Samuel Miller was not a perfect man—far from it. He had committed acts even he could admit were shameful. He had hurt people—many people—and had done so without care or lasting consequence. For a few handfuls of tokens, he had torn husbands from wives, left mother’s exsanguinated—blood splashed upon every surface—before their wailing babes. In thirty-four years, he had managed little other than to make the world that little bit more grotesque than when he had found it. Recognising that fact—if not quite willing to shoulder its full weight—he chose to take on the name Ugly.

People saw his face and assumed his disfigurement had inspired his moniker. He let them think what they would, though he could not fathom their reasoning. A scar was only skin deep; true disfigurement cut all the way down to the soul.

Despite everything, he considered himself a principled man. Violence was a tool—nothing more, nothing less. He took no pleasure from it, doing only what was necessary to meet his ends. A sword for hire, he would do nearly anything if the price was right. But the chasm between “nearly” and “anything” stretched eternal.

He had never taken a life that did not, in some way, deserve to be taken. Those who profited by the thrust of a sword had no right to complain when they found themselves at the pointy end. Children were also off-limits. Their parents might be bastards, but no amount of money could push Ugly across that line.

He was not a perfect man, but what his employers had done—what they had made him an unwitting part of —even in his most depraved moments, he could not have imagined it.

Sixty damned souls, and they couldn’t care less, Ugly thought to himself, a grimace twisting his scarred features.

Only during this brief reprieve did Ugly fully appreciate the depths of his employers’ treachery. They had come to him promising a payday like no other. Their two noble households were to bankroll his little outfit, and give them the legitimacy of a recognised guild. It was a costly oath they had sworn—but the dead did not charge.

Renouncing their status as a Dark Guild would have changed everything. With a hefty stash of tokens, and those Enforcers off their back, who knows was he could have accomplished with his men?

Even he had dreams. He had inherited at twenty-two, and had spent twelve years without even reaching the third step of his Servant Inheritance. Those noble bastards had it easy. With their high Harmonic Purity, they could accomplish in months—or even weeks—what it had taken him years to achieve. To harvest the same yield for each Dungeon Spawn or Abomination, he had to slay dozens. The difference was incomparable from the start and only grew more stark. As things stood, he would need to defeat an army of monsters just to reach the same level as those two spoiled brats.

Heh, ain’t that the way, he thought, tutting as he shook his head. Inheriting was not enough to be truly powerful in this world. He never really paid much thought to Aarth, the ancestral world of his species, but one old-world adage came to mind: It ain’t what ya know, it’s who ya know, even in a world of magic, the ancient saying held true.

But then there was the kid…

Barely any time had passed since they met. Despite having gone through so much together, they were little more than strangers to each other. Even still, there was something about the kid. He felt an odd kinship with the boy. He was verbose—far more so than his street-faring background would suggest—yet his accent was rough around the edges, not to be mistaken for the proper speech denoting weak chins and high noses. Ugly had never taken seriously enough the importance of learning to pretend he fit in. Learning that on the streets, no less—it spoke well of the lad.

Impressive little bugger, can’t lie. Glancing across the top floor of the bell-tower, Ugly’s gaze settled on Havoc.

More impressive was his power.

He had not been an Inheritor for long—that much was clear. Yet he was already near the peak of his second step.

“DNA is destiny”—another of those old-Aarth sayings. Ugly was not certain of its precise meaning, but from the way he had heard it used, it sounded like either an insult or a statement of fact: power passed from one generation to the next, largely contained within the same bloodlines. Despite having only obtained a Servant’s Inheritance, Ugly led a guild of Inheritors. The simple reason was that, in his walk of life, there were few more powerful than he was. He was a guppy in a teacup—larger than life, but only in a very small world. The crowds he kept were like him, but not as daring. They had no name behind them, no family fortune; Inheriting at all was fortune enough. Havoc was clearly cut from the same dirty rag. By all accounts, he should have been wallowing within his first step for years before showing even half the power he already had.

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Ugly would not fool himself; his employers could not be trusted. Right now, they needed numbers, but when that was no longer true, his number would be up.

He needed an ally.

Even if some of his men had survived this Hell—even if he could find them—once they learned the true nature of their location, any turned back would be ripe for sticking.

Yeah, but can da kid be trusted? It was impossible to be sure. But of one thing he was certain: Havoc was his best option.

Havoc and that slave girl stood close, exchanging whispers. The girl was sweet on the lad—young love was always touching. Under normal circumstance, Ugly would not have had the heart to interrupt, but he was not about to delay his life and death just to let two puppies circle and sniff.

‘Kid, ya got a minute?’ Walking up to Havoc and Naereah, Ugly beamed his most charming smile toward the young couple. He looked toward the slave girl and jerked his head, motioning for her to leave.

Naereah stared back, unmoving. Ugly’s smile faltered , just a fraction. He held nothing against the strumpet. Were he a younger man, he might have even swayed for her exotic charms. But their predicament was too perilous for pretty. The girl could not hold herself in a fight, and he was facing dragons. Well, one dragon, at least—or whatever big lizard that silk-spun dandy had turned himself into while defending the tower.

‘Thought you lot were meant to be smart,’ Ugly said bluntly. ‘Get lost. I’ve business with da kid.’

****

‘We can’t save him,’ Naereah whispered, her lips close to Havoc’s ear. Pulling away, she stepped back, and turned to face Ugly. Lifting her skirt in a subtle curtsy, Naereah bowed her head before walking across the belfry, settling alone in a far corner of the space.

Havoc knew what ugly wanted, but he could not help. If half of what Naereah had told Havoc was true, she was right; Ugly could not be saved. This she did not learn from the seer, but through reading the Dungeon runes within the ruined temple.

She was a Selenarian—an exiled princess, if she was to be believed—long schooled in the language of the Dungeon. She had never needed Aaron to translate, reading the script across the altar was, to her, as natural and breathing. That is why, when the time came for blood to be spilled upon the walls of the tower where they now stood, she had refused her mistress’ order for that blood to be hers.

The city was defending, that much was true. But by a dark and cruel god. Whosoever beseeched his authority was subject to his stricture. Ugly’s fate was sealed in the blood dripping from his palm, lightly tapping the stone flow below.

‘Listen, kid, two of us, we ain’t like the others. Oughta stick together’s what I’m sayin’,’ Ugly said. Though a smile cut across his lips, his tone was emphatic. He was desperate.

‘What are you asking?’ Of course Havoc knew—how could he not? No doubt Ugly watched Aaron’s transformation from above, but Havoc had gotten a front row view. He could still feel the waves of heat wafting from Aaron’s draconic form. He was there as the young noble tore into the rotted meat of the cradlefiends with tooth and claw, cutting them down with the ease of a scalpel parting tender flesh.

Havoc would have to face him—that much was certain. But Ugly could not help.

He’s a blind man on the gallows, Havoc thought, fighting with urge to break eye contact as Ugly stared at him.

Don’t play dumb as well as blind, kid. Ya saw the same thing I did. No way it ain’t got ya troubled,’ Ugly said, tilting his head toward Aaron. ‘Can’t say how this’ll all play out, better ta have some’un ya can rely on.’

A dense silence descended between the two men. For a moment, neither spoke. Ugly’s grin did not waver through the silence, seemingly immune to the tension. But it pulled at Havoc, stretching thin whatever residual sense of honour life had pulled away, piece by piece. He parted his lips, unsure of what he would say. Before the first word could form, Aaron called out from across the bell chamber.

‘Gentlemen!’ Aaron announced. ‘Let us use this time wisely. In twelve hours, the creatures shall return. Meditate for three, then rest. We leave in six hours.’

‘You heard him,’ Havoc said. Departing from the dead man’s presence without another word, he moved toward a distant wall on the left of the belfry. Crossed legged and eyes closed, he rested his back against the firm, rough stone, and closed his eyes. Through focused meditation, an Inheritor could greater perceive their core. From perception came interaction, and from interaction came stimulation. Thinking back on Aaron’s wrinkled nose and tightened lips as he revealed that secret made Havoc smile.

As Aaron explained it, one’s core was as much a part of themselves as it was the Dungeon’s. A piece of the spirit cut away from its whole, an Inheritor’s core was fused within a Remnant to forge their Anchor. Though a piece of the spirit was isolated within one’s Anchor, by its nature, the spirit was indivisible—the fastening to the Dungeon was a complete binding.

As one’s core grew stronger, so must the Remnant of the Dungeon encasing it, as must the Dungeon’s influence over the Inheritor. For that reason, only where the Dungeon’s will was most pronounced—only within a Dungeon Cell—could one obtain a greater Inheritance. The Dungeon would not give more of itself to those who would not satisfy its will.

Harmony suffused their world; it formed the skies of every floor and the ground beneath their feet. Through his chain to the Dungeon, the ambient energies could be drawn from the very air. The process was passive, but not by necessity. Focusing deeply within, an Inheritor could project their core. As though pulling an egg’s membrane through its shell and stretching out like a balloon, the core could expand a part of itself, surrounding the Inheritor and absorbing the ambient Harmony.

His eyes remained shut, yet Havoc could see. As though looking down from above, he observed two links of a chain protruding from his sternum. Two flowing streams circled him—one a brilliant white, the other an all-consuming black. They grazed a boundary surrounding him, each collision bursting in a radiant blend of deep greens, blues, reds, and yellows. The colours flared from the point of impact, then spread across the shimmering membrane, trickling through to refill his core.

Absorbed in a world of his own, it was easy to forget. In that moment, he did not need to consider what would come next.