Captured Sky

Before Havoc rose an immense door. Stretching upwards the equivalent height of ten men, it dwarfed him. Its grand height was not matched in width; the entry was so narrow that the three men standing before the passage to the Chamber of Inheritance could not walk through side by side. Not that it mattered. Havoc alone was destined to step into the chamber beyond.

‘You’re not the first, you know?’ Flanking the boy, Lord-mayor Bartholomew Kaine was to his right, and to the left, Graceless stood tall. It was Lord-mayor Kaine who had shattered the reverent silence which the grand architecture in sight could not fail to inspire.

‘Well, think about it, boy,’ Bartholomew continued, as if mistaking Havoc’s apathy for interest. ‘What murdering-filth would not take the chance to receive a full pardon alongside the power of the gods?’

Havoc tilted his head to the right before returning his gaze to the onyx colossal in front. ‘You could call that intentional.’

‘Do you have something to say, boy?’ Bartholomew replied.

‘The way you describe things, it’s hard to not think you want us to kill each other.’ Havoc had expected his words to be met with a chiding retort. During the four months of Havoc’s recouperation, he had grown accustomed to the dulled edges of the bulbous man’s wit. He was not so familiar with his laugh. Chiding and unpleasant; grating to the ears. Its tone and pitch perfectly aligned with all the pomposity of the instrument from which it cried.

‘In a way, you are not mistaken. We haven’t had many, but we’ve had enough to fill in the gaps. More than enough to have no use for you…’ Pausing, Lord-Mayor Kaine’s face cycled through expressions before settling on the familiar smirk of disdain. ‘The man you killed was useful. He held a proper place in society creating value, not simply leaching from it. For you to persist while he rots, I take that a personal offence.’ He spat, his inhalations deepening as though to contain a storm. For a moment, only the rush of his breaths pushed through the stillness of their setting, but with a final puff from his mouth, the Lord-mayor settled. ‘I would prefer for the refuge be disposed but I am not adverse to recycling. When I think of it, a lesser life for a greater is hardly just. This may be for the best. After all, there are worse things than death in this world, Mr Gray. Failing to inherit is one of them.’

To the slum dwellers of Stone Garden, the consequences of falsely claiming Inherence were known to be dire. None who had been fool enough to make such a claim had been heard from again. Although known to be immensely unwise, Havoc had not been privileged with the knowledge as to why. Throughout his recovery, he had been consistently reminded that it was not too late. At any moment, he could retract his lie, for sure it was a lie, and be humanely put to death.

Now, it was too late.

‘You can leave the explanation to me, Lord-Mayor.’ Graceless walked forward and stood in front of Havoc. Dressed in a similar knee-length frock coat and black buttoned shirt to the one he had worn to Havoc’s execution, the well-dressed man towered over the boy. ‘From the moment you step through that door, you will feel it. You will grow hungry, thirsty, and drained of mental strength. Death will lurk beside you, but you will not die. The room will not allow it.’

Havoc believed he caught a flash of something in Graceless’ eyes, but if he had, it did not linger long enough to permit recognition.

‘To inherit, you must form the anchor to your spirit chains.’ Graceless continued.

Havoc was studious throughout his recovery. When he wasn’t plotting or attempting escape, he learned as much as allowed concerning Inheritance. Graceless, having already been so kind as to procure the approved materials, had acted as his reluctant tutor. The runic language of the dungeon, accessible only to those with means, Havoc relied upon Graceless’ recitation of the dusty tomes, alongside his mentor’s expertise, to gain a working knowledge on the world of Inheritors.

The old and young, the rich and the poor, there were none who lived in Stone Garden who was completely ignorant of the Inheritors. It was by their protection anyone was permitted to live, after all.

When Humanity was first brought into the Dungeon, it was those who inherited a portion of the gods who had cut through the tide of monsters to found the human civilisations which had stood for over seven-hundred years to that day. They had shepherded the weak of their species through the countless horrors of their new world. They had slain beasts, vanquished tyrants, and established safe harbour for Humanity within the first thirteen floors of the Dungeon.

Despite the constant, looming presence the Inheritors had exuded over his life, it wasn’t until Graceless’ lessons that Havoc could clear some of his murky imaginings from the reality of Inheritance. Though his lessons were frustrating sparse, supposedly yet outlandishly, for his own sake, the difference between something and nothing was infinite, as was his eagerness to know as much as permitted.

‘When you have bonded with the remnant to form your anchor, you must then forge your first link.’

An inheritor was chained to the Dungeon in every sense. To ascend and inherit, Graceless had taught Havoc that one must become captive to their world, bound to its will. In exchange, the Dungeon would bequeath to an Inheritor a remnant of its power.

Remnants were, weapons, armours, artefacts, charms, and other treasures of the Dungeon. Each remnant stored abilities from which an inheritor would derive their power.

Graceless had regaled Havoc with the tales of his violent encounters with his peers. Careful to not betray his own abilities, Edgar Grace, Master Inheritor, third-seed within the Guild of Enforcers, told Havoc of men who could call down ravenous flames from the sheltered heavens with a blow of a horn. He spoke of jars for which the winds obeyed, and bells capable of collapsing buildings with their thunderous tone.

‘While you should form your anchor with the highest tiered remnant of which you are compatible...’ Graceless looked down. An expression broke through his professional facade; pity, perhaps?

Hope?

‘...I would strongly suggest you forge your first link with a weapon.’ He finished.

As if growing impatient, the great door burst into light, outshining the gentle flicker of the torches lining both sides of the underground structure in which Havoc stood. Runes and patterns adorning the entrance filled with a golden light, slowly spreading from the top of the door to its bottom. Though he tried to suppress it with a smirk, Havoc was certain he could not disguise all awe behind his mask of indifference.

Although he had spent twice as long as guest to the rotund man at his side, Havoc had spent only the first two months attempting to escape. Injured or otherwise, he could not slip past the ever-vigilant enforcer; his attempts had only served to draw fresh scars on the messy tapestry of his skin. Lines of discoloured flesh ran across his legs, arms, chest and back. Graceless had discouraged further attempts, he could tend to his wounds but was not able to erase them completely. Despite this, Havoc could not bring himself to worry about such trivial matters as his appearance, not when weighed against the prospect of freedom. It was only when Graceless deemed him fit to learn of Inheritance that escape ceased to be his overriding desire.

He was not of the chosen few to hear the call of the Dungeon. He was not destined for great and terrible deeds.

He did not care.

He did not care for the fate the Dungeon would choose for him; he would seize his own destiny. All he needed was a chance.

This was his chance.

With no background worth mentioning, the probability of inherence was low. He was aware he had likely just prolonged his execution. If that was so, he had experienced luxuries he could only have imagined. Though the Lord-mayor was of the bereft, a human born without inherence, he had family ties beyond the bereft partitions of the city. The affluences the old man commanded was to the point of decadence, and Graceless was quite generous with old man Bart’s provisioning. If all he had done was delay his departure, he could not have hoped for a better farewell. But, if by chance he could claim an Inheritance… To hold his life in his own hands…

He would risk everything.

‘You claimed to hear the call from the depths of this world, your claim will be tested. Should you fail, you will not die.’ At Graceless’ words, Havoc could not withhold a gasp.

He had been persistent in his request but Graceless would not divulge the consequence of failure. Havoc had assumed it was death, presumably painful, quite probably slow. He had not considered survival in failure. Although, they would, no doubt, reschedule his execution upon the next available date.

Shrill laughter pierced Havoc’s surroundings, returning Havoc’s attention to the Lord Mayor’s unshapely features.

‘Boy, have you not been paying attention? Better yet, have you never once questioned the peace of this city?’ To Havoc, Bartholomew’s words were without meaning. Though the denizens of the slums had made it their business to remind he and his sister of their outsider status, Stone Garden was the only home Havoc could clearly recall.

It was not a peaceful home.

He was not sure how the old man took his silence, but the renewed laughter echoing from Bartholomew's ample frame suggested it was the reaction of which the Lord-Mayor had hoped. Setting his face into a stony mask of indifference, Havoc held the man's gaze unflinchingly until Bartholomew's laughter caught in his throat, replaced by the contortion of his lips and a contemptuous snort.

‘If you’re finished-’

‘I am not!’ Bartholomew spat back. As if gathering his composure, old man Bart cleared his throat, breathed crackled breath, and bore his gaze into Havoc’s. ‘This is likely the last we will speak, and while I will not miss your company, you offer a rare opportunity to unburden myself. You see, boy, though I am bereft, my blood runs the veins of this city.’

Without invitation, Bartholomew regaled the story of his upbringing.

Born behind the hallowed inner walls of Stone Garden, Lord-mayor Kaine was raised to inherit. As the bastard son of a god and a whore, Bartholomew’s inherence was the question of his youth. His father, “Dugan the imperishable” walked with such might the world would tremble with each step... if the old man’s was to be believed.

As the story goes, Bartholomew’s mother was beautiful. She was as beautiful as she was worthless. From her youth, she traded in beauty for the protection and desire of powerful men. The Lord-mayor cursed the day his father looked upon “that detestable woman.” Were it not for her taint, he was confident, no, certain, he would have raised to the prominence of his father.

In the end, Bartholomew did not fail to inherit. Rather he ran. Hounded by the shame of his cowardice, the old man had been cast out at sixteen and descended from on high into the secular world.

‘...You see, the same animating force which carved this city from the hellscape of the dungeon is the same that runs through me.’ Bartholomew continued. ‘Even when diluted by the filthy blood of a harlot, there is great power within me. The power to rule and the power to reign.’ Bartholomew lifted his face towards the ceiling, his self-reverence clear for Havoc to see.

So great and so noble that the bastard ran?

‘I had no choice.’ The Lord-mayor spat, as if replying to Havoc’s unspoken words. ‘I would have died! That strumpet’s filth would have been the end of me!’ He shouted, echoing his voice throughout the hallway. When his words dissipated, and the red tint of his face retreated, he continued. I spent years attempting to reconcile the duality of my being, but in the end, I came to one conclusion. Only the worthy are fit to inherit.’

Bartholomew left the words unsaid but to Havoc the implication was apparent.

“If a child born to the gods was unworthy, how much less deserving am I?”

It was Havoc’s turn to laugh, and he did so without restraint. Perhaps his mirth would have died sooner had his mocking intonation failed to paint the normally ashen face of the cowardly fool a living red.

‘Go ahead and laugh. I am not so merciless to deny you that final pleasure. However…’ Havoc’s laughter dimmed and slowly faded as a grim peace seemed to settle the Lord-mayor’s countenance, restoring his bloated, cadaverous features. ‘I was wrong to think I would die. I now know I would have lived. But I would not have wished to.’

Impatience turned to exasperation, the colossal entrance guarding the Chamber of Inheritance cracked open. The seemingly immoveable door scraped the stone paved ground as it widened its maw.

‘There isn’t much time, so listen.’ With a near imperceptible gesture, Graceless recalled the old coward and commanded all attention to himself. ‘ Remember what I’ve taught you. When you’ve found your anchor, meditate and retreat into your soul. Bind yourself to this world.’ He placed a hand on Havoc’s shoulder and softly squeezed. ‘I’ve grown fond of you these past four months, so understand my words are borne of, if not concern, then at least pity.’ his pointed eyes peered into Havoc, spreading true fear to his every nerve.

‘Should you fail to inherit when the light goes out, use any means available to end your life. Do not hesitate! Do not question! You will not have another chance, not before, and never after.

‘Do not allow yourself to be left in the dark.’