Through the second, death's not quite sure—but it is convinced. Perhaps one or two of us would be spared while it settles its thoughts.'

'So we go through the third?' Rexford cut in.

'Indeed we must… if we all yearn to die,' Peregrine countered. 'There's nothing down there we could ever hope to survive.'

'So we do nothing?' Bethany spat, her rise halted by the strange man's outstretched palm.

'Exactly so: nothing. Let us tarry a season—blood-earned rest, a little food, a little sleep. We shall advance in due course. But for now, this is the place. I see no respite again until all things end.'

So they waited. For the host, it brought relief. But for Bethany, only forward motion could have settled the thoughts twisting her mind. Her mind turned to Sedrick's loss; they wound toward the grim hope that he had been saved—that Havoc had arrived together with his healer, and they had found a way for him to live. Her thoughts then spiralled toward dejection, scolding her heart for entertaining such callow fancies.

Havoc was many things. A god was not among them. The closest being to divinity was a Lord, and if her Lady had come, Bethany could have afforded such hope. But she had not. From the dimming of her tailcoat, the waning of her Lady's favour, Bethany feared her god had perils of Her own—greater than the fleeting yearnings of mortals.

Minutes spanned to hours. She might have drifted to sleep—she was not sure. If she had, it had been fitful, restless, and brief. Yet as the bustle of her forces' pacing coiled together with laughter, snoring, and idle talk, another sound pricked her ears—distant at first, then growing nearer—until it tore from the first tunnel with a terrible cry.

An insect of countless legs erupted from the passage, its claws shrieking against stone like a thousand knives drawn to sharpen. In its jaws, Havoc clung—blade gripped tight, black-slate armour braced against the crush. The cavern shook. Lightning tore from the tunnel, searing sapphire goo across the monster's chitin. Naereah followed in the storm's wake. Anton leapt from the dark, his claws rending shell.

But amid the chaos, it was Harper who shattered Bethany's composure. Harper—who had died. And yet she breathed.

Perhaps her prayers had been answered. Perhaps Sedrick would stride in next.