Hunched on all fours, the creature bounded towards Havoc. With limbs oversized for its frame, its encroachment was not graceful. Havoc would have found humour in the beast’s uncoordinated approach, were it not approaching him. As things stood, it was not mirth he was feeling, only dread. Molten panic surged from his chest and spread throughout his body, rooting him in place. It was not the size of the creature nor its musculature which had paralysed him, but rather the recognition of its existence. It was a different kind of fear; the fear of a child in the dark learning the monster of his imaginings really did lurk in the closet. He had known. He had always known, but it was not meant to be.

The creature lumbered closer.

He wanted to run. He wanted to sprint back into the forest, find the door to the Chamber, and stay where it was safe. Better yet, he wanted to turn back the clock, and never step foot into a world he had no business with. He wanted to return to Stone Garden, return to his life.

What life? The thought pierced through his terror. What life do I want to go back to?

‘There is no backwards!‘ He declared to the encroaching nightmare. ‘Only forward!’ He shouted to himself, drowning out the drum of his beating heart. With an outstretched hand, he summoned the Thirsty Edge and charged.

They met in the middle of the clearing, and the beast rose to its fully height. Havoc inspected the monster as it hunched over him. Its arms hanged low, nearly touching the ground. Its fingers were stubbed, but its claws, its unreasonably sharp claws, compensated with interest for its underdeveloped extremities. Its legs were thin and gangly. They would have been well sized for a man, but for the stretch and musculature of its torso, and the length of its arms, they seemed grotesquely mismatched.

The beast had no face. A singular patch of flesh covered what should have been eyes. Yet, Havoc knew it could see. If not its surroundings, it could see him. It swayed its bulbous head, matching its sightless gaze with his positioning. When Havoc settled into his stance—feet planted, sword raised—the beast pulled open its mouth to bare rows of pointed teeth. Bilious saliva flung from its mouth, and a thunderous roar shattered all silence, quickening Havoc’s heart. Steadying his breath and his grip on the blade, there was no more time for thought.

In a downward, diagonal motion, the beast lashed out with razored claws. Whether by practice, chance or his desperate will to survive, Havoc countered the strike with a rising diagonal slash. His crimson steel met hardened claws, preventing him from being torn asunder. But the force of the impact launched him into the ground.

Pain battered his body, and air burst from his lungs, but he could not allow himself to slow. Rolling on his side, he avoided the lethal pounce of the beast. He scrambled to his feet only to fall once more as the creature swiped again, grazing his stomach in its attempt to disembowel.

Slick blood seeped from his cuts sticking his rags to his skin. He could not inspect the damage; he could only stand and throw himself to the side as the creature continued its frenzied pursuit.

It was a matter of time. Havoc knew he could not outpace the beast. Frantically, he parried, dived, and rolled from death’s grip, but he knew he was moments from its door. In each exchange, he collected more wounds.

I’m going to die…

He pushed the thought aside and blocked an attempt to rend him in twain.

The beast was faster. It was stronger. It was more ferocious than he could have dreamed in his most haunting of nightmares. It was crafted perfectly to rip flesh from bone. He could not win, but neither could he run. He knew to turn his back was to lose his life, but there was more. He was being preyed upon.

He refused to be prey.

Fear, pain and fury danced their dance, but his rage was most skilled. As if answering his murderous call, his dualistic magics boiled within and surged to his anchor and spirit chain. When the dazzling scarlet blade of the Thirsty Edge met the relentless claws of the fiend, it was the beast which was pushed back.

Havoc did not question his explosive strength, he took advantage of it. Beneath the ghastly, pale-light of the midnight sun, he pressed his advantage and threw himself forward. Rapidly, he felt his internal forces drain, greedily consumed by his spirit chain and anchor. He did not have long.

Three good strikes and a thrust. As the creature reeled from Havoc’s surprising strength, Havoc strained his body into form and executed a flurry of steel. Indescribable violence howled from his throat and his blade tore through the dungeon spawn, spraying grey, fetid blood with each line across the fiends body. Time was short but the beast still stood. A putrid grey oozed freely from its many lacerations, but it did not fall. A feral cry devoured the field of battle. Whether from the beast of his own lips, Havoc did not know. In the moment, there was nothing he knew beside the fight. It was his world, the only thing that mattered. There was a purity in that. A clarity of purpose and design. In a few beats of his heart, one would die. To Havoc, It almost did not matter which. All that mattered was the moment.

The moment arrived.

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With both arms raised, the creature dived forward. Havoc did not attempt to dodge. Crouching down, he leapt forward into death’s embrace and plunged the tip of his blade through layers of muscle and sinew. Every inch he pushed stretched into a mile. His strength was waning against the beast’s resistance. A deep, guttural scream broke from Havoc’s lips. It harmonised with that of the beast’s, blending into a cacophony of death. Pain detonated in his back as the daggered claws of the beast suck into his flesh, but there was no retreat. With everything he had, he pushed. A final shriek pierced the sky, and then moan, then there was silence.

The creature’s claws fell from Havoc’s back and the beast slumped forward. When Havoc withdrew his support, the creature fell.

"In pale-light, your captive spirit grows." Havoc heard the words and recognised its source as his Anchor.

The Midnight Urn....

His mind reeled. His anchor had never responded, never shown any sign of life until then, It had not even spoke its name. Havoc clutched at the thought, he tried to delve deeper, but when the blade and the urn exhausted the last wisps of his magics, he fell to the ground, and darkness took him.

***

Havoc had not been awake for long. When he had first opened his eyes, he wanted nothing more than to slam them shut, and return to his dreamless sleep. His groaning stomach and parched throat did not allow him to indulge in the fantasy for long. More crucially, when the fungal scent of the forest flooded his nostrils, his recollection of events came with it.

Alert, he jolted to his feet. Running his hands across his back, he felt for the lethal wound inflicted in his final exchange with the beast.

The wound was gone. While his flesh was tender still, and a new layer of blood had crusted over his rags, his injuries had, for the most part, healed.

‘I guess The Thirsty Edge has had its fill,’ he muttered to himself before inspecting the remains of the slain dungeon spawn.

He had anticipated the creature’s bloodied corpse. His expectations were denied. In place of a body, there were only bones. Oddly, the skeletal structure held a strange luminescence. Though the eerie glow beckoned his curiosity, a sharp pang of thirst clawed at his focus. Although some animals remained, the beckoning stream in the centre of the clearing had been largely abandoned. The few beasts which had remained quickly scattered as he made his way toward the waters.

Arriving at the edge, he went to knees, cupped his hands into the stream, and drank. With his thirst quenched, he washed the dungeon spawn’s vile blood from his face, lay beneath the starlight and allowed his mind to transverse the crooked terrain of his thoughts.

He had faced and conquered his literal nightmare What’s more, his anchor had spoken. Prior to his inheritance, The Midnight Urn had called to him, but the conclusion of the battle was the first time he had heard its voice.

‘In pale-light, your captive spirit grows.’ Havoc mumbled the words. In light of his battle, the meaning seemed clear. Under the glow of the night-sun, his anchor would augment his already enhanced physique and provide additional strength, speed, and resilience. In the final clash with the dungeon spawn, he had felt his strength soar from the moment his tumultuous magics washed over his anchor and chain. By Graceless’ words, remnants which enhanced one’s strength were not uncommon. In the world of Inheritors, they were hardly special.

Within the Chamber, Havoc encountered many such remnant which had boasted of that ability. A pair of gauntlets had sworn to give him the power to crush boulders between his hands. A steel helmet had bragged that with its aid he would shatter the bones of all who blocked his path. A simple broach whispered of meagre, but total bodily fortification. Ultimately, Havoc opted for the healing abilities of The Thirsty Edge, and to rely on what he had felt to be a more than sufficient boost in his strength gained through Inheritance.

As it happened, his strength was not sufficient.

Far from it, Havoc thought to himself. For a mortal, he was powerful. For a dungeon spawn, even with his anchor and every drop of magic inside, he was barely strong enough to survive.

Lifting himself up, he sat. He rested his arm atop his thigh, and his chin between his forefinger and thumb. If he had even imagined at the vast divide between his inherited strength and that of his foes, he would have forged his link with a different remnant. “I swear there was a flute which could call upon a viper to fight in my place.” he recalled, suppressing a tinge of regret. Whatever he could have chosen, all that mattered was gaining control of the remnants he had. The first step was to understand their abilities.

He believed to have fully grasped The Thirsty Edge. The enchanted falchion was shaper than a sword had any right to be, but its true power was in its restorative abilities. The Midnight Urn, on the other hand…

If it was a simple strength enhancing remnant, why wouldn’t say as much? It didn’t say anything about my strength, but rather my spirit… My captive spirit.

For a moment, he lingered on the thought before dismissing it. Despite Graceless’ lessons, he simply did not know enough about Inheritance to come to any definitive conclusions. At least without experimentation.

Experiment is what he did. While the night sun was still high above behind the domed expanse, he channelled his magics into his anchor.

In the heat of battle, he had not noticed, but while his energy streamed into the urn, a pale mist emanated from his body. The intensity of the mist reflected the magics he would feed. With a trickle, the mist was faint, barely visible to his eye, but when he drowned his core with power, the mist would flood from his skin as though he were engulfed in flames. However, no matter the quantity of mystic energies channelled into the urn, he could not surpass the might he had experienced in battle. The enhancement was limited. Havoc could not help but think the mist was not truly for him. Rather, he began to believe, the increase he gained was a by-product as opposed to the main effect.

Even still, it was something. As the light of day invaded the sky, Havoc concluded his practice learning his most useful lesson; The Midnight Urn carried the light of night even during the day. Satisfied with his discovery, he directed his thoughts on what lay ahead. He did not know what waited on the other side of the stream, but he did not believe the beast he had felled was the only of its kind.