Like a mountain toppling over, a thousand tons of stone descended from the heavens.

  Remus’ body was a conduit of flame and magma, the ravenous heat eating through First Rite’s northern entrance like an elemental demon. All around, his squadron of the Flamehearts revelled in the destruction: Ambition and Flame clansmen alike poured their hearts and souls into replacing the wall of brick with a precipice of flame.

  His Mark flared, and with a jolt of electricity, Remus zapped ahead, landing comfortably in the center of a very familiar place.

  The Labour District.

  Behind, smoke rising like a cluster of gloomy flags heralding their entrance, an oval abscess laid smoking in the northern wall. Already, the stone around the seared hole was crumbling away. Remus heard more than saw the rest of the structure collapse, what sounded like a thousand creaky doors splintering at once smacking across his body.

  It was all over within a moment. A blast of dust and detritus got into Remus’ eyes and mouth, but it mattered little. Regardless of his coughing and spluttering, they were inside the city.

  “That was almost too easy.” Aziel followed behind, a dancing kaleidoscope of ebbing reds and blues casting an impromptu lightshow on their backs. “You would expect there to be more in the way of defences in case of a direct attack on the city walls . . . but nothing.”

  “Maybe the watchguard quietly disbanded after Damosh held one too many public executions.” A giant of a man stepped abreast with Remus – Angstrom, a Talent from the Magnetism Clan. “Really now, spilling rivers of blood is hardly a way to win your people’s favour.”

  “Quite the astute observation you’ve made there Angstrom. Why, is there any more wisdom you’d wish to bestow us lowly peasants with?”

  Another figure seemed to materialise out of nowhere; the clanswoman to whom the voice belonged. This second Talent assigned to the Flamehearts was comically disproportionate to Angstrom’s towering frame. Hina bolstered her petite size with pitch-black amour. Which stuck out to Remus as a walking contradiction to her birthright: the Mark of the Rainbow god.

  “Shush.” Angstrom scoffed, though there was a subtle tenderness to his voice. “Point is, breaching into First Rite shouldn’t be this simple.”

  “That’s my concern too.” Remus frowned, eyes roving over to a weary-eyed Tanguy. Particularly, to what had elicited such a gaping expression from the man.

  The Flame clansman seized up. “It appears that someone beat us to the punch . . .”

  Remus stared at the shining beacon of brilliance that was Damosh’s metal abode. The totem of riches shook on its foundations, dozens of miles away, as a storm of gathering waste congregated at its base. Remus watched as one by one, the rest of the Ruling District towers sank back into the earth – structures that were said to last until the end of time reaching their expiry dates far too quickly.

  Fate and fantasy slipped and flowed into one another, and superimposed over this reality was Remus’ recurring nightmare. Charging towards that tower, soaked in Ichor, shredding every layer of his humanity, leaving nothing behind but the rotten core of a stone-cold killer.

  Remus shuddered to think that he could ever lose so much of himself.

  Enough talk of fate. Remus unveiled his chains with a sparkling flourish. I decide who I am.

  The inhabitants of Labour District had gathered outside their doors. A raucous applause was well underway, one that only ceased when the townsfolk realised something was amiss.

  In addition to Hina and Angstrom, following at Remus' back was a fabulous force. Tanguy, Aziel, Hadrian and a congregation of Talents mostly composed of clansmen from the Ambition and Flame Clans all marched along. They allowed the cheers and praise to seep past their skin and into the flesh, beckoning forth a certain warmth from the jaded recesses of their souls.

  It was a nice feeling. But the claps were growing increasingly spaced out, and more and more eyes were turning towards the destruction in Ruling District. Then there wasn’t much left to be merry about at all.

  “Stay inside!” Remus instructed, the stone pathway beneath his feet trembling wildly, like each flagstone was one bar of a rattling xylophone. It was the same nauseous sensation as walking across a precarious rope bridge; that feeling that any second now, they would all fall into the abyss. “Keep safe while we reclaim the city! I repeat, stay inside, it is danger-”

  Like water flooding into every orifice of a porous rock, Wealth Clansman swarmed into the street.

  The townspeople required no more warning, and with haste slammed their doors.

  Remus whipped out his chains, metallic sparks flying across the street.

  Quickly, he took in the vast number of the Wealth Clan. There were more of the men than Remus could bring himself to count, all donning the same golden waistcoat, the same military-prescribed truncheons, and the same sneers of disgust.

  For the faintest moment, the most merciful corners of Remus could look upon these soldiers with nothing but pity. Damosh must have been a cruel dictator, and no one chose what clan they were born into. Would these soldiers have been good people, if not for their birthright? Hell, would Remus have forced himself to endure so much – to become so much more – had his Mark simply been that of his clan? Without that chip on his shoulder of being Death-Marked, it would seem most probable that he would have lived a simple life. He couldn’t help but ponder if the same could be said for these folk. Did the man forge his life, or did the life forge the man?

  Then memories returned to Remus of his youth. Of having to stay vigilant when travelling anywhere in the Labour District, for fear of a Wealth guard beating you at the slightest irritance. The utter desperation that would consume the eyes of Labour residents whenever one of their taxmen approached. The painful exhaustion of an entire third of the world’s capital; wrought by a single clan.

  Remus remembered all of that, and no longer felt so merciful.

  “Advance!” He bellowed, launching into the first Wealth guard in sight.

  As fast as a jerk-reflex, the clansman materialised a shield of gold between them. Remus didn’t blink at the summoning, instead planting a bundle of eruptive force into the sole of his foot.

  The man’s body was sent flying backwards, shield crunched and discarded. Jagged lines of light trailing behind him, Remus reappeared in a blur of motion a few feet away, chains now entangling the arms of two more enemies. A flurry of golden projectiles were tossed Remus' way, each burning to molten well before their jagged edges could reach his skin. Remus’ Mark flared, and the pair of them could do nothing as lightning shot down from the heavens, into Remus, and through his Supreme Steel links, to finally pulverise them both.

  The remaining guards watched their unconscious brethren with caution.

  Remus held a hand out behind him, the Flamehearts stumbling to a stop.

  “Show off.” Hadrian smirked, leaning into his ear. “You couldn’t have waited for us to join the fun, could you?”

  “No rest for the wicked.” Remus mirrored the man’s expression, and then, forcing his lips into the sternest frown he could muster, turned to regard the squadron of Wealth guards. “If you all abandon Damosh and join us, we can settle things in a way that will benefit us all.”

  For some reason, most of the Wealth Clan halted.

  “What has Damosh ever done for you? Open your eyes – look at what he’s made of your homes in the Ruling District! You’ll be returning to a cemetery. What are you fighting for? What do you have to show for your blind devotion? A heap of rubble where your homes once stood?”

  His voice rebounded across every surface, seeming to somehow grow in volume with each violent clash.

  “Remus.” Angstrom whispered. “What are you doing?”

  “Think about it.” Remus tried to speak without moving his mouth much, keeping his eyes locked on the enemy as they digested his words. They fact they hadn’t already rejected the proposal outright was at least something. “These guards have enough reason to leave Damosh. Who wants to work under a maniac with tendencies as explosively unpredictable as his? No, if we strip Damosh of his attacking force, it would be like disarming your foe in a sword fight.”

  “So maybe Angstrom doesn’t know everything.” Hina teased.

  Angstrom only grunted in reply, but Remus’ attention was caught by something fastly approaching.

  It glittered in the air, flying over Remus’ shoulder before he could realise what it was. It seemed to be . . .

  All other noise became muted.

  And a body thumped against the ground.

  . . . a coin.

  Remus turned his head at an angle, keeping the Wealth clansmen in view in case they planned on exploiting the chaos with a charge.

  A man from the Fire Clan laid limp in a pool of Ichor, unseeing eyes staring into an empty sky. Lodged deep into his brow, Remus recognised the signature engraving of Damsh’s face, as he realised it was an Inkling piercing into the man’ brains.

  And in that reflection, he saw something else smiling back at him.

  The real deal.

  “Remus Remus Remus!”

  Remus turned away from Damosh’s reflection, lashing out his chains at the flesh and blood Godling with a feral roar.

  Damosh hovered just out of range. He levitated high over the clearing, a searing source of molten light that put the entire street in sharp relief.

  “Didn’t think you’d show your face so early.” Remus spun his chains in both hands, staring daggers at First Rite’s mad King. “I thought I’d be able to stretch my muscles first before finishing this little training exercise.”

  The King laughed a little too loudly, a little too long.

  Then there were two more flashes of flickering light.

  Remus sprang to intercede both, tendrils of flame bursting forward from his fingertips. Yet his aim was off, shooting over the approaching lights and allowing both to graze against Remus' sides. A sharp pain erupted from his left and right, and, with teary eyes, Remus realised he had never been the intended target.

  Sprawled out behind lay two more corpses.

  “Angstrom!” Remus gritted his teeth, not daring to tear his face away from Damosh. Another glance at those bodies – another recollection of what had happened at Gold’s Bane – and Remus might just lose it. “Block those coins!”

  Each Inkling was more deadly than a bullet. Remotely controlled by Damosh, they were like vultures launching down, carrying away both the bodies and souls of their victims to the afterlife. This was all some sick and twisted game to Damosh. Remus barely anticipated the next volley of metallic bullets, whipping his chains out to block their path. Only to hit nothing.

  The Flamehearts erupted into screams, another body hitting the floor.

  “Hold!” Remus screamed, a vein in his brow bulging. “Do not falter!”

  Yet the words were more of a reminder to himself than a valiant command.

  “Remus.” Hina muttered quietly. “They’re fleeing.”

  Remus contorted his neck to glance behind, his heart sinking at the portrait of misery that met him. His clansmen were dashing away from the limp bodies of their past comrades, rushing towards the obliterated remains of the northern entrance.

  Charred stone was dyed golden as seeking coins found their targets. None of the fleeing Talents managed to reach the exit before they too became just another causality. A half-dozen men and women stripped of their life.

  One impulse of fear had driven them to destruction.

  “I can’t-” perspiration was dripping off Angstrom’s massive bulk in a steady stream. “I can’t stop those coins. So quick. So this is the raw power of a Godling . . .”

  “Hold!” Remus bellowed, his vocal cords transforming the command into a hoarse screech. “If you flee you die! We need to work together to overcome Damosh. We need to-”

  “Hush now Remus.”

  Damosh blurred forward, placing a single finger on Remus' quivering lips. All of Remus’ hate melted down into solid form, closer to him than ever.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Look at the men you’ve gathered here. You’re asking them to fight against me! A Godling without any inhibitions left. You ask your men to die. This isn’t the valiant crusade you think it to be. This is a suicide mission.”

  Remus watched silently as tears poured down a Flame clansman’s face, already evaporating in the swarm of fires that now occupied the thoroughfare. “Sorry boss.” His legs were shaking, the sword slipping from his fingers to the cobbled path below. “I know what I signed up for, but I don’t want to . . . I don’t want to die here!”

  “No . . .” Remus spluttered, seeming to see the future before it was taking place. This was no power of prophecy, no remnants of the Time god placing a magical filter over his perception. Some things were all too obvious.

  The man swivelled round, and before he could take a single stride away, an Inkling sped into the back of his head.

  Remus flinched at the burst of gore. A drop of Ichor splattered against his cheek. He wasn’t sure which was worse: the blood of his dead comrade colouring his skin, or the utter presence of self-absorbed evil that was so close to him. Damosh still hadn’t moved his finger, his hot breath sweeping against Remus’ hair. He wanted Remus to feel his power. To accept that with the slightest movement, Remus could just as easily join the rest of his deceased Talents.

  Something snapped within Remus, and like a cobra climbing up from the depths of his diaphragm to the heights of his throat, the command took on a life of its own. “Attack!”

  Remus launched forward into thin air, Damosh having already blurred away.

  Faster than I can even see. Than my body can process. This is just like. Remus’ body recoiled at the very thought. Just like when I first fought Edmar. That mountain of power between us.

  But Remus had made his bed. Or perhaps his coffin.

  A third of his force already dead and bleeding out, it was time to lie in it.

  “The Talents are really a group of cowards.” Damosh reappeared far above, a dark angel hovering high over his devastation. “Yet one must wonder: who is due more respect? The rabbit that knows his place, running well away from the big scary fox? Or-”

  A spinning collection of Inklings flared into existence around Damosh, the hanging threat of instant death lingering onto each one.

  “The foolish rabbit without the gift of self-preservation, who’d willingly throw himself into that fox’s fangs? Tell me Remus, what do you think?”

  Remus screamed. Three years of hatred, of hard work, of blood, sweat, tears, and every emotion in-between. Every flavour of pain, shade of joy, and each variety of despair.

  He’d felt it all

  And to kill Damosh, he’d feel it all again.

  The wind whistled in Koa’s ears as he clung tightly to a gigantic arm of oak. The construct erupted upwards with all the grandiose size of a fantastical beanstalk. The kind of beanstalk that would appear in one of the stories his mother would always tell to Ash and Koa before bed. Images of the impossible that would send him quietly adrift to sleep.

  Koa shook his head, throat constricting at the thought of past comforts. Of things he could no longer have. If he was getting sentimental already, he would be too busy drowning in tears by the time he encountered Ash to pose much of any threat.

  Get it together!

  Koa waited patiently as the rest of the Branches – a name he was already beginning to regret – arose on other pincers of wood, his Mark flaring to near its limits as his conjured overgrowth emerged over First Rite’s boundary. He watched patiently as metres of stone flew downwards in a blur, before his natural elevator settled above a line of parapets. Fortunately for them, there seemed to be no-one on guard.

  I can’t afford to burn out already. Koa huffed. Ash has proven time and time again that I’m easy pickings for him. When we finally come face-to-face, I may as well throw aside my chances if I’m not in tip-top condition.

  The only reasons Koa had agreed to this method of infiltrating the city, was, well – because Diego was too bloody convincing!

  The Wisdom clansman sat with his legs crossed and eyes closed, his own tentacle-like branch carrying him upwards at a slight delay. From a distance, it would appear as though a gigantic wooden octopus was pressing in against the capital, a few pesky human stowaways clinging to its tentacular form.

  “And why, exactly, is this a better approach than blasting through the wall?” Koa called down to the young man’s shaven head.

  Diego frowned, as if Koa had interrupted his meditation seconds before the man was to reach enlightenment.

  ”We’ll have the high ground.” He answered in a slow, uninterested drawl. “Besides, economically, this drains the Branches of the least energy. The rest of us will be able to fight at full capacity without wasting our strength on bashing down a wall.”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?” Diego frowned, finally snapping his eyes open. Like Koa was only the third most important thing on his mind.

  Something about that thought made Koa snap.

  “I’m the one who has the biggest fight here!” He snarled, immediately hating how that came out. “Sorry. What I mean to say is, if I’m going to knock some sense into Ash, I need to be ready. My fight isn’t against a brick wall damn it. I shouldn’t be over-expending myself here.”

  “Just advance.” Diego frowned, his mouse-like face swinging to the side. “You’ll get a surge of energy.”

  “Just advance?” Koa scoffed. “If it’s so easy, why don’t you do us all a favour and advance to God-Graced? Hell, better yet, ascend to godhood and win us the celestial war. so we don’t need to fight!”

  Diego flapped his hand in a talking motion. “Yap, yap yap.” The man finally got up to stretch, buzzed scalp seeming to gleam in the early morning light. “Maybe if you didn’t complain so much you’d finally make Warden. What’s taking so long anyway? I can sense you’re on the precipice of Splintered, but something’s stopping you.”

  Koa frowned. Could a Wisdom clansman really sense something like that?

  Out of all the non-combat oriented sects, the Wisdom Clan was arguably the most powerful. At least that was how Koa had always seen them. If not for the technological prowess of the Matter Clan and their emphasis on action above all else, the wise scholars of the Wisdom Clan would easily take their place as undisputed champion. As Koa had learnt from his brother all too well, inaction was the scourge of the talented. Why the Wisdom Clan hardly seemed to do anything at all was beyond Koa.

  Their contentedness to do nothing but sit around all day and think was, if anything, suspicious. As if their hundreds of followers were all willing participants in some kind of underground conspiracy theory to take over Descent. Puppetmasters pulling the strings behind the scenes. But he had to admit, despite his concerns, Diego was one of the greatest assets to his squadron. What Wisdom clansmen lacked for in physical prowess, they made up for tenfold in strategy.

  Diego was Koa’s ace in the hole to win against an opponent that was, quite frankly, miles his superior.

  This is what we’ve always done. Koa reflected soberly. Punched upwards. Now we’re just punching higher than ever before. We’re going to tremble the foundations of heaven.

  “What are you two waiting around for?” A woman veiled in a dozen layers of cloth cried out. “Is everything okay?”

  Koa didn’t have to turn to know it was Daphne reaching the parapets too, more and more of the Talents rushing ahead and leaping onto the bulwark. They waited eagerly for Koa’s next command.

  “Everything’s fine!” Koa called out to the Drug Clanswoman. “We’re just assessing the scene.”

  Daphne was a Foot-Soldier from the Material Congruity. One of the miraculous few to have escaped from Ash’s colonies. Most of the inhabitants of Descent tended to speak in the same fashion, yet Koa couldn’t quite place his finger on the woman’s accent. Centuries had passed since the Material Congruity first fled from Descent on their rickety ships of bone, and it was a miracle the two of them could communicate in the first place with how prone to change language could be.

  But she didn’t have to open her mouth to stand out. Daphne decorated herself with an abundance of make-up – all the colours of the rainbow marked across her face in vibrant streaks.

  “I have a plan.” Diego rose on both feet, placing his arm behind his neck in a sudden stretch. “Though seeing how you’ve responded to my last recommendation, I’m not sure if you’ll like it.”

  Koa crossed his arms. “Try me.”

  Diego set his eyes onto the horizon. From his own remote eyeballs floating around the inside of the city, Koa’s heart jolted to see so many Paladins pouring into the streets. He had expected their participation in this battle, but a riotous band of Destruction clansmen were fastly approaching. The stones beneath their thunderous feet withered to an eroded black, and the spiritual stench of their very corrosive nature was enough to make Koa’s senses want to retire.

  “If you’ve cared to notice, when assisting in assigning clansmen to the Branches I recommended a plethora of fighters with powers based on nature – or powers able to conjure up a range of wildlife. Together, we’re going to do what the inhabitants of Hybrid have done for centuries – only in miniature. We’re going to get up to a little terraforming. Once we’ve created our forest and populated it with some helpful creatures, things are going to get only a little morally questionable. With Daphne's help, of course.”

  “And what on Descent are you trying to imply by that?” Daphne pouted.

  “Why, our helpful Drug clanswoman,” Diego said innocently. “You’re going to make your namesake proud and put all our animal friends on steroids.”

  “You want me to burn out my reserves transforming the landscape and then fill it with a stampede of drugged-out animals?” Koa summarised. “That’s-”

  “Brilliant, I know!” Diego launched onto the bulwark, joining the rest of the rejoicing Branches. “We need to hurry too. Someone’s taken notice of us.”

  Koa’s heart sank even before laying his eyes on the approaching dot of black. The entity sped ahead, and honouring his Divine Right, the final fighter of Enos’ warrior generations made like a comet.

  “I’m relying on you for this to work out Diego . . .”

  “I should be saying that to you.” Diego bounced on the balls of his feet. Koa expected another snide comment to escape the bald man’s mouth, but the urgency of the moment seemed to stifle even his fast wits.

  Koa looked upwards to wear Ash now hovered in the skies. None of his body was visible, completely consumed by that horrific costume of stars and black – Ash’s deranged persona. He was dressed like the jester in some sad play, mocking a reality which the essence of had been lost in the script.

  The two locked eyes, and Koa didn’t know what to say. If his brother would even hear him from here. And, if he could hear, whether he would listen.

  Ash.

  Koa clamped his teeth.

  I’m going to find you.

  He leaped from the crenellation in a flourish of movement, Mark surging into overdrive.

  I know you’re in there-

  Ash mimicked the motion in a cruel symmetry, and then nothing seemed to exist but two brothers fighting. Clumps of stone materialised in the air around Ash, and the world bent and transformed under Koa’s moulding will.

  Somewhere!

  Violet strolled through a world of mist. Yet she could see perfectly clearly.

  The powers of a Sight clansman were strange. Vidu channelled his oracular might through Violet’s body, allowing her gaze to penetrate through the sifting currents of mist and fog. Through strange shapes of cloud Violet could see perfectly, as if only a slight grey filter had been placed over the surroundings.

  Their enemies, however, were totally blinded.

  Besides, even if Violet were subjected to that haze of vision too, the screams of Paladins and Wealth clansmen alike would have betrayed her enemies' locations. The arrangements for her squadron – the Claws – had been planned out to great success.

  Vidu himself was an impish man. If Violet glanced a certain way upwards, she would gleam his goblin-like form: perched like a gargoyle on the precipice of a far-off building. There he watched her silently with all the forced nonchalance of a nighttime vigilante.

  A little creepy, but does his job well. Violet lamented. Now, as for the girl behind me . . .

  A few mere steps away, a woman with hair so long it reached her feet followed Violet. She brought a bundle of the strands to her face, clutching the brunette locks with the iron grip of a child holding onto a treasured pillow. She too was graced with Vidu’s gift of sight.

  “I feel so bad . . .” Marigold lamented, long hair together with her sprawling red gown a recipe for disaster. How she hadn’t tripped up yet was nothing short of a miracle. “I know they’re not great people, but I can sense how much I’m hurting them.”

  Marigold’s Mark was in full activation. If Violet focused on her spiritual senses, she could feel sensuous streams of energy fluctuating through the atmosphere. Yet, remarkably – and much to the relief of Violet’s pain receptors – none of those tortuous vibrations penetrated the air immediately around her. The same could be said for the rest of the Claws; Marigold’s precision was absolute.

  “You must be the most thoughtful Suffering clanswoman there ever was.” Violet reflected, teleporting them both a few metres ahead.

  A Paladin with a katana longer than his body held his weapon warily. He did his best to hide it, but Marigold’s waves of pain rattled his body like it was a pile of sticks. Blinded and trembling with agony, a constant state of discomfort befell all within their foggy proximity. Violet made sure to time herself perfectly, before bursting forward. She erased the distance between her fist and the man’s head, and with a disturbing crunch, he fell to the ground and moved no more.

  There was a yelp from up above. Violet kicked aside the Sword clansman’s blade, trying to mask Vidu’s eccentric outburst under the rattle. The man had a tendency to scream at any sign of violence.

  Both sounds were too distinct, however, only emphasising each other instead of covering the former, and Violet was forced to transport them all to new locales.

  Vidu settled down on a new rooftop after a burst of purple, and Violet dragged Marigold and herself to another passage of brume in the sprawling streets below.

  “I’ve never seen a clansman of Vidu’s expertise so jumpy in fights.” Violet muttered to Marigold, scouting out the territory. “I thought anyone who lived on Descent would be desensitised to violence by now.”

  “He sure is jumpy.” Marigold roved her eyes through the dark gloom.

  It was an artificial dusk, produced by the last finishing touch to Violet’s discreet team: Nebula. The Cloud clanswoman conjured mist in the same way human lungs passively suffused carbon dioxide into the air. Violet could see her outline in the very centre of their obscuring storm. She served as the central eye to this rolling enterprise, with Violet carefully teleporting away any stray guards or paladins that stumbled too close to her.

  The rest of the Claws were crouched on top of the rooftops above, dispersed amongst the many nooks and crannies. They reserved their energy and waited patiently alongside Veida as Violet, Marigold, Vidu and Nebula all carried out their deadly trap. Only if things got out of hand would the rest of Violet’s forces need to step into action.

  This siege would be a marathon, not a sprint. Conserving the energy of their forces could be what made or broke this operation.

  “I’m getting a bad vibe.” Marigold murmured quietly under her breath, that same frown not having left her face since first employing her Mark’s agonising capabilities. “I think something’s-”

  Violet sprang into action before Marigold could finish. With the reflexes of a cat, she identified the approaching shape immediately, springing ahead, grasping the man by the neck, and shoving them into the stone floor.

  Vidu roared. “It’s me you moron!”

  “Gods above Vidu, I could have killed you! I said not to jump out me like-”

  “Nevermind!” The mousy man cut her off. “Something’s approaching! Something with a horrible aura!”

  Violet challenged Marigold for the squadron's deepest scowl, gazing far into the shifting haze of smog. Nothing immediately appeared amiss, with only Nebula’s constant silhouette and a few scrambling Paladins occupying the distance.

  Then the temperature dropped.

  Violet jumped backwards, Marigold joining in the movement whilst Vidu collapsed into a screaming ball of flailing limbs.

  With all the eerie approach of a severed hand crawling forward, a sheet of thin ice slid across the stone floor.

  Violet forced her eyes ahead. With Vidu so close, the boost to her vision was more potent than ever, quickly disarming the fog’s obscurity like it was never there in the first place. Like folds of cloth being undone, she spotted the hideous sitch at their centre: a single Paladin.

  This newcomer’s footsteps reverberated against the icy stone beneath their feet. The union of frosty crunch and fracturing stone was an ugly jumble of noise. Each step forward like the echoing clang of a funeral toll.

  Violet put her hands to her mouth as the remaining fog parted perfectly to reveal the woman. It was of their own doing, even Nebula’s sifting powers withdrawing before the Frost Paladin.

  Lumi stood in sharp relief, an arm of ice clenched into a trembling fist.