Havoc did not know whether he was afraid. He should have been, yet his pulse remained calm. It did not spike as he battered back a thorny vine, neither did his breath hitch when he threw himself backwards, a tendril tearing across the space he had left.

For a time, he had wondered, but now he knew he was among the strong. Few Soldiers, if any, could match him. Even Champions were imperilled by his rise. Yet pride came before a fall, and he had brought about enough of his own to know it well. He would guard his heart against an equivalent end.

The voices borne of Pridewrought drew back as the greatsword rekindled its lightless blaze. Grisly fibres closed in from every side. Havoc turned and leapt, flames surging outwards to devour, searing indomitable wrath into malignant flesh.

His gruesome world writhed. It screamed. Vines thrashed in every direction. Blinding light burst through the dim as Havoc carved toward the breach, cleaving through the convulsing blockade until at last he broke through to the world without.

Wherever the eye went, chaos staked its claim. To the right, a shield barely held against a shadow wolf's claws. To the left, an icy tempest raged, driving the cultists back in flurries of frost and shrieking wind. Behind him, a mammoth fowl of the hennery tore into a man, its flightless wings beating as its beak punched through steel plate to gouge the heart. Ahead, the Enforcer cleaved a path with beams of light. And above, astride her broom and wailing with laughter, the witch looked down—her eyes bright with contempt.

'Mine,' the witch proclaimed, extending a hand toward the hen-pecked, dying man.

Phantom white chains burst from the sarcophagus, rattling across the battlefield before punching through flesh and bone. The victim rose into the air—screaming—then struck the stone as the chains recoiled. His ghost tore free, thrashing against the tightening links, but they dragged him back all the same. His cries dwindled to silence within the witch's tomb.

'Havoc!' Bethany roared across the chamber.

He acted at once, coiling his Domain about the witch just as a spear of light tore through her skull, burning a hole clean through and charring the brain on either side.

A scream pierced the air. The hen-pecked ghost burst into flames, and once again the witch rose from her grave.

'Die, you blasted heathen!' came the gravelled pitch of a cultist, riding a spider knit of shadows, a blue skull clutched in both hands, rubies burning within its sockets.

Blood spurted from Havoc's eyes as they met the ruby gaze. He staggered—almost fell—the chamber pitching back and forth, blood streaming from his ears. Against that insidious power, there was no time to think. He hurled his sword at the cultist. The blade struck true, goring through his chest with the sodden sound of tearing meat and flinging him from his mount. The spider shrieked but scuttled nearer.

He seized that power for himself and met the spider's octet glare. Copper fumed the air like melted tokens as the creature spattered its turquoise life across the stone. It tumbled, its legs snagging on its own claws, and slid toward Havoc, who had already recalled his sword to his grip. He struck down, cleaving the spider in twain; its halves flopped wetly to the ground behind him.

'Brother Havoc!' cried the tangle of flesh and teeth, seared black by his flames. 'Traitor! We're not finished. Not even close!'

A writhing mass lashed toward him, scoring the stone as it came near. Havoc held his ground. He raised his sword high and brought it down, sending a wall of black fire roaring toward the monstrosity. Yet the flames never reached it. A rose stemmed before the inferno, standing in the fire's path. The flower opened, drawing the blaze into its heart like a stream through a narrow duct. Three petals blackened and fell, and from the stem a fruit grew. The fruit burst into a burning orb and hurled the fire back toward Havoc, reducing all in its path to ash.

But it was Havoc's fire to wield; it bore his will and seething rage. Like the parting sea, he split the blaze about him, coiling it tight before hurling it back toward the rose's master. Yet again, it did not land. A scarlet knight stood in its way. He half-drew a crimson blade from its scabbard, and when it slid back into place, the flames died.

'We need not be opposed, Havoc Gray,' the knight said calmly, while madness raged throughout the chamber. 'The Prelate spoke of you. The Master has as well. Join us—'

'Save your breath,' Havoc replied coldly. 'You've none left to spare.'

'Rexford! Caspian! You treacherous dogs!' Bethany's voice rang out from behind.

She hurled a beam of light, but the knight deflected it skyward with a swift draw of his scarlet blade.

'My loyalty was never mine to give to you,' said the other man, a pipe smouldering between his finger and thumb. 'I've betrayed nothing. Everything I've done is for her—even this.'

'I don't need the help,' Havoc said, his blade levelled at his foes.

Naereah descended beside him, clad in ivory-white armour. Four delicate wings spread from her back, then folded into twin incisions that ran from shoulder to waist. Her gauntlets gleamed as though dipped in heat-warped silver, azure runes etched in concentric circles across the backs of her hands. In her grasp she held the Veilsect Lance—its alabaster shank veined in red.

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'You're needed elsewhere,' she said, steel lacing her tone. 'Leave them to us.'

She levelled the lance at the knight; it split in half, the point tearing toward him, scarlet tendrils trailing its path. The knight postured to deflect, flashing his blade before him, yet the lance veered for his flank instead. Alabaster struck scarlet plate with a clang, hurling him to the ground before snapping back to Naereah's grasp.

'We can handle this, Havoc!' she spat, wings unfurling in a flare of blending colour. 'Go!' she shouted, surging forward—faerie-like yet deadly—gliding above the ground as the lance came down in a crushing arc.

'This is not your charge!' Bethany barked.

She tightened her grip on her spear and pressed in against the enemy, wheeling blinding light in tight coils about her as she cleaved through flesh-rending lashes of smoke.

The monster of grisly tentacles and teeth unspooled again from its human form, twitching and squirming as its limbs closed in to consume. Havoc's muscles coiled, poised to throw himself into the fray, but Anton seized his moment, bursting past him. He cracked his burning whip across the reeling flesh, joining Bethany and Naereah as the world of meat and teeth bore down and swallowed them whole.

'Brother Havoc,' the tangle of meat cried. 'Where do you think you're going?'

Strands tore free from the pulsing mass and whipped toward him. They did not get far. Naereah stood in the breach between vein-like walls, her teeth clenched with strain. The head of her lance had pierced the loosed strands, and with sweat slicking her brow she hauled the mass in, frame trembling.

'Leave this—to us!' she heaved, wrenching the tendrilled horror shut.

He advanced on the orb of whipping flesh, but a cackling laugh halted him mid-step. The witch now stood upon the battlefield, a sickle gleaming in her grasp. In a blur of lethal motion, heads rolled to the ground; and from above, ghastly chains descended to claim the fleeing souls.

She had to be stopped. Only Havoc could stop her. His gaze lingered on the unholy mass that had swallowed his love, yet he pulled himself away. With a heavy heart, he advanced on the witch, cutting down monsters and cultists as he came.

'Havoc Gray,' the witch trilled, dipping in curtsy. 'A pleasure to make your acquaintance.'

He glared at her; she smiled back. Both the cultists and the Enforcer's host cleared the space, fleeing for their lives as though escaping a burning tower. Even the monsters spawned of shadow knew better than to linger. When true monsters clash, the lesser know to scatter.

'Octavia Le'Buteur. Surely you've heard the name.'

Havoc shook his head, and the witch's eyes went wide. Then satisfaction crept across her expression, like a spider closing its web.

'Ah, you probably know me as Boneyard's Witch.'

A second shake of his head dispelled her grin, and she staggered back as though struck.

'That's unacceptable—beyond the pale. It goes without saying, if I'm familiar with you, you should—'

'Why does every bloodstained monster feel the need to give a speech?' Havoc cut in.

'Havoc, my dear, if you're not having fun, then there's no point in it all.'

'This is fun for you?' Havoc shot back.

'Of course,' she purred. 'Isn't it for you?'

He remained silent, glancing aside before meeting her mad gaze—madness burning in his own. She was a vile creature, the very kind he had sworn to put down. Hunt them to extinction was the cry of his soul, and to his soul, in that moment, there was nowhere else he would rather be.

'Fun?' he finally asked. 'Yeah, it kinda is.'

He raised his blade high. She brought her scythe down, and their clash echoed across the battlefield, drawing fearful eyes from all sides.

Though she was a Champion, physically, he was stronger. Strength peaked within the Soldier rank, but his armour tipped the scales. He drove her back with his second strike, sparks spraying from the impact. Yet all the same, she was a Champion and would not fall easily.

Skeletal arms burst from the ground. One swept toward Havoc. He blocked—but the blow hurled him off his feet all the same. Blood spattered from his mouth as he struck the stone. A bony fist loomed overhead, descending to crush him. He rolled clear, pushing himself upright as shattered rock filled the air. The next blow caught his side; he felt something snap as he was launched skyward. Before he could fall, the arm was already waiting. With an open, bony palm and a hollow clang, it swatted him back to the floor.

Blood spewed from his mouth. He felt it dribble from his ears. His limbs had snapped—twisted beneath him at unnatural angles. He was going to die; there was no escaping that encroaching darkness. Still, he smiled, blood staining his shattered teeth. He began to laugh as the giant hand loomed above him.

And then it came down. He greeted death in good cheer.

A shriek tore across the battlefield, and Havoc opened his eyes—just in time to glimpse the tortured phantom erupt in flame.

He laughed; he had not been certain it would work. His laughter rose to the heavens, his mended frame shuddering with the force of it. He fixed his glare upon Octavia, his mirth quenched by the pools of horror in her eyes. By his Domain, he had levelled the field; by Envy's might, he had mirrored her power. Now he stood as immortal as she—every death she struck upon him burned a soul from her own reserves.

He raised his blade and pressed in. A skeletal hand gripped his skull, pulping his brain within its clutch. Another shriek; he rose again. He went at her once more. Both hands clapped together around him, driving his entrails to the stone. He rose again. The hands cleaved him in two. He rose again. They gripped him from both ends and pulled—he rose again. He would never stop; she could not make him. And when his Harmony dwindled, he seized from her his burning share, laughing all the while as she was consumed in the flames.

Burn the witch. Steal her power. Bring her crashing to her knees.

'Wait!' she cried. He ignored her, bathing her searing flesh in plumes of black fire.

When the flames recoiled, no shriek sounded. Lost to the blaze. Boneyard's Witch left only glowing ashes.

He had done it.

The battle was won.

But then, an infant's cry resounded across the battlefield.

Space splintered and cracked like a broken mirror—and the cry twisted into a roar.

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