Golden streams of light from the day-sun illuminated the field in which Aaron stood. The grass, a vibrant green, perfumed the air. Perfectly manicured, no patch devoid of life. Nothing less would befit the Crest household. An estate was a representation of one’s manner; scored would be the gardener who leaves a single blade out of place during his father’s absence.

Aaron’s loose fitted shirt tucked neatly into his trousers, but missing from his form was his waistcoat and tailcoat. With a glance to his left, he confirmed their proper treatment. Folded neatly, hung over Gerald’s arms, neither speck nor crease would be accepted this day. Not on the day of his father’s return.

He shall see for himself that I am ready, Aaron reassured himself, his left hand tightening to a fist.

One year prior did he take his third step as a servant Inheritor, yet he was not permitted to progress. He did not believe his request to be unreasonable. Talented, he so obviously was. It was the rare youth who could reach the third step within a year of Inheriting. He was ready for a Dungeon Cell, ready to join his bothers in the Vanguard territories.

It would not be long now. The great Douglas Crest was many things, but tardy was not among them. His word once given could be traded for gold. He would not fail to honour his son’s request.

‘Gerald, my man. Give me the time,’ Aaron asked, tilting his head, permitting his manservant to enter his sight. Faintly, registering the click of a pocket watch, he patiently awaited the hour.

‘The master of the manor is to arrive in ten minutes, sir.’ Aaron’s man replied.

‘Excellent.’ Aaron said, a jolt of nervous energy palpitating the rhythm of his heart. ‘Signal for the guards.’

The training field was enclosed by the high manor walls of the Crest estate. On the far side of where Aaron stood, grand oak, double doors peeled open. Marching in formation, the guards emerged. Each man wore the well-fitted, scarlet ,heavy wool coat of a Crest family infantryman. Their trousers—waist high— were tight as they ought be. Collars, lapels, and cuffs, without wrinkle. Suitable opponents to demonstrate Aaron’s prowess.

‘As you instructed, sir, not one of the guards’ Harmonic purity is beneath sixty-percent. Furthermore, they have had their pick of the armoury, and have been granted temporary use of Crest legacy Remnants,’ Gerald’s tone—professionally soft—well suited for his station. The man was a Soldier ranked Inheritor, but he knew his place. Neither shrinking nor haughty—a man fit to serve.

‘Very good, Gerald.’ Aaron said as the Crest family guards formed a line opposite. ‘Once granted leave to the Vanguard, I will be sure to have you accompany me. That would please you, would it not?’

‘Very much, sir’ Gerald replied.

It will not be long now, Aaron thought. He clasped a wrist in a hand to steady his trembling. I have waited a full year for this, there can be no mistakes.

His father was a busy man. There would not come soon another chance to impress.

The Black Drake Guild claimed land across five floors of the Vanguard. His father, heir to the Crest family patriarch, was responsible for the Guild territories held within the Sulphuric Desert—a vast expanse on the nineteenth floor of the Dungeon. Described by his father as a “hellacious nightmare swarmed with demons,” the desert was more than just scalding sands and volcanic peaks flush with the ground. Buried within these infernal mountains lay treasures capable of establishing lineages. Even the remnants chained to Aaron’s anchor were forged from the Primes located therein.

Droplets of sweat formed across Aaron’s brow. He turned to his manservant—cloth already in hand— and allowed for Gerald to dab his face dry.

‘It would seem your father is soon to arrive, sir,’ Gerald said. His words a formality, Aaron could hotly feel his father’s presence. So great was his influence that a brisk winter’s night would heat parching on his arrival.

Aaron looked to the sky. In the distance, drawing near, a streak of fire roared forward. The clouds of the domed heavens burst to vanish as the flame pierced through. Waves of visible heat drifted above the courtyard. Aaron raised a palm to his servant, further dabbing would do not to keep the salty sting from his eyes.

He does so like to make an entrance, Aaron thought as the fire dispersed to reveal his father held high by the span of his black, leathered wings.

Aaron’s long, blonde hair whipped in the wind of his father’s beating wings. Overhead, Douglas Crest—slayer of the Many-Faced Giant, leader of the Black Drake Guild, conquering heir to the Black Dragon, the Vanquishing Drake—looked down.

On one knee, Aaron went as his father descended.

‘You may all stand,’ Douglas’ sonorous voice carried an unquestionable authority. So deep as to feel it in ones bones, its pull, like gravity, was inescapable. The moment his father had spoken, Aaron felt himself rise as though pulled by the arms.

His shoulders broad, Douglas was fully clad in armour of black, impenetrable scales. Standing six feet seven in height, he struck an imposing figure. Aaron’s heart thud to his throat as his father stepped near.

Will I ever be as you, father? Aaron asked himself, his fists clenched, his teeth grit. Slowly, he shook his head. No. The day will come when I surpass you. Even the Black Dragon shall fail to be my equal.

‘I trust you have good cause to request my presence,’ Aaron’s father said, now stood an arm’s length away.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

‘F-father,’ Sucking down a deep breath, Aaron looked up from his father’s chest into his blood-red vertical eyes. ‘I have mastered the Servant Remnants of our Crest family Set. Long have I reached the third step. Father!’ Aaron said, raising his fist to his chest. ‘Permit me leave to challenge a Dungeon Cell; I am ready to claim a Soldier’s Inheritance!’

‘Is that all?’ The Vanquishing Drake replied flatly, sinking Aaron’s heart to his stomach.

‘I-I have prepared a demonstration.’ Aaron said, forcing a smile.

‘It is unnecessary. My answer will not change. You will wed the Desmond girl and bind our families as one. Only when she has birthed you an heir will you be permitted within a Cell. Until that moment, your life cannot be risked.’

If his father’s rejection was like a grip on his heart, his insistence that Aaron marry that dastardly girl was the dislocating wrench. By his name, he hated her. He had always hated her. From the sway of her step to the sickly sound of her voice, she was loathsome.

It was not that she was unsightly, tragically, she was beautiful. Aaron almost wished it was otherwise. Life would be far simpler—his plight more sympathetic. A martyr so clearly identified could shut his eyes and think on duty. The people would recognise his sacrifice... He could find comfort that. As things were, he was the envy of his peers; ignorant, they were, of Lucia’s epicardial repugnance.

For the girl, there was nothing sacred. All time was play—not to be enjoyed. There was no solace in her company; resting one's head upon her lap only made the throat an easier target. Altogether ugly to all senses but sight.

I will not marry her, Aaron’s heart’s resolve did not reach his face. Before his father, he could only nod in apparent submission.

Douglas placed a hand on Aaron’s shoulders and knelt to meet his eyes.

‘You serve the Crest family well.’ Douglas said, his voice tender. Aaron had long dreamed of the very words from his father’s mouth but now he had heard them, they were not enough—not any longer. Gone were the little hopes of childhood, his dreams were greater now; too great to be held down by the chains of, honour, duty...

Or matrimony, he thought, doing what all he could to keep his welling disgust from his expression.

Forgive me father but I cannot do as you ask, he determined. He would meet with the girl. Annalise… Yes, that was her name.

***

Light from the glowing moss mingled with the soft flicker of the campfire. A stark solace, it was, to the revelation still resounding. Havoc stood, Buried Strike in hand, his muscles tensed, coiled like a snake, ready to strike. To his left stood Ugly, his long-reaching sword extended towards the smirk affixed upon Lucia’s lips. With his hands morphed into black, scaled claws, Aaron held back Ugly’s blade at the tip. Though heads shorter than Ugly’s muscled frame, not a sweat of exertion dripped from Aaron’s his brow.

Only four can escape this place… Havoc’s mind churned to digest the news. There were five already in the Temptress’ lair. By Ugly’s words, sixty others had entered the Cell. Even if half had perished, the odds were stacked against. Posed as allies, he could now only frame them as foes—competition in the tapestry of survival. The picture of bloodshed, the Forest of Desire would be.

It’s inevitable.

Whether sooner or held back to later, their interests were opposed. His grip tight on the pole of his spear, his eyes point focused on the sharp tips of Aaron’s scaled hand.

While they’re distracted?

‘How’d you get ‘ere in the first place?’ Ugly said, disrupting Havoc’s thoughts. Pushing to thrust his sword past Aaron’s grip, grunting from the effort, Ugly’s face—teeth grit, sweat drenched—turned towards Havoc.

Havoc’s pupils ran up and down the scarred man. Feeling wild yet restrained, as though a carnivorous beast uncertain of the kill, he froze. His own breaths were harrowing to his ears. Too heavy, they were, to be held by conscience—a voracious growl even to himself. Doing his best to control his ravenous hunger to survive, he shifted his gaze to Lucia as she began to speak.

‘Oh, that is good question. I had been meaning to ask myself,’ Lucia said. Seated and unmoved, seemingly unfazed by the murderous point of Ugly’s blade, she beamed a wolfish grin. With the campfire dancing the glint of her eyes, to Havoc, her soft tone and playful demeanour was nothing short of menacing.

‘Shut it, wench. Didn’t ask for your ‘elp,’ Ugly spat to Lucia’s broadening grin. With a final grunt, he loosed his hold on his hilt and his sword shimmered from existence.

‘Are you quite finished with your tantrum?’ Aaron asked. Kissing his teeth in response, Ugly spat into the sizzling the fire and returned to his place around the campfire.

‘Know when I’m outmatched, is all. ‘Sides...’ Craning his neck, Ugly directed his focus to Havoc. ‘I wanna ‘ere his story.’

His spear in hand, Havoc glanced around. He watched as the scale armour evaporated from Aaron’s hand leaving all those around him, for the moment, defenceless.

I’m already a killer… The thought was intrusive yet undeniably his. The owner reclaiming a house long rented—more at home was he with a killer’s impulse. Whether it had always been rooted or the seed had been buried upon avenging his sister, he could no longer deny a darkness had sprouted within. Still yet to fruit, he did not want to harm without cause. But... If only four could ever leave...

I won’t be their sacrifice.

Adrenaline flooded his veins; The Buried Strike quivered in his hold. Already could he feel the squelch of blade plunging flesh.

Aaron first. Ugly next. It’ll be easy after that, he mused, sizing his quarry with a glimpse. There was not time abundant. With curious glances flashed his way, he knew the others had not failed to register his reluctance to disarm. There were seconds, maybe—not much longer—not much more before deniability’s death and he would lose the initiative.

Not yet! There’s too much I don’t know…” Like a friend from behind upon a high place, the thought pulled him from the edge. He repeated it in his mind over and over. Timing his breaths with the rhythm of his conclusion, he allowed the beat of his heart to slow. Eyes closed, he took a calming breath and dismissed his Remnant to his core.

With lingering doubt, he returned to his imprint on the moss squished flat. A neigh-inaudible sigh broke from his side, and Naereah retook her place seated next to Havoc.

‘You had me worried for a breath,’ Aaron said. For an extended moment, he stared at Naereah—eyes wide and pleading—before crouching to sit.

‘How very wonderful! I am just delighted all of that nastiness is behind us.’ Lucia chimed, the tips of her fingers tapping against her palm as though an exulted guest in a theatre too haughty to knowingly allow Havoc’s like to enter. ‘I suppose we now wait on you,’ at her words all eyes focused on Havoc.

Havoc opened his mouth but no words came out. Having initially planned on leveraging mystery for enlightenment, too much had changed since learning the nature of the Cell. He wanted to know more—needed to. But knowledge was a powerful weapon. In the presence of enemies, he would rather horde it for himself. To gain much but pay little, theft was the only way he knew.

‘Before I say anything, I need to know more about this Dungeon Cell.’ Havoc finally said.

‘That’s all fair and good, but if this ‘appens to be your trial of inheritance, there might be another way outta ‘ere. I’d say that’s more pressin’ than any question you might ‘ave.’ Ugly said. He disguised it well behind his gruff exterior, but in the glow of the firelight, he was unable conceal the glint of hope from his eyes. The hope that said, “We might not have to die.” Although, Havoc could read something deeper in the sentiment for he felt the same. To him, Ugly’s underlying message read:

“Maybe I won’t have to kill you”