Wooden pews lay splintered and rotten within the nave of the ancient temple. The air—musty and dense—was clouded in a fog of dust, spread through the hall by its recent disturbance. Moss clinging to every surface illuminated the interior in a lacklustre glow. Needless to say, the temple had seen better days.

How is it even still standing, Havoc wondered as he turned on the sport, scrutinising the surroundings. Like webs craved deep into stone, each wall was veined with intricate cracks, spreading out from their centre. Toppled pillars lay scattered around, jaggedly broken, as though carelessly partitioned by a greedy child. Some chunks were large—others much smaller—and still others so minute that only their proximity hinted at their connection to the whole.

Stepping forward, Havoc’s boots scraped across mounds of stone debris, the crackling pop of fragmented rocks calling out his movement.

Shards of cutting glass painted the ground below the distant walls. In times long past, they would have shone vibrant blues, green, reds, and yellows, but now discarded, their colours had long faded.

Havoc could only imagine what the temple would have been like in its time. Though only a shadow of splendour survived, there remained hints of its former glory. The nave was vast, in its day, it could have seated hundreds upon its pews. Though strewn across the floor, bended, broken, and buried by rubble, there was an assortment of precious metals: golden plates, silver bowls, brass and copper candelabras. Despite the blood-chilling cries piercing into the temple from the cradlefiends echoing outside, a voracious greed gnawed away, threatening to consume Havoc’s common sense and instincts toward self-preservation.

Glancing upward, he inspected the caved ceiling. Every bit as damaged as the wall, the roof bore an image upon its stone. Cloaked in billowing dark, a figure stood tall within the painting. Its features were obscured, all that could be seen were two scarlet eyes. Lofty and proud, the frozen gaze seemed to look down upon Havoc as if staring directly into his soul.

The figure, wreathed in chains, was eerily familiar, and by magnitudes too real. The longer he stared, the harder it was to look away. He could not, it would not allow him.

From his temple to his back, he broke out in a cold sweat. Soon, all that existed was the image. His companions and circumstances faded to irrelevance—how could they be of any importance before he for whom the world was shaped?

“Ah, I’ve found you,” a voice resounded in Havoc’s mind. Laced with superiority and pride, it spoke with the casual authority of a lion addressing its cornered prey.

Rasped croaks escaped in place of words; Havoc was not permitted to speak. It had granted him an audience but his participation was irrelevant.

“Do not forget what you owe me,” the voice continued.

For a drop of water to wet his crusted throat, Havoc would have killed. Whatever entity had grasped him within the Chamber of Inheritance had finally revealed itself to be more than a half-remembered, delirious memory conjured by pain and fear, and presumably magic.

He had known it was real, but it was easy to forget. Whatever had happened when he was spirited beyond time and space in the chamber had aided in his amnesia. They were collaborators, working in consort with unrelenting trials, together they had displaced the memory—encouraging Havoc to bury it down deep into the realm of a future concern. It was far too real for that now, far too present, too pressing, too all-consuming to ignore.

Offered a choice between two options, knowing the second was death, he was still alive… Whatever bargain he struck, he needed to know.

Sinister cackling reverberated in his mind, as Havoc’s throat frothed from the effort to speak. Were he able to move even a single muscle, he would have clawed through his neck to allow even a single word free. Somehow he knew, to the being for whom all will bow, his struggle was amusing. Havoc’s shrinking pride did not want to give the entity the satisfaction, but against a god among gods, Havoc’s will was meaningless—he would do as his lord and slaver desired.

“Bring to me the heretic's soul,” the voice commanded. Seconds passed in deafening silence. Buried under unbearable pressure, Havoc felt his knees buckle, but he was unable to fall. Paralysed in a timeless haze, he could not tell if seconds, minutes, hours, or aeons had passed before the anticipation of his master’s voice pressed down upon him.

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“With the heretic's spirit, you may do as you wish,” the voice finally said.

All at once, the malicious presence forsook the temple, and Havoc fell to his knees, trembling. Drenched in sweat, his shirt clung to his back. His chattering teeth rattled the stillness of the hall—his rapid and shallow breaths overwhelmed even the screeching outside.

‘Steady your nerve, lad. We’re ain’t through it yet,’ Ugly said, crunching the ground as he approached to place a heavy palm on Havoc’s shoulder.

He didn’t feel it… Havoc concluded. If he had, he could not have remained so composed. His mind reeled. Beyond the menacing encounter with that thing, his brain scrambled to make sense of its command. He was directed to secure the soul of a heretic, but its spirit was his?

Was there a difference between the spirit and soul? Havoc did not know. Until now, he was not convinced there was a soul. Had he not just felt it quiver, he would have dismissed such thing as wishful thinking. Though now he wondered whether his disregard for such concept was rather wishful. He was a liar, a thief, and a killer. So much simpler it would be if his were the actions of his flesh alone—there was no moral weight in a wolf’s ravenous bite. Doing only what was necessary to survive, there were no greater consequences beyond the moment’s need and his ability to escape.

‘Up you get, lad. All hands on deck till we figure a way outta this mess,’ Not waiting for a response, ugly hooked his hand below Havoc’s arms and hauled him to his feet, giving him a firm pat on the back as he stood. ‘You good, kid? Don’t wanna get all hard love on ya, but now ain’t the moment for soft spines,’ Ugly did well to disguise the fear in his eyes behind a forced grin and stern—almost fatherly— tone, but Havoc saw through it. They were abandoned in a city of monsters; fearlessness was foolishness.

Havoc took a steady breath, settling his mind. He could not ignore the existence of that entity forever. After his experience, he doubted it would allow him. But for now, he had—if not greater then at least more immediate— concerns.

‘So what’s the plan, boss?’ Ugly asked, turning toward Aaron.

‘I…’ Aaron’s mouth hung open as he hesitated. He glanced absently to the side, breaking eye contact with Ugly, as if ashamed, before raising his head. Determination hardened his features as he spoke. ‘The Dungeon is perilous but fair. There will be a way from this place. We need only find it,’ he said, his voice bearing a weight of confidence their circumstances could not support.

‘If you know of a way out, now is the time to tell us, darling,’ Lucia spat sharply, her usual playful mockery replaced with something far more biting.

Aaron looked to his side, as though he could find the answers to Lucia’s accusation hidden atop the shattered pews, but then his gaze settled on Havoc.

‘You!’ Aaron exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at Havoc. ‘You led us here. You must have had cause!’

Led you here? Havoc silently questioned.

‘I just followed the owl,’ Havoc said, raising his hand in an innocent gesture, as though denying a crime.

‘Do you now speak in riddles, or have you simply taken mad?’ Lucia asked, her tone drenched in a foul concoction of equal parts panic and disdain.

‘She’s right, kid. Didn’t see no owl. We was just followin’ yous,’ Ugly said bluntly.

‘What are you talking about, its right there!’ Pointing towards a stone slab at the front of the hall, Havoc begun walking toward the owl perched atop.

They don’t see it…

Unhidden and unmistakable among the wreckage of the temple, the owl hopped upon the altar as if to say, “Over here, you buffoon.”

As he approached, the All-Seeing Owl batted its wings, speeding toward the temple’s entrance, forcing Havoc’s recoil as it flew out into the night.

Regaining his balance, he examined the slab, questions pounding like a drum in his mind. Clearly Annalise did not want the others to know about the owl, he could think of no other explanation for why he alone could see it. Did she not trust them? It made sense—Havoc did not trust them either. To his credit, his lack of faith in his companions was not mere cynicism. Admittedly, it would be a lie to say his general mistrust in the goodness of man did not play a role in his doubt. However, he did not trust them for one very simple reason.

They’re going to betray me.

He held no bitterness against their schemes—he was not so hypocritical—he planned on betraying them as well. But then, he could not understand why she would reveal the owl to him. Only four could leave the Forest of Desire. If it came down to it, he would betray her just as soon.

Snatching back his attention, Havoc felt a tug on his sleeve from behind. Turning, Naereah stood, her austere apparel dirtied, her pale blue face smeared with grime. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. Their escape into the temple had been trying, but for none more than Naereah. With her skin clung tight to her bones, her emaciated frame was not suited to the extremes of their flight. Havoc had been worried she would trip, fall, and whatever value Annalise saw in her would be lost forever. But he had been in no less danger than she, it was all he could do to survive himself—she had been on her own.

‘She told me not to mention the owl,’ Naereah whispered. Standing so close, the warmth of her breath tickled Havoc’s ear. ‘The seer, I mean.’

‘You saw it?’ Havoc asked, surprise raising the sound of his voice.

‘Not so loud,’ Naereah shushed. ‘She told me we’d be okay, that someone would come and we’d be okay. I… I didn’t believe her at first, but… It’ll be me, you, and her. We’re the ones who’ll make it out of the forest.’

Havoc faced her, taking grip of her shoulders, his heart spiking.

So many damned questions—I might finally get some answers.

‘What else did she tell you?’ He asked, his voice hushed but urgent.

‘Not now,’ Naereah replied softly, slightly shaking in his hold. ‘I’ll tell you everything, just… not now.’

‘What could you two possibly have to discuss that is more important than escaping this dreadful place?’ Lucia snapped, causing Havoc to loosen his hold on the Selenarian so that she could slip from his grip.

Havoc glanced at Lucia before turning back to the lithe, otherworldly girl. ‘It can wait for now, but you’re going to tell me everything,’ he whispered sharpy.

‘I will,’ Naereah replied without hesitation. ‘I swear it!’ Naereah’s pitch-black eyes seemed to both harden with resolve yet soften with warmth. Havoc could not guess at what she was feeling, but for reasons he could not fathom, he may not have trusted her, but he wanted to.

Taking a step backward, he examined the altar. Though the stone was heavily worn, it remained in one piece. Runic symbols were grooved deep into the slab. The shapes were familiar, but he could not claim to understand them. Still, they bore an impression into his mind. He could not say how he knew, but he simply did. This was their salvation—to decipher the mystery of the altar.