It was as Graceless said. From the moment Havoc crossed the threshold into the Chamber of Inheritance, he felt death’s frozen breath tickle his nape. In a way, he was glad for it. Without the abject terror that sensation inspired, he doubted he could withstand his body’s rebellion. A dense fog clouded his thoughts, making every mental effort a laborious task. His body fared no better. Though he had eaten and drank his full, Havoc could feel the protracted violence of starvation and dehydration rip through his form.

He collapsed to his knees, bashing his joints on the hard surface below and deeply inhaled… Nothing. There was air in the chamber. He could feel a breeze mercifully brushing by, but that was the only mercy the great hall would permit.

He was dying, but he could not die.

He had lived a challenging life. He had been beaten, bruised, and broken, but nothing to that point could compare to the agony of he was now experiencing. With clenched teeth, he tore at his throat. Frothing at the mouth, a rabid panic electrified his nerves.

Perhaps he was screaming, he could not tell. If sound escaped the prison for his soul, it was not to be heard over the roar of his blood rushing to his ears.

‘Enough...’ He whispered into the void, the thick pulse of dread beating back the words.

‘Enough.’ he said again, grappling with his thirst and desperate starvation, battling the drive to lay still as dead.

‘Enough!’ That time louder. So loud as to shatter the waves rolling passed his eardrums. The echo of his defiance faded, but its impression lingered still. He still felt he was dying, but he wasn't dead. If Graceless was to be believed, at that moment, he couldn't truly die.

‘What is pain if not proof of being alive?’ Havoc said, breathlessly, aloud. Where there was life there was hope. Even the torturous half-life the chamber would allow was worth fighting for, and Havoc would fight, nail and bone, to grasp the hope he would not permit to slip passed his fingers.

It took everything to stand, but stand, he did. Shaking from privation, he released his hold on his stomach and stood to full height. Though unsteady on his feet, when he opened the eyes he did not realise were sealed, the majesty of the chamber overtook him. No longer merely confined by the suffering of his flesh, to a level he could not know, perhaps it was slight, it could have been greater, he was elevated from the mire of bodily tribulations. Though the agony lingered still, it could not climb to reach him in his higher place, enlightened by the glory laid out before his eyes.

Spectral light flooded the chamber from crystal stars embedded above. He absorbed the sight, certain he would not see its kind again. He could not help but marvel at the thick ivory pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling as if a titan bound to the will of the gods. The ground was in stark contrast to the higher places of the chamber. Like a ravenous beast, the onyx slate devoured all illumination. He could feel the marble-like firmness beneath his feet, but to his eyes, he was walking on faith. There were no walls; the chamber was boundless. Each side of the structure travelled further than the eye could see. There was no exit, and the entrance he had taken was nowhere to be found.

As grand a chamber as it was, he would not choose to stay longer than necessary. The threat of confinement and desiccation, though a harrowing thought onto itself, could not compare to the true danger of the expanse; a danger which flickered its warning below. It was a peril to inspire all fear. When he looked above to see, when its absence threatened to hollow his soul, even the stagnant blood of his half-life trudging painfully through his veins began to freeze.

The first light had gone out.

“Do not allow yourself to be left in the dark.”

Graceless’ words crashed through Havoc’s mind, assailing him in his higher place. It surged broiling panic through his chest. Through gritted teeth, he gasped at the air, but it did not fill his lungs. Nonetheless, he continued the discipline; each breath pushing back on the torrent of fear crashing upon the dam of his resolve. Determined not to sink back into the torturous depths, besieged though he was, he would not surrender to fear.

Dying or dead, there was work to be done. With the first star of the vast abyss extinguished, there was no time to indulge in hopelessness. To inherit, first he must form his anchor. To form his anchor, he needed to bond with a remnant, but-

There were none to be found…

As far as his eyes could see, in every direction he turned, there was nothing. Whether it was a trick or a trap, he did not know, but there was no crueller task than one which could not be completed. The Dungeon was cruel, but it was not insurmountable. If Graceless had taught Havoc one thing, it was that the Dungeon

craved Inheritors, perhaps more than man craved power. There was a way…

There was always a way!

The Dungeon was aware and the Dungeon was alive. Havoc did not hear the call, but with luck, the Dungeon might listen to his.

‘So if you’re listening, teach me! I’m here, and I choose to inherit!’ The second light above flickered out of being.

‘Fine, be silent and watch!’ Havoc roared in defiance. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

His direction did not matter. There was no use for left or right in a void, and so he began to march forward. His steps produced no noise, the ravenous darkness of the ground would not permit even sound to escape its maw. he did not know how far he had travelled, but as the day of the chamber continued to be consumed by the infinite night, he was forced by intuition in a different direction.

He did not notice at first, but as his turns morphed into twisted, he could perceive subtle changes within the chamber. In one direction, it would get hotter while in another, the breeze would carry a whiff of decay. Turning left might send shivers down his spine, whereas, to the right, perhaps the ground was softer? If the Dungeon was speaking, Havoc did not know its tongue. All he could do was act on instinct. He pressed forward when he felt to do so, and backwards where he felt it necessary. In one direction he would walk, only to take a different course where he experienced change. Light continued to flee. The deficit was apparent. Balling a hand into a fist, Havoc was undeterred.

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“Some say the Dungeon is our punishment. That we mistreated the Aarth and so it locked us away, but I do not believe that.”

‘What do you believe?’ Havoc replied to the ghost of his instructor.

“We’re here to conquer this world. An inheritor is many things, but first and foremost, we are warriors.”

Havoc followed the scent of decay.

Unexplainable, uncontrollable dread washed over him, threatening to drown him in its murky waves. His circumstances were dire, the light was halfway gone, but it could not explain the alien despondency gripping his cowering heart. Havoc followed the feeling, and the scent of rot began to mingle with the stench of blood. Tears streaked down his face, they were not his tears; he let them fall. When his vision cleared, there were fewer than a quarter of the stars left to illuminate his path, but it no longer mattered. He had arrived.

As if a veil had been lifted, he could see. No longer an empty void upheld by ever present, ever distant pillars, rows of shelves boarded his path, stretching onwards from light into the dark. Each shelf presented a diverse selection of items. Some were weapons, others armours. Musical Instruments, both mundane and bizarre were present, as were an assortment of differing artefacts, trinkets and charms. Havoc could not keep the smile from his face, nor relief from his heart.

He had found the remnants.

Though it did not appear as though the Chamber was pleased.

The crystal stars of the subterranean heavens flickered and died at an increased rate. The impenetrable night loomed down to reclaim its treasures. Havoc raised his arms and laughed into the abyss.

‘As if you could possibly stop me now!’ Without another word, he sprinted down an aisle. Rapidly, he looked left and right, scanning the remnants on each side. He was not sure what he was looking for, but he knew he had yet to find it. Graceless had told him compatibility was instinctual. As he glanced and remnants flashing by, his every instinct screamed at him to keep running.

When he reached the end of the row, he turned, and dashed down another, and then another. All the while the stalking darkness set sights on its prey.

‘I am nobody’s prey!’ he roared. Without slowing pace, he reached out a hand and swiped a remnant, intent on continuing. His intentions, denied. As his hand wrapped around what appeared to be a feather, a repulsive force lifted him from his feet and hurled him into the adjacent shelf. Could he breathe, all air would have been forced from his lungs at the impact. Could he have died, he surely would have, if not from the force of the initial impact, certainly from the bombardment of supernatural pressure pummelling him as more incompatible remnants rained down from above.

The lights were going out, but he could not stand. Death may have passed him by, but pain was reluctant to leave his side. Havoc was no healer, nor was he a physician, but no training was necessary to diagnose his broken form. He willed his legs to move, but they would not.

If not a leg, at least a toe! It would not listen.

‘Then I’ll crawl!’ His arms were shattered.

The darkness moved closer.

No….

‘No!’ His scream was not one defiance, nor of rage, self-pity, or anything quite so evolved. His was a primal noise. The guttural howl of a cornered beast. Havoc’s dread was his own. His tears were his possession. Sound escaped his mouth. He spoke no human tongue, but rather the words of the damned; a contorted wail conveying only the torment of his soul.

He had failed.

“A pity, and you were so close.”

‘Who’s there?’ Havoc groaned. He did not mistake the voice in his head to be benevolent, but it was not in him to forsake all hope. Even against his own will, he could only cling to whatever he was offered. If a saving hand reached down at the cost of his soul, he would take it, grip tight, and reclaim his soul from firmer footing.

“You had potential, but I think I will be taking you.”

‘If you see potential than help me!’ Gathering the shards of his shattered spirit, he craned his neck to see…

Nothing.

“Your soul will do nicely. It has been so long since I’ve had one so fine.”

‘Show yourself’, Havoc groaned. The voice’s disregard of Havoc’s plea did not escape his notice. He was beneath the consideration of that thing. Worthy of a response, he was not, only musings and pondering as though fine meat hanging from the butcher’s hook. To fry, roast, or boil? It was decision of apatite; the preferences of the lamb was not worth mentioning. His heart sank.

“So very long…” Havoc did not reply.

A single star remained alight. It flickered but held.

It would not hold for long.

“A pity nonetheless. It truly is a waste.”

The last light went out. He was left in the dark.

“Such a waste…”

The once solid ground began to melt. Though Havoc could not see, he felt a viscous substance cling to his exposed skin. Slowly, he began to descend. As he sank into his tomb, his tomb sank into him. Helpless, he could feel a foul substance worm its way inside him. There was pain at first, but as filth snaked his veins, his anguish morphed beyond pain. When it penetrated his bones, no mortal tongue could describe his affliction. To put words to his torment could never do justice.

Were Havoc whole, he could not have escaped the pull of the inky night, but the futility of the struggle would not stop him. Resigning to the knowledge he would not be saved would not stop him from saving himself. With his flesh and bones held together by the penetrating blackness, he gripped the shifting ground to lift himself up. Blind, and screaming, he would not surrender.

Not yet! Not while I can still move! His efforts were thwarted at every stage, but he would not give in, not until he was taken completely and perhaps not even then.

“Tell me mortal, why do you still fight?” Ignoring the call, he pushed against the ground, only for the surface to further soften and drawn him back down.

“Remarkable… Tell me, mortal. What would you sacrifice for power?” He did not not have to think. There was no weight on the scale to unbalance his resolve. With his life rushing past his sightless eyes and the screams of his childhood like anthem he could no longer block out, in the moment he knew what he would exchange. Straining against pull of the of the dark he pulled his head from the surface. He expelled the black from his lungs to conjure one word.

‘Everything!’ At first there was no response, but as he collapsed into the murk, laughter crashed against his patchwork skull. It was a terrible sound.

All solidity lost, he sank completely.

“Agreed.”

***

Dressed in rags and bound by chains of consuming darkness, Havoc knelt. Unimaginable power radiated from a presence before him. It shook his bones and spread terror down his spine. Havoc could see, but he could not look up.

He dared not look up.

Though pain lingered still, he could feel strength return to his form. He commanded his toes down and up, and they obeyed.

He did not know what would come next, but for the moment, He still lived. Terror be damned! Where there was life there was hope.