Captured Sky

Something had shifted inside Heureux. Though the wards shrouding the city remained no less impervious to their assault, Graceless felt them falter. Like a chick straining within its shell, yearning to taste the clouds, the barrier bulged against the heavens—cracking from within. Tumours of light swelled against the firmament, pressure mounting for release, held down, but only just. It would not be long before the warding came down.

He could not fathom what had erected such a thing—the shimmering dome that sheathed the city. It did not repel attack so much as annihilate it. For forty-nine days they had besieged Heureux, raining elemental fury, concussive force, and the wrath of godly judgement upon the dome without leaving a mark. Even when bolstered by a full company of support—driving Graceless' might beyond mortal limits—he could not tear those walls down. They did not quiver nor quake as he bore the weight of the sky against them.

It was futile. Yet the engines of holy war would not relent. Along one curve of the dome, Soldiers in flowing robes raised their staves, wands, and sceptres skyward, and from the heavens elemental gales broke upon the wardings. Another contingent struck from the far side, bombarding the barrier with conjured artillery wrought from mystic brass, bone, light, and shadow. Elsewhere, curses gnawed at the wards—scholars and arcanists pushing the limits of lawful ritual, thickening each breath with incense and myrrh as they invoked ruination. And at last, there was where Graceless stood: three hundred Enforcers mounted and waiting—poised for the instant the barriers came down.

This was as dreadful a war as any Graceless had fought—his gathered forces drawn from several Guilds, erratically harried by savage cultists unjealous of their own lives. One and all, they had been repelled. Yet like a stream wearing the mountain's base, their barbarism had eroded many lives. He could scarcely imagine the nightmare beyond the veil, nor how its locus rested upon one boy, whose impression pressed through to mark.

'Is there word?' he asked a woman upon a white steed, a cloth of shifting colours wrapped tight about her eyes.

Her voice wavered. 'I cannot see either of them directly—only the impressions they leave in others.' She lifted her face to the heavens, her brows furrowing, her expression taut with pain, as though straining beneath a weight too great to shift. 'So many lights have gone out. Spirits torn from flesh, drawn into our world's ravenous cycle, remade as Dungeon Spawn and Abominations. High Warden Grace… there may be none left to save by the time the warding falls.'

A gasp brushed against the frosted night. Hurricane Gray wavered upon Graceless' mount, a hand rising to her mouth, her eyes glistening with mourning fear.

'My brother—'

'Is the least of our concerns,' Graceless snapped, cutting her grief short.

He had known it was folly to bring her. Yet she had a way of steering his intent. Perhaps it was her resolve—it must have been; he did not think himself so brittle to beauty. Determined to follow, come what may, she would not be turned aside. He might have stopped her, but chose instead the simpler course: to keep her near, believing her safer at his side.

Her grip tightened on the reins. Her tongue held still; even so, Graceless felt the weight of challenges pressing against it, ready to spill into his ears. Too long indulged. Too bold for her pale prestige. Still, as her breaths came staggered and heavy, and her eyes sagged with the burden of heartache, Graceless softened himself to indulge her once more.

'Havoc Gray,' he said to the Oracle. 'You have yet to give word on his condition.'

'As I said, he cannot be glimpsed directly. But he is alive—and in his wake, and in the wake of a dragon, all of the survivors find their refuge from the storm.'

'Speak plainly,' Graceless groaned.

The oracle sighed. Unwinding the wraps about her eyes, she lowered her gaze to meet his, the emerald light about her irises shifting to ocean-blue, her golden locks whisked by the wind as an owl circled the sky above.

'He is alive,' she said again. 'Fighting for it, for certain. But together with the Crest scion, they have disrupted Dracule's ascension ritual, and they are fighting the cult in tandem.'

This was his fault. Had he finished what he began upon the high seas of the twenty‑ninth Floor—had he obeyed, leaving no stone upon stone at the Silent Fortress—no vestige of the Bleeding Hand would have remained to rise again. Thinking it enough to sever the serpent's head, he withheld his hand from the final stroke. Men, women, every child—he had not the heart to see it through. Sparing too many in retreat, a mercy by his reckoning, now returned as punishment.

Dracule should have been dead. Graceless himself had speared the mystic oak between his ribs. He had watched the fiend wither—dry, grey, and crumbling—before falling to dust. His resurgence should not have been possible.

'How can it be?'

'I still cannot say,' the Oracle replied, her tone sharp as glass. 'You think repetition will wring more truth from me? Impossible or not, Dracule lives. Perhaps next time you stake him, put your full weight behind the thrust.'

He glared. She remained unbothered, a slight smile curving her lips. She was the best visionary the Guild could find at short notice, the only one who could glimpse beyond the veil. Yet her presence defied account. No noble house claimed her. None of the Guilds could trace her records. She had simply sauntered into the Enforcers' stronghold, bearing omens and afflictions. And within two days—through veiled machinations—she had insinuated herself into the Guild, claiming the title of Marshal‑Enforcer.

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'You shouldn't worry about your brother,' the Oracle whispered, steering her steed to trot beside Hurricane. 'I only half-believe his feats,, and I saw many for myself. He will not die easy.'

'But you said—'

'It was the bands,' the Oracle cut in. 'Wrap them round my eyes and suddenly every word drips with apocalypse. I'm not that doom and gloom by nature. Honestly, I was hoping we'd get along—doom makes for poor company.'

Smoke and ash drifted like fog above the land, the earth quaking beneath the meteoric impact set against the barrier. Where before such a blast would have vanished upon contact with the wards, now it rebounded—volcanic debris scattering through the night, mounts neighing and whining as their riders drove them clear of the fiery rain.

'Be ready to advance!' Graceless barked at his host. He turned toward Hurricane, running a hand along his steed's white fur as he stood beside her. 'When the wards come down, you are to remain where you are. Levan'Doki will keep you safe so long as you stay upon her back.'

Something hardened behind Hurricane's eyes. That stubbornness which cloaked her frailty made Graceless doubt even his own firm judgement.

'I'm finding my brother.'

'If you go in there, your brother will only find a corpse,' Graceless snapped. 'If I need be, I'll have you detained. There is not a world in which I allow you past that threshold.'

'All is well,' came a voice from behind.

Graceless turned toward the sound, his gaze locking with the banished gold of a man with gilded wings.

He was familiar with the interloper; they had shared the air of a hundred stately feasts. This was Leopold Crest, eldest brother among the sons of the Black Dragon's chosen heir, a War-Master of unrivalled renown, feller of Leviathan, slayer of Hydra, more commonly known as the Gilded Wyvern.

'What brings you here from the ravenous isles of the thirty-fourth Floor?' Graceless sneered.

'What other than family?' Leopold replied, his waist-long hair billowing in the wind, as did the gilded wings upon his back. 'I have come to secure my brothers.'

'Brothers?' Graceless stammered.

'That's right. Both of them. And my sister here, also.'

'Apart from Aaron—' Graceless faltered. Swallowing back an acrid taste, he quickly added, 'Stewards rest his soul… is Theo not the only brother remaining to you?'

The soft laughter of a crownless prince met Graceless' confusion. Leopold folded back his wings, his boots squelching the ground as he descended.

'Surely by now even you have heard the rumours,' Leopold smiled—a winding thing. 'They stand correct. My father has confirmed their veracity. Havoc Gray is a bastard of my house. Though a bastard no longer, I have been sent to return him safely to our fold.'

Hurricane staggered back upon the mount. Graceless seized the reins to steady the steed. She stammered in wordless shock, eyes wide, lips parted, colour draining from her olive skin.

'None of that's true,' she managed. 'I still remember our father—'

'Your father,' Leopold cut in. 'In gratitude to your father for having adopted a son upon his wife's indiscretion, my own has given his word to treat you as kin. But you will not slander his name… do not dare call him a liar.'

His words were softly spoken, yet at his voice the sky lit fiery gold, and the air thickened with barely restrained, world-ending menace.

'Rejoice. Both you and he are now heirs to the Dragon. Gods among men; everything you see belongs, in part, to you.'

Steedshit—all of it.

Political games manoeuvring grieving siblings as pieces. Word had leaked of Havoc's feats beyond the veil, and rumours had spread like disease, speculations of some noble birth. Graceless had seen it all for what it was—condescension. Disbelief that a commoner could achieve what he had.

It was impossible enough for a Soldier to slay a Champion; all the more unbearable for such a thing to be done by filthy hands. Havoc's mythic ascension was a dangerous thing if mishandled. Before long, none could say what it might yet wrought. Perhaps the servile masses would seek their own triumphs, no longer lulled to break their backs, fret the fields, serve the suppers, and lick the laces of their self-proclaimed betters.

'Little Annalise, is that you?' Leopold asked, his gaze settling upon the oracle as he noticed her for the first time.

'It is a pleasure to see you again. I trust you have fared well enough.'

'Indeed, I have. Since last we met, I have been given a new commission: to subjugate the inhuman raiders within the lower Floors. It would be far simpler if your foresight abided with us. Even as a Soldier, I have not met one to match your gifts.'

'As a Champion, those gifts have grown further still.'

'I am pleased to hear it. It would please me more should you return.' Leopold's gaze swept the oracle up and down, settling at last upon the dim-white coat trailing about her hips. 'Even should you choose another path, I would not suggest casting your lot with the losing side. By now it is no secret: Daylight's Song is near her end. Cornered like a beast in uncharted realms, she will not last long, and the Guild she commands will go tumbling with her.'

'Careful,' Graceless warned.

It could not be denied: their Lady was besieged. Even the splinter of the Justicar-General who had ascended to the Settled Floors to meet with him had been recalled. Once Heureux was freed, Graceless would follow suit. Too many forces had gathered against his Lady. Yet his heart did not falter. Only a few within the Guild had ever met her face to face. He was among them; he knew the terror she wielded. It scarcely mattered how many enemies she had, for there was no doubt in his mind that, in the end, she would prevail.

'Ready yourselves,' the oracle said, her words cutting between Graceless' and Leopold's locked glare.

The world shuddered as if struck by fever. The glimmering veil cast upon Heureux writhed and groaned. It was coming down. Graceless would storm the city. Once again—once and for all—he would drive Dracule back to the grave.