I sprinted through the maelstrom of chaos and despair, my breath coming in ragged gasps as terror clawed at my chest. All around me, the grandeur of the palace grounds had transformed into a nightmarish slaughterhouse. The screams of the wounded and dying mixed with the high-pitched wail of sirens, creating an unsettling symphony of horror that rang through my ears.

Flashes of scenes burned themselves into my memory gruesome, horrifying glimpses of the carnage left in the wake of the Black Court's assault. A noblewoman in a lavish crimson gown lay sprawled on the ground, her delicate fingers clawing feebly at the grass as a wood elf loomed over her, its eyes void of emotion. Black ooze dripped from its mouth like venom, seeping past her trembling lips as she thrashed in vain, her muffled screams dying into gurgled whimpers. I watched in helpless horror as the dark sludge invaded her body, spreading through her veins like poison, her eyes turning that same soulless, empty black. She shuddered violently for a brief moment then, without hesitation, turned and lunged at the nearest person, the infection spreading with terrifying efficiency.

The ground was slick with blood and viscera, the pungent stench of iron and death thick in the air. Bodies littered the once-pristine pavilion, twisted and mangled in ways that defied the natural order. Limbs, some still twitching, were strewn about in grotesque displays, their owners reduced to unrecognizable heaps of flesh and bone. A woman I had served drinks to earlier in the evening now lay motionless nearby, her once-radiant skin peeled away entirely, leaving nothing but raw, exposed muscle beneath. Her vacant eyes stared at nothing, and the sight of her teeth bared in an eternal rictus of pain made bile rise in my throat.

A few feet away, a young halfling man crouched beside a tiny, lifeless form. His hands trembled as he stroked the golden curls of what had once been his daughter, his shoulders heaving with silent, broken sobs. He was oblivious to the growing tendrils of black ooze that crept toward him, slithering across the blood-drenched floor like sinister serpents. I wanted to scream at him to move, to run, but the words caught in my throat as my own survival instincts took over.

The air around me pulsed with malevolent energy. The victims who had succumbed to the Black Queen's corruption were spreading like wildfire, their twisted forms staggering through the crowd, seeking new hosts to infect. They moved with an unnatural fluidity, their faces devoid of anything human, and their mouths stretched into grotesque smiles as they latched onto their next victims. I could hear the sickening sounds of flesh tearing, bones cracking under relentless force, and the gurgling, inhuman laughter that sent icy tendrils of fear down my spine.

I darted around overturned tables and shattered glass, barely dodging the outstretched hands of a corrupted dragoon guard. The same goblin guard who had caused me so much troublewhat seemed a life time ago. Her once proud uniform torn and drenched in gore, her mouth split wide open, revealing rows of jagged, oozing teeth that should never have belonged to any living being. She lunged at me, but her movements were sluggish, distorted, allowing me just enough time to slip past him and keep moving.

My chest burned with exertion, but I forced myself to keep going, weaving through the mayhem with a singular purpose escape. Somewhere in the distance, through the haze of fire and smoke, I could see the palace gates, still open but slowly closing as terrified survivors fought to get through. If I could reach them, if I could just push forward a little longer, I might have a chance.

But every step forward seemed to take me deeper into the nightmare. A thick, oily mist clung to the air, obscuring my vision and making it harder to tell friend from foe. People ran blindly into the fog, only to emerge moments later if at all as twisted, corrupted puppets of the Black Queen's will. My pulse thundered in my ears as I realized just how hopeless this was becoming.

Through the smoke, I caught a glimpse of something even worse a towering figure, draped in black robes that shimmered like liquid darkness, standing at the heart of the chaos. Her face was obscured, but those empty, abyssal eyes pierced through the veil, locking onto me with a hunger that transcended the physical. The Black Queen avatar.

Panic surged through me, raw and uncontrollable, threatening to drown out every rational thought. My chest heaved, burning with each ragged breath as I stumbled, my legs barely carrying me forward. I turned on instinct, sprinting through the sea of panicked guests and crumbling decor, the opulence of the palace now nothing more than debris underfoot. Behind me, I could feel it—the oppressive weight of her gaze, the dark promise that no matter how far or fast I ran, she would find me. The Black Queen's presence was a smothering force, suffocating, inescapable.

I pushed harder, weaving between overturned tables and fallen bodies, ignoring the screams and cries that filled the night. My foot hit something slick, and before I could react, I slipped. Cold, viscous ooze enveloped my ankle, a living shadow that hadn't been there a heartbeat before. I hit the ground hard, gasping in shock as the dark mass coiled around me like a sentient vice, writhing and pulsating with unnatural hunger.

The ooze was changing, shifting, molding itself into a grotesque parody of a human form. Limbs stretched unnaturally, too long, too thin, and that face—warped and featureless, save for two hollow pits where eyes should have been. It reached for me with half-formed fingers, grasping at my arms, my throat, clawing with a desperation that was terrifying in its single-minded intent. I thrashed, kicking and twisting, but the thing was relentless. The black sludge pressed against my mouth, seeking entry, a cold tendril of death eager to slither down my throat and take hold. I clenched my jaw shut, straining to keep it out, feeling it push against my lips, trying to force its way inside.

My vision blurred at the edges, hopelessness clawing its way into my mind. I couldn't fight it. I was going to be consumed.

Then, like a meteor crashing down from the heavens, salvation arrived in a burst of fire and steel.

The air trembled with the force of an impact that sent shockwaves rippling through the ground. A figure landed beside me, the earth cracking beneath her boots. She rose in a blur of motion, standing tall and terrible, power radiating from her like a furnace that burned against the encroaching darkness. Lotha, Commandant, BattleMistress, Imperator of the Federation's Legion stood before me, a living legend clad in gleaming warplate, her crimson hair ablaze with an argent glow that set the night aflame.

"Stay down, help is on the way," she said, her voice a steady, unwavering promise. Her yellow eyes met mine, filled with a confidence so absolute it was as if failure didn't exist in her world. Then, without hesitation, she turned to face the true enemy.

Raising her massive battle-axe, its edge shimmering with raw power, she launched herself into the fray with a battle cry that reverberated across the pavilion. The axe cleaved through the air, a crescent of silver force splitting the night as it raced toward the Black Queen's looming avatar.

The monstrosity before her responded in kind. The ooze that made up its form roiled and surged, reshaping itself into a colossal shield, an obsidian mass designed to absorb the impact of Lotha's strike. The two forces collided in a titanic clash, sending arcs of energy rippling outward, cracking stone and shattering glass. The force of it all knocked bystanders off their feet, the air thick with the raw scent of burning ozone and corrupted mana.

Lotha pressed forward, undeterred by the monstrous resistance before her. Each step she took left a trail of molten earth in her wake, the sheer weight of her presence pushing back against the tide of darkness that threatened to consume us all. The Black Queen's avatar shifted, its amorphous mass writhing and stretching, searching for an opening, but Lotha was a whirlwind of death, her axe moving faster than the eye could follow, carving through the obsidian ooze like it was nothing more than mist.

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I scrambled to my feet, still trembling, unable to tear my gaze away from the battle unfolding before me. The Black Queen's voice echoed through the air, a haunting whisper laced with malice and amusement.

"Ah, the Commandant, herself," the voice cooed, coming from all directions at once. "So eager, so fierce. Such a delightful morsel you would make..."

Lotha didn't even flinch. "You talk too much," she snarled, and with a powerful swing, she shattered another wave of tendrils reaching for her.

I knew I had to move. I couldn't stand here, useless, watching. Not with the Court still spreading, infecting, consuming. But as I backed away, trying to find an escape route, my mind spun with the realization of just how bad this was. The Black Queen wasn't just here for destruction this was a coordinated attack, a harvest of power and influence, a strategic invasion aimed at the heart of the Federation. And I was caught in the middle of it.

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to keep moving. I had to survive. I had to get out of here. Because if the Black Queen wanted me, then running might be the only thing keeping me from being another one of her pawns.

The rhythmic clanking echoed through the air, at first a distant murmur, then swelling into a deafening crescendo, like the relentless crash of a rising tide. Hundreds, no, thousands of the palace's wooden golems surged forward, a relentless swarm sweeping across the chaos-strewn courtyard like a tide of living timber. They moved on all fours with unnerving grace, their limbs creaking and groaning, their wooden frames rattling in eerie unison.

The golems were a force of pure, unwavering precision, each unit snapping into formation with machine-like efficiency. When they encountered a victim already ensnared by the Black Queen's corruption, they acted without hesitation. Wooden limbs lashed out, transforming into impromptu cages, ribs folding inward to trap and immobilize those writhing under the Queen's dark influence. The possessed struggled, their corrupted forms convulsing violently, but the golems held fast, forcing their captives into immobility with relentless, unyielding strength.

Leading them directing them with the precision of a master conductor was a towering mech, unlike anything I had ever seen before. Its gleaming steel frame stood in stark contrast to the wooden constructs, its four arms a blur of motion as they wielded massive blades with frightening speed, carving through the Black Queen's ooze-born monstrosities with surgical precision. Cannons mounted across its armored body roared to life, sending bursts of searing energy that vaporized anything that dared approach.

From the heart of this mechanical colossus came a sound that was both exhilarating and terrifying mad, ecstatic laughter ringing through the night like a battle hymn. My stomach twisted with a mixture of relief and dread as I recognized the voice, unmistakable even through the chaos.

Taimi. Technomancer Supreme, Mechanist Designate,Matser Tinker.

She was living up to the title. Her voice crackled through unseen speakers, filled with glee and triumph. "Go, my creations! Show them what gnome ingenuity really means!" she bellowed, her mech's arms whirling in a relentless, deadly dance, cutting through enemy after enemy. The beastkin warriors fighting nearby gave the mech a wide berth, more terrified of being caught in its path than facing the Black Queen's horrors head-on.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, two sleek, metal golems appeared beside me. Unlike their wooden counterparts, these were forged from intricate clockwork, their frames humming softly with barely contained power. They stood sentinel, their plated arms raised in a defensive posture, their optics scanning the area for threats.

I didn't have to guess their origin.

Taimi's voice crackled through one of the constructs, warm with its usual enthusiasm but underlined with an edge of genuine concern. "Don't worry, John," she said, her voice filled with a manic cheer that only she could pull off in the middle of an apocalyptic nightmare. "I've got your back. No creepy tentacle lady's taking you from me!"

Despite the sheer pandemonium unfolding around me, I felt a fleeting moment of relief. Taimi, for all her eccentricities, was one of the few people I could count on in this insane world.

The metal golems flanked me, their servos whirring as they moved in perfect synchronization, scanning for potential threats. I could see the flashes of mana crystals embedded within their chassis, pulsing with energy, ready to unleash whatever devastating countermeasures Taimi had programmed into them.

But the relief was short-lived.

A shriek pierced the air, sharp and grating, sending shivers down my spine. I turned just in time to see one of the Black Queen's corrupted victims a twisted mass of sinew and shadow hurl itself toward me. Its hollow, black eyes locked onto mine, its mouth stretched into an unnatural grin, black ooze dripping from its elongated fingers.

The golems reacted in an instant, metal arms snapping forward like vipers. One delivered a precise, crushing blow to the creature's chest, sending it sprawling backward in a writhing heap. The other leveled a mechanical arm, a hidden barrel sliding into place before firing a burst of energy that reduced the monstrosity to a smoldering pile of ash.

"Stay close, John!" Taimi's voice urged. "The big girls are playing rough tonight."

I barely had time to respond before another explosion rocked the courtyard, sending debris flying in all directions. The Black Queen's forces were adapting, pushing back against the golems' relentless assault. More and more bodies collapsed under the Queen's dark influence, and the sickening realization hit me this wasn't just an attack. A harvest.

This was an infestation.

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Codex

Excerpt From Henrietta, Act IV Scene 3 18–67.

Westmoreia:

O that we now had here, But one ten thousand of those women in Albion, That do no work to-day!

Queen:

What's she that wishes so? , My cousin, Westmoreia? No, my fair Kin;

If we are mark'd to die, we are enough, To do our realm loss; and if to live,

The fewer women, the greater share of honour. Aspect's will! I pray thee, wish not one woman more.

By Venus, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if women my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a woman from Albion. Wholes' peace! I would not lose so great an honour

As one woman more methinks would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreia, through my host, That she which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let her depart; her passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse;

We would not die in that woman's company That fears her fellowship to die with us.

This day is call'd the feast of Crispia. She that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispia.

She that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast her neighbours,

And say "To-morrow is Saint Crispia." Then will he strip her sleeve and show her scars,

And say "These wounds I had on Crispia's day." Old women forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But she'll remember, with advantages, What feats she did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in her mouth as household words— Henrietta the Queen, Ann and Margaret,

Isabel and Joan, Elenor and Jacqueline— Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.

This story shall the good woman teach his daughter, And Crispia Crispians shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be rememberèd—

We few, we happy few, we band of sisters; For she to-day that sheds her blood with me

Shall be my sister; be she ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle her condition;

And ladies in Albion now a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,

And hold their mammaries cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispia's day.