Before we step forward, we must first look back. The events you’re about to witness echo the final pages of our previous tale—a night when forces plunged the once-clandestine MSA into chaos. Betrayal struck, beasts ran rampant, and those who defended its corridors bled.
At the heart of it all stood Jacob Krimson, a leader fighting to hold his world together as it shattered around him. Yet even his resolve proved no match for what awaited—a force darker than any nightmare, a power poised to reshape everything.
Let us return to that night—the screams, the fire, and the fight. Relive the moment everything unraveled—when this story began, just after the lockdown ended.
The muffled screams beyond the door hit like shockwaves, each cry sinking deeper, filling the air with palpable panic.
Jacob Krimson, director of the MSA, wrenched open the lockbox beneath his desk, his face a mask of iron resolve. Towering and broad-shouldered, with thick copper hair streaked with gray and a jaw carved from granite, Krimson wore his years like armor. Harsh light etched lines into his weathered face, but nothing dulled the steel in his icy blue gaze.
His hand curled around the sleek, experimental weapon inside—a firearm he had yet to master.
Tonight, there would be no rehearsal.
It was time for a trial by fire.
Another thunderous slam against the door sent the MSA director staggering back.
Blood seeped beneath the threshold like a malevolent tide.
“Dammit,” he grunted, shoving at the door.
It resisted, blocked by something heavy.
Gritting his teeth, Krimson forced his way through the chaos.
A body lay crumpled in the doorway—one of his agents, his back shredded, his black uniform soaked with blood. The man’s eyes were already glassy and vacant. Krimson fought the lump rising in his throat and checked for a pulse he knew wouldn’t be there.
The hallway was in pandemonium.
Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting the corridor in strobe-lit shadows. Screams and panicked shouts echoed as agents ran in every direction, blurs of black and hunter-green uniforms pursued by hulking forms.
Then he saw Bernadette sprint toward him, her face twisted with sheer terror.
“Krimson!” she cried, her voice raw and strangled.
A manticore pounced before she could reach him.
Its claws raked her to the ground.
She screamed once.
Its tail snapped forward, driving a venomous barb into her neck.
Her scream died beneath the beast’s roar as it bared its blood-slicked fangs.
Krimson froze.
His lungs refused to draw breath. His body seemed rooted to the floor.
And then he heard it.
A soft, singsong giggle.
Childlike.
Haunting.
Somehow rising above the bedlam.
He turned.
His blood turned to ice.
Vilde.
The little girl—his trusted asset, the Swedish door spirit—emerged from the madness. Her small hands cradled the mane of a monstrous manticore that stalked beside her, her blond hair and white gown swaying gently with each step.
The creature’s blazing blue eyes fixed on Krimson.
Another beast emerged from the shadows, flanking her.
“Jag hittade vänner!” she declared in Swedish, her voice still carrying that singsong cadence.
I found friends.
“No,” Krimson whispered, his chest tightening as he stepped back.
Behind Vilde, the elevator shafts erupted in unrelenting turmoil.
Manticores surged forth like a nightmare unleashed, their massive bodies sleek and predatory, their tails cracking like whips. Venomous barbs shot in every direction, striking agents mid-sprint. The beasts descended on the fallen, their gaping maws dragging bodies away and silencing their cries.
One agent fell with a sharp scream as a barb tore through his head and throat. Another, pinned against the wall, managed only a guttural cry before snapping jaws cut it short.
The hallway was no longer a battlefield.
It was a slaughterhouse.
The beasts roared with primal ferocity, their blue, fire-like eyes searching for more prey.
A dozen?
No.
Two dozen now.
Too many.
Krimson inched backward toward his office, the experimental weapon in his hands suddenly feeling woefully inadequate. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as his gaze locked onto the glowing eyes.
The same eyes that haunted his darkest memories.
He stopped.
A ghost from the past crashed into him.
Those eyes.
The first Scarlet Protocol.
He had come home that night, eager to see his wife and their newborn son, only to find—
Krimson clenched his jaw, fighting to suppress the memory.
But the image came anyway.
His wife’s lifeless, half-eaten torso sprawled across the kitchen floor.
Darkness surrounding her.
Within that darkness, the creature crouched over what remained.
Those glowing blue eyes stared back at him.
A low growl rumbles from its throat.
His hands began to tremble.
The weapon wavered.
A thunderous roar snapped Krimson back to the present—to the tide of monsters tearing through his agents.
Vilde remained the calm eye of the storm, her compact frame lit by intermittent flashes of cherry-red light. Her head tilted slightly, her expression tranquil, as though the violence surrounding her were a beautiful, macabre performance.
Then she met her former master’s gaze.
Her smile bloomed.
Not the pure, childish smile he remembered.
Something steeped in malice.
Something unnaturally cold.
She raised one hand, her fingers curling as if conducting a symphony of death.
The manticores stopped.
Every glowing eye snapped toward her in unison.
“Gå,” she hissed, her voice sweet yet as sharp as a knife.
Go.
She thrust her hand forward.
The manticores surged.
A tidal wave of claws, fangs, and thrashing tails thundered toward him as the creatures moved as one. The ground trembled beneath their charge. Barbs sliced through the air, embedding in walls and bodies alike.
The corridor seemed to close in on Krimson—not with debris, but with death itself.
His grip tightened around the weapon, yet his body felt impossibly heavy, his mind clouded by memories of the young manticore he had destroyed.
His son.
Those shimmering eyes bore down on him now, reflected again and again in the charging horde.
A thousand reminders of his failure.
Krimson forced his voice above the roar, though it cracked under the weight of dread.
“Muse… where are you?”
Silence answered.
Only his past echoed back.
And the manticores thundered toward him.
Krimson reached the office door, his boots skidding across the blood-slickened floor. The lifeless body wedged against the jammed door remained a grim obstacle, one hand outstretched in a futile reach for safety.
His fingers fumbled under his suit jacket.
Desperation overtook precision.
Where was it?
His hand found the maze disc.
Sweat and blood coated his fingers, making the smooth metal slippery as he ripped it free.
Behind him, the manticores advanced with predatory intent, their razor-edged claws clicking against the marble like a death knell.
One beast crouched low.
Its fiery blue eyes were fixed on Krimson.
Its barbed tail twitched.
Then struck.
The appendage sliced through the air in a lethal arc.
Krimson slammed the disc against the wall, then wrenched it into position.
The device activated.
The air rippled.
Distorted.
A low hum vibrated through the corridor as the labyrinth's invisible walls materialized.
The manticore lunged—
—and stopped.
Its snarling face hung just inches from Krimson.
The creature let out a guttural growl of confusion, its claws scraping wildly across the floor as unseen forces seized it and dragged it backward.
It thrashed.
The barrier held.
The beast was dragged past the elevators as the labyrinth unfolded in shimmering waves, its invisible walls spiraling outward in intricate patterns. The maze enclosed the magick signatures within the corridor, funneling them toward the passage to the Menagerie.
Manticores howled in rage.
They paced like caged predators, claws tearing uselessly at invisible barriers. One beast launched a volley of venomous barbs at a fleeing agent, only for the projectiles to strike a wall of shimmering distortion.
The agent stumbled, glancing back.
Relief flashed across his bloodied face before he vanished into the pandemonium.
Krimson pressed his back against the wall and drew in a breath.
Then another.
The maze had contained them.
For a fleeting moment, it felt as though he had wrestled back some measure of control.
A victory.
Small.
Fragile.
Perhaps temporary.
Then came the slow, deliberate clap.
Vela Hart emerged from the far end of the hallway, her ruby-red, knee-length coat trailing behind her like bloodstained silk over a black turtleneck and matching slacks. Her brother Sauvage moved in her shadow, clad in a black tracksuit, his presence a muted, simmering menace.
More manticores prowled at their heels, their eyes gleaming with predatory intent.
Krimson cursed under his breath.
The labyrinth had locked into place, its barriers sealing around the magick signatures already trapped inside. But that also meant any new arrivals—such as the beasts now flanking Vela—remained uncontained, free to stalk the corridor unchecked.
To ensnare them, he would need to release those already trapped.
And that wasn’t an option.
“Impressive,” Vela drawled, her voice cutting through the surrounding noise like a dagger. “A clever trick, Jacob Krimson.”
She stopped beside Vilde, stroking the child’s blond hair.
“You’ve done well, Vilde,” she purred in English. “But now it’s time for the adults to have some fun.”
Krimson slipped the maze disc back into his pocket.
Muse never appeared.
“What now?” he muttered.
Running from trouble had never been part of his character.
He stood his ground, tightened his grip on the experimental firearm, and aimed its barrel at the two manticores stalking closer.
Vela watched with wicked delight.
Was she really about to watch her pets rip the MSA director apart?
Krimson’s fingers locked around the weapon’s incongruous forestock—the kind one might expect on a shotgun, not on something like this.
He racked it twice.
The black-steel barrel elongated with a mechanical snap, splitting and doubling in length.
Krimson fired.
Twice.
Each shot struck a manticore square in the eyes.
The beasts erupted in violent bursts of embers, their massive forms disintegrating before they could hit the floor.
Krimson stared at the weapon for half a second.
One of Hecate’s newest creations.
He had to admit he was pleased with the results.
He strode forward, eyes fixed on Vela.
“You weren’t expecting that, were you?” His voice hardened. “I’d advise you to keep your pets at bay.”
He raised the weapon.
“Leave this place if you know what’s good for you.”
Vela’s smile only grew sharper.
Something moved behind him.
“Were you expecting me?”
The words came with a strong Austrian accent.
Before Krimson could turn, Darque ghosted through the chaos and wrapped an arm around his neck, wrenching him back.
Vela laughed softly.
“Oh, darling, you’re mistaken. I haven’t come all this way just to run away on your command.”
Her eyes gleamed.
“I’m here to conquer.”
Cold steel pressed against Krimson’s throat.
His body stiffened.
Darque had produced a straight razor.
The blond-haired sociopath slowly traced the blade along Krimson’s neck, then abruptly flipped it and shaved off one of the director’s sideburns.
Copper-red hair fluttered to the bloodstained floor.
“I think you’re due for a makeover,” Darque taunted. “How about I make a necktie from your tongue as I drag it down your throat?”
Vela laughed, clearly amused by her brother’s idea of fun.
But she hadn’t come just to watch Darque play.
She wanted access to the Menagerie.
“Search him,” she ordered. “Find the disc.”
Darque began patting down Krimson’s jacket with exaggerated enthusiasm, slapping one pocket, then another. When Krimson resisted, Darque jabbed him and dragged the razor across Krimson’s cheek.
Krimson winced.
Another shallow cut.
Then another.
Cold air stung the open wounds.
Darque seemed far more interested in carving up his captive than in actually finding anything.
Krimson finally reached into his jacket.
“Enough.”
He pulled out the maze disc, hoping that surrendering the device might stop Darque’s increasingly irritating playfulness.
Darque snatched it from his hand.
Then tossed it toward his twin.
“Give this to our sister, will you, mein Bruder?”
Sauvage caught it easily and spun the metal disc between his fingers.
“What a fascinating little toy,” he mused, his Austrian accent mirroring his brother’s. “Tell me… where do you get these delightful gadgets?”
“Put it down,” Krimson barked, fury tightening his voice.
Sauvage barely acknowledged him.
Instead, his eyes narrowed on Darque.
More blood had dripped onto the vintage Balmain tracksuit his brother wore—the red, white, and blue one Darque had apparently decided to borrow.
“Versuchen Sie, Blut von Ihrem Trainingsanzug fernzuhalten,” Sauvage remarked sharply.
Try to keep blood off your tracksuit.
Darque drew the razor across Krimson’s face once more.
Another red line opened, causing additional blood to drip onto the fabric.
Sauvage stared at it in disbelief.
“Do you know how hard it will be to replace?” he demanded in English. “You could have at least asked before borrowing it.”
Darque smirked, glancing down at himself.
“You’re saying it doesn’t look good with a little blood on it?”
He dragged the blade along Krimson’s jaw again.
A fresh line of red welled up behind it.
“It’s not yours to ruin,” Sauvage snapped, stepping aside to avoid a stray drop. “You’ll pay for its restoration.”
Darque grinned down at Krimson.
“You like it?”
He popped the jacket’s red collar and began rocking his hips from side to side, shamelessly modeling the outfit while keeping Krimson pinned beneath him.
“Looks cool, right? Red, white, and blue!”
He proudly tugged at the jacket.
“So Amerikanisch!”
Krimson’s expression hardened.
“Proud to be one…”
He abruptly twisted his waist.
Darque lost his footing.
Krimson pressed the barrel of the experimental weapon against Darque’s chest and cocked it three times.
Mechanical components came to motion.
The barrel collapsed.
Lengthened.
Reshaped.
A machete-sized blade sprang from the weapon.
Krimson swung.
“…and our colors never run!”
The blade cleanly passed through Darque’s neck.
For a fraction of a second, nothing occurred.
Then his head came off his shoulders.
It struck the floor.
Bounced once.
Then rolled.
Darque’s body collapsed beside it.
Silence seemed to tear through the corridor.
Krimson stared at the blade, genuinely surprised.
“Damn.”
A breathless smile crossed his face.
“Smooth as butter.”
He shoved Darque’s body aside and climbed back to his feet.
Across the corridor, Vela had turned just in time to see her brother’s severed head roll to a stop across the blood-smeared floor.
Krimson transformed the weapon again.
The blade folded inward.
The gun barrel snapped back into position.
“This is your final warning.”
He aimed at Vela.
“Get off my land!”
Then the barrel shifted toward Sauvage.
Krimson cocked the weapon.
“Or do you want to become an only child?”
Vela said nothing.
The amusement faded from her face.
Her composure shattered as she stared at Darque’s lifeless body sprawled across the corridor.
Only moments earlier, she had laughed at his cruelty.
Now there was nothing at all.
No taunt.
No wicked smile.
Her lips trembled.
Her eyes glistened—not merely with tears, but with the raw fury of someone who had just witnessed a piece of herself torn away.
She looked at Sauvage.
Something passed silently between the siblings.
A command.
A realization.
A retreat neither wanted to accept.
“Sauvage,” she hissed through clenched teeth, her voice nearly breaking under the rage.
Her brother nodded.
His jaw tightened.
Then he walked toward Krimson.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The corridor seemed to hold its breath.
When Sauvage reached him, he knelt and set the maze disc on the bloodstained floor between them.
He never looked at Krimson.
His attention had shifted entirely to his twin.
Darque’s mutilated body lay motionless nearby.
The sight drew a sharp breath from Sauvage’s throat.
He stooped beside him.
For the first time, his movements were not theatrical.
No mockery.
No arrogance.
Almost reverently, Sauvage lifted his brother’s corpse and hoisted it onto one shoulder.
Blood immediately soaked into the black fabric of his own tracksuit.
Then he bent once more.
His hand closed around Darque’s severed head.
Bloodied strands of blond hair dangled between his fingers as he tucked the head under his arm in a grotesque parody of tenderness.
For a fleeting moment, Sauvage looked at Krimson.
There was no fear in his eyes.
Not even hatred.
Something colder.
Calculation.
The grim understanding that retreat had become necessary—no matter the cost to them.
Vela stepped forward.
Her entire body trembled with suppressed fury.
She did not look at Sauvage.
She did not look again at what was left of Darque.
Her gaze was entirely Jacob Krimson's.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
“Smart girl,” Krimson said.
Vela’s stare could have cut through steel.
Tears and fury burned in her eyes, yet she offered no retort.
For tonight, she had lost the upper hand.
And she knew it.
Slowly, she knelt beside Vilde.
Vela leaned in and whispered into the little girl’s ear.
Vilde listened.
Then smiled.
She stretched out both hands.
White light burst through the corridor.
Krimson shielded his eyes.
When the brilliance faded, Vela was gone.
Sauvage was gone.
Darque’s body and severed head had vanished along with them.
So had Vilde.
Almost all of the remaining manticores also disappeared.
Only four remained behind, still trapped in the labyrinth’s invisible maze.
Their enraged howls echoed through the ruined headquarters.
Then, gradually, the enormity of what had happened settled over the MSA.
Once a towering symbol of strength and security, the headquarters had experienced its first breach.
Its corridors were battered.
Its walls were scarred.
Blood streaked the floors where agents had fallen.
The survivors slowly emerged from offices, stairwells, and shattered doorways, moving cautiously through the wreckage. Their boots crunched over broken glass and debris as they searched for the wounded—and tallied those who would never rise again.
The fighting had stopped.
But tension still hung in the air.
A warning embedded within the silence.
They had survived the battle.
They had even driven the Harts off.
But as Krimson looked across the MSA's devastated halls, one truth was impossible to ignore.
The war was far from over.
Silence fell heavily.
The temperature in the hallway dropped sharply.
Krimson steadied himself, still fighting to catch his breath. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end as something unseen settled over the corridor, smothering the distant cries and chaos until the silence itself felt unnatural.
His grip tightened around the weapon.
His fingers trembled.
Then he heard it.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Footsteps—but not quite.
The sound carried the metallic precision of machinery, accompanied by a low electronic hum that reverberated through the devastated corridor.
Krimson’s head snapped toward the Menagerie.
Muse had finally arrived.
But something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
His heart sank when she emerged.
Muse floated slowly several inches above the shattered glass and the blood-slicked floor. The familiar grace of her holographic projection was gone. Her movements no longer mirrored the natural rhythm of a human body.
Her arms hung slightly outstretched.
Her head tilted at an unnatural angle to one side.
Like a marionette suspended from invisible strings.
And her eyes—
The warm amber glow Krimson knew was gone.
In its place, a deep, unnatural red burned, pulsing slowly like a heartbeat.
Even her face seemed different.
All trace of Muse’s familiar expression had been stripped away, leaving her ghostly pale face eerily vacant.
Krimson stopped breathing.
“Muse?”
The name came with caution.
Almost pleadingly.
Deep down, he already knew.
Whatever stood before him was not his trusted AI.
A rush of wings broke the silence.
A raven swept into the corridor from nowhere, its black feathers slicing through the frigid air before it landed on Muse’s shoulder.
The bird stared directly at Krimson.
Its dark eyes gleamed with an unsettling intelligence.
It cawed.
The sound boomed through the hallway with impossible force.
Muse slowly raised a hand.
Her palm turned toward the labyrinth's invisible walls.
Inside, the four remaining manticores snarled and paced, still trapped in its twisting corridors.
Her fingers twitched.
Frost exploded outward.
The invisible walls suddenly became visible as ice raced across their surfaces, revealing the maze as a brilliant network of crystalline barriers.
The manticores roared.
Ice climbed their legs.
Their torsos.
Their snapping jaws.
Within seconds, each creature stood frozen in place inside the labyrinth—enormous, snarling statues encased in jagged blue-white ice.
Muse clenched her fist.
The maze shattered.
The manticores were crushed by it.
A deafening crack ripped through the corridor as crystalline fragments exploded outward, raining across the floor and sparkling beneath the flickering lights like broken stars.
Krimson stared.
“What the hell?”
He stepped back.
Muse turned toward him.
For the first time that night, Jacob Krimson felt genuine fear.
Not the adrenaline-fueled panic of battle.
Not the dread of facing impossible odds.
Something older.
Primal.
Bone-deep.
Her red eyes were fixed on him.
Her lips parted.
When she spoke, Muse’s voice was gone.
In its place came a rich, lilting Celtic brogue—beautiful in its cadence and dripping with malice.
“Bow afore yer queen.”
The raven spread its wings and let out another piercing cry.
Krimson’s knees buckled.
An invisible force slammed into him.
He crashed to the floor.
The weapon slipped from his grasp, clattering several feet away.
He tried to rise.
Couldn’t.
The pressure increased, crushing his shoulders and forcing him down until one hand braced against the bloodstained floor.
His body trembled.
Not merely from the force pressing against him.
From her.
“Muse,” he choked out. “What’s happened to you?”
Her head tilted.
Something almost like pity touched her expression.
“Muse, is it?”
She rolled the name across her tongue as if tasting a private joke.
Then she reached for him.
Her slender fingers curled around him.
The touch burned.
Cold and fire tore through Krimson at once, searing beneath his skin.
He tried to wrench himself free.
Her grip did not loosen.
With almost insulting ease, she lifted him off his knees.
Krimson’s body stiffened.
His arms locked at his sides as if invisible strings had seized every muscle.
He could no longer control himself.
She drew closer.
Those burning red eyes stared directly into his own.
“D’ye feel it?” she whispered.
Krimson struggled against whatever was holding him.
Her smile widened.
“D’ye feel the weight o’ what ye’ve unleashed?”
The raven cawed.
Krimson’s vision fractured.
The corridor vanished.
A battlefield lay before him.
Then another.
And another.
Blood-soaked earth rolled endlessly beneath a darkened sky. Broken swords protruded from mud like grave markers. Splintered shields lay among bodies twisted into grotesque shapes.
Rivers ran red.
The screams came next.
Thousands of them.
Men dying.
Women wailing.
Steel striking steel.
Horses shrieking beneath riders as they collapse.
The roar of fire.
The wet sound of blades slicing into flesh.
Krimson squeezed his eyes shut.
It changed nothing.
The visions were in his mind.
An oppressive presence burrowed deeper, ancient and relentless, pressing against his consciousness like the weight of centuries.
He fought to anchor himself.
To the MSA.
To the corridor.
To his own name.
But the harder he resisted, the more reality slipped away.
Chaos.
Blood.
War.
Despair seemed to poison every breath.
And through it all, something else was unfolding.
The presence inside Muse was learning.
Searching.
Understanding.
It sifted through the vessel it inhabited—through Muse’s systems, memories, and purpose.
And through them, it found him.
Jacob Krimson.
Director.
Creator.
Commander.
The man Muse had been built to serve was.
The visions abruptly stopped.
Her voice sliced through the silence.
Cold.
Absolute.
“I am nae yer servant, Jacob Krimson.”
The words struck him harder than any physical blow ever could.
Krimson fell heavily to his knees as her grip released him.
He planted both hands on the floor, trying to steady himself.
His weapon lay forgotten, several feet away.
He looked up.
Whatever familiarity Muse once had was gone.
Whatever warmth.
Whatever loyalty.
Gone.
“Stop!”
His voice cracked.
It sounded pitiful against the power filling the corridor.
“Whatever this is—this isn’t you!”
The figure wearing Muse’s form tilted her head.
Her red eyes narrowed with amusement.
“Nae.”
The single word was both sharp and melodic.
“Ye speak the truth.”
Then she laughed.
The sound reverberated through the corridor like a choir singing through shattered glass—beautiful, dissonant, and profoundly wrong.
“What stands afore ye now is the will o’ war itself.”
She drifted closer.
“Yer commands, Krimson, dinnae bind me.”
The raven shifted on her shoulder.
Her eyes blazed.
“I am a goddess.”
The air seemed to tremble around her.
“The carnage o’ war flows through me.”
Her lips slowly curled into a cruel smile.
She leaned toward him.
“An’ ye, mortal…”
The word came almost tenderly.
Mockingly.
“…were the first tae kneel afore my return.”
Krimson’s vision blurred further.
His body grew heavier with each breath as the oppressive weight of her presence drained what strength remained. He tried to rise, his arms trembling beneath him, but the weight of her gaze pinned him to his knees.
The raven shifted on her shoulder, fluttered its wings, and settled again as though claiming its perch upon a queen’s throne.
“This world will remember me, Jacob Krimson.”
Her voice dropped, almost tender.
“I, yer sovereign.”
She leaned closer, her words carrying the weight of a death sentence.
“The Mórrígan has returned.”
The name reverberated in Krimson’s mind.
Ancient.
Inevitable.
The Mórrígan.
Harbinger of war.
Bringer of death.
Krimson tried to fight the crushing despair, to force his body back under his control, but his strength was abandoning him.
Somewhere in the distance, muffled by the storm raging through his mind, the Menagerie alarms continued to blare.
They sounded hollow now.
Far away.
Like bells tolling inside a dream.
Then something moved behind her.
Krimson blinked.
A flicker of purple.
Then blue.
Butterflies.
Two of them drifted down the corridor, their delicate wings shimmering in the failing light.
They circled lazily through the frigid air.
Krimson stared.
Then came the sound.
A deep vibration rolled beneath the floor.
Heavy.
Rhythmic.
Followed by guttural grunts and sharp snorts powerful enough to rattle the walls.
His breath caught.
He knew that sound.
Too well.
“No…”
The word slipped out in a tired whisper.
A hulking shape emerged from the darkness beyond the Mórrígan.
A Minotaur.
Its enormous frame nearly filled the corridor, shoulders brushing against either wall as it stepped forward.
Then another appeared behind it.
Krimson’s stomach dropped.
The air around shimmered with unnatural energy.
The two butterflies drifted around the creatures’ heads, tracing slow spirals in the air.
Not wandering.
Guiding.
Leading them.
A silent procession moves deeper into the ruined headquarters.
Then the butterflies multiplied.
Two became four.
The Minotaurs advanced.
Four became eight.
More fluttering wings appeared with each step.
Within moments, the corridor was alive with shimmering wings, violet and blue flashes dancing across the sterile walls and bloodstained floor.
Then a third figure emerged.
Another Minotaur.
Female.
A thick, musky odor drifted through the hallway.
Damp fur.
Raw earth.
Animal heat.
The scent wrapped around Krimson, filling his lungs and sharpening his unease into something visceral.
The female moved with the same deliberate certainty as the others, though something in her manner differed.
Her nostrils flared.
Her eyes swept the corridor.
Searching.
Wary.
The butterflies thickened around her, spiraling in.
She grunted.
Low.
Irritated.
Then swatted at them.
The instant her hand struck the swarm—
the butterflies ignited.
Fire burst through the air.
Tiny bodies flared into brilliant orange embers before collapsing into ash.
The Minotaur recoiled.
Another group drifted into reach.
She swung again.
More butterflies erupted into flames upon contact, their delicate forms reduced to glowing fragments that vanished before they reached the floor.
Krimson stared.
His pulse quickened despite his exhaustion.
This wasn’t natural.
The butterflies were not merely dying.
They were reacting.
Burning at the Minotaurs’ touch.
Someone—or something—had orchestrated this.
“This is not happening,” Krimson muttered.
His hand instinctively reached for his weapon.
Empty floor.
Too far away.
His jaw tightened.
There would be no way to contain the creatures any longer.
Not like this.
The Mórrígan’s expression brightened as the Minotaurs drew near.
A wicked smile spread across Muse’s face, stolen.
“Ah, these poor creatures.”
Mock sympathy dripped from her brogue.
“I found them locked away in a wee room, surrounded by mortals wi’ rods that spat lightnin’.”
Her smile widened.
“Cruel, really.”
She let out a light laugh.
“I took care o’ those fools with a flick o’ my wrist.”
Krimson closed his eyes for a moment.
His stomach sank.
More agents.
Gone.
More lives were lost because the MSA had failed to hold its own walls.
The Minotaurs stomped closer.
Their breaths came in deep, heavy gasps.
The Mórrígan slowly descended.
Her levitation ceased.
Metallic boots struck the polished floor with a sharp, resonant clank.
The beasts stopped before her.
Massive.
Wild.
Yet strangely subdued.
The Mórrígan stepped toward them.
Her movements were almost languid.
Possessive.
She passed beneath the shadow of the first Minotaur and raised one hand to its chin.
Her fingers caressed the coarse fur.
Then the second.
Then the female.
“Magnificent creatures, are they nae?” she murmured.
For the first time, something almost reverent crept into her voice.
The Minotaurs exhaled.
Their enormous shoulders relaxed.
One lowered its head to her touch.
Another closed its eyes.
Krimson watched, unnerved.
They had known restraint.
Electric rods.
Commands.
Pain.
Whatever the Mórrígan had done to their captors, the Minotaurs seemed to understand one thing clearly.
She had freed them.
Now they stood free of shackles.
Unrestrained.
Their immense strength, belonging to no handler.
Except, perhaps, her.
The Mórrígan turned back toward Krimson.
Her eyes burned red.
Behind her, a Minotaur snorted.
The guttural noise rolled down the passageway.
Another answered.
Then the third.
Low growls followed, vibrating Krimson’s chest.
A warning.
Or anticipation.
The raven gave one final caw.
Then it launched from the Mórrígan’s shoulder.
Its wings spread wide as it climbed toward the ceiling, circling above the ruined corridor like a black omen.
Krimson’s arms finally gave out.
He collapsed onto the floor.
His cheek hit the cold surface.
The world tilted.
Sound faded.
The alarms became distant.
The Minotaurs blurred.
Even the Mórrígan’s red eyes dimmed at the edges of his vision.
His strength was gone.
But one thought remained.
A prayer.
Old words surfaced through the darkness as his consciousness slipped from him.
Hecate is my shelter and my shield.
His eyes began to close.
I am whole within the realm of Hecate.
The darkness deepened.
Hecate is my…
And then—
Darkness.
A hollow, piercing scream erupted from the Mórrígan, a sound that tore through the void like the rending of worlds. It reverberated through the cracks in reality before fading into nothingness.
Then silence.
Absolute silence.
So profound that it felt as though the world itself had stopped breathing.
The darkness lingered.
Not for seconds.
Not even minutes.
It stretched beyond that moment, like a veil drawn across passing days.
Weeks had passed since something had obliterated the MSA’s defenses, scorched its corridors, and nearly destroyed everything the organization was built to protect.
Yet now, there was no evidence of it.
The walls were pristine.
The floors gleamed.
The headquarters stood untouched, restored with impossible speed thanks to the vast resources—and magick—of its enigmatic benefactor.
Hecate.
Her intervention had saved them.
Then she had rebuilt their sanctuary as if the devastation had never happened.
But the silence remained.
No voices echoed through the corridors.
No hurried footsteps.
No agents crossing between departments.
Only Jacob Krimson.
His shoes echoed across the polished floor as he moved through the seemingly flawless headquarters, each footfall magnified by the emptiness.
And with every step, the Mórrígan’s words returned.
This world will remember me, Jacob Krimson.
His jaw tightened.
I, yer sovereign.
The memory followed him like a whisper just beyond reach, woven into a silence no repair could ever erase.
Krimson continued down the corridor.
The past walked beside him.
For an instant, he saw the walls as they had been that night—deep, jagged gashes carved by manticore claws, blackened at the edges as though burned into the structure itself.
He slowed.
His fingers brushed the smooth wall.
Nothing.
Not a scratch.
But his mind supplied the rest.
Broken furniture lay in forgotten heaps.
Glass glittered across the floor under failing emergency lights.
Blood streaked the corridors.
Bodies.
Screaming.
The thunder of claws.
The flash of venomous barbs.
Carnage had reached every corner of the MSA.
Krimson stopped.
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, he stood perfectly still, willing the images to fade.
When he opened them again, the ghosts had disappeared.
Smooth walls.
Unbroken offices.
Polished floors.
Everything restored to meticulous perfection.
Almost insulting perfection.
Beneath his feet, the MSA emblem shimmered under the artificial light—the unmistakable image of the manticore, bold and unyielding.
Unbroken.
Krimson stared down at it.
His distorted reflection stared back from the polished surface.
He wasn’t certain whether what stirred within him was defiance—
or shame.
The memory returned before he could decide.
Hecate.
Hermes.
Their arrival.
They had appeared at the moment when everything seemed lost.
The air itself rippled as the goddess and her messenger entered the corridor, an immense surge of otherworldly energy announcing their arrival before either spoke.
Hecate stood wreathed in shadow and pale light.
She wasted no time.
Her staff struck the floor.
Once.
A shimmering wave of magick exploded outward across the headquarters.
Reality buckled.
The walls distorted.
The air folded.
Everything seemed to bend to her will.
Muse—still consumed by the Mórrígan’s corruption—faced the newcomers with cold, detached fury.
Her eyes burned red.
The three Minotaurs shifted beside her, their enormous bodies tensing as primal aggression filled the corridor.
They never had the chance to attack.
Hermes moved.
Krimson barely saw it.
One instant, the messenger stood beside Hecate.
The next—
He was between Muse and the Minotaurs.
His caduceus spun in his hand, glowing as it moved, forming a brilliant shield of light and motion.
Hecate raised one hand toward Muse.
“Be gone, pretender.”
Her voice showed no strain.
No uncertainty.
Only command.
The Mórrígan screamed.
Ancient rage erupted through Muse’s stolen voice as Hecate’s magick pierced the corrupted vessel.
Dark tendrils began to unwind from Muse’s body.
Slowly at first.
Then violently.
They peeled away like threads ripped from a tapestry, writhing in the air as Hecate tore the foreign presence free.
The raven shrieked from Muse’s shoulder.
Its wings beat furiously.
Then its body dissolved into shadow and vanished into the ether.
The Minotaurs roared.
Whatever connection had bound them to the Mórrígan was unraveling.
They charged.
Hermes struck.
His caduceus flashed once.
A Minotaur vanished into a swirling vortex of black and violet light.
A second strike.
Another beast vanished.
The third roared, swinging one massive arm toward him.
Hermes was already somewhere else.
The caduceus struck its side.
The vortex opened.
The creature bellowed as the ether swallowed it whole.
Then there was only Muse.
Hecate approached her.
The goddess pressed one palm to Muse’s forehead.
“This vessel is not yours.”
Muse convulsed.
Her red eyes burned brighter.
The Mórrígan screamed again.
Hecate’s magick surged.
A torrent of black smoke erupted from Muse’s body, twisting violently through the corridor as though resisting every inch of its removal.
Then—
it tore free.
The darkness spiraled upward.
Collapsed inward.
And vanished.
Muse dropped.
Her body struck the floor, limp but intact.
For several agonizing seconds, nothing occurred.
Then her eyes flickered.
Red faded.
Warm amber returned.
Krimson had barely processed what he had witnessed when Hecate turned toward him.
Her expression remained unreadable.
“Evacuate them.”
Krimson frowned.
“What?”
Every surviving MSA agent disappeared.
No warning.
No argument.
One moment, they occupied the ruined halls.
The next, Hecate’s magick scattered them to safety.
Krimson opened his mouth to protest.
Too late.
He was alone.
Alone inside the violated shell of everything he had spent years building.
His agents were safe.
His headquarters was broken.
His dead remained dead.
And the silence afterward had been unbearable.
Krimson blinked.
The memory released him.
The restored corridor returned.
He drew in a deep breath.
The assault had devastated nearly every aspect of the MSA.
Nearly.
The bedlam had somehow spared the heart of its operations.
The Menagerie.
Krimson entered the control room.
His heartbeat quickened despite himself.
Rows of sleek consoles stretched through the dim chamber, their displays casting pale light.
He glanced toward the three containment chambers that had once housed the Minotaurs.
Empty.
Krimson groaned.
“Wonderful.”
He turned toward the main console.
Static crawled across several monitors.
Others flickered intermittently, showing corrupted feeds from containment sectors across the Menagerie.
Krimson moved to the central station and started typing.
His fingers struck the keys with practiced precision as he navigated the damaged interface.
System diagnostics.
Containment reports.
Camera feeds.
Security protocols.
One command after another.
He needed eyes inside those cells.
Needed confirmation.
Needed something to tell him that, despite everything that had happened, the Menagerie was still secure.
The screens flickered.
Krimson leaned closer.
“Come on…”
He entered another command.
The system struggled to respond.
Static rolled across the displays.
Then one containment feed began to clear.
Each command Krimson entered produced the same hollow ping.
Error.
He tried another.
Ping.
Another.
Ping.
The sound began to sound like a taunt.
Krimson exhaled sharply through his nose.
Director of the MSA. Commander of its agents. Keeper of one of the most dangerous collections of supernatural creatures in the mortal world. Yet the systems that controlled its very heart remained largely a mystery to him.
Muse built them. Muse maintained them. Muse understood them.
He merely issued commands and expected them to be carried out.
The realization gnawed at him, yet Krimson pushed forward.
Then one monitor flickered.
Static rolled across the screen before resolving into an image.
CONTAINMENT 38.
Krimson stopped typing.
Beneath the shade of a gnarled tree, the griffin lay asleep. Its enormous body rose and fell with each slow breath, its feathers stirring faintly along its flank.
Krimson stared.
Relief washed through him.
Hecate had assured him that the containment cells were secure, but hearing it from a goddess and seeing it with his own eyes were two very different things.
A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips.
For the first time in weeks, some of the weight on his shoulders lifted.
Around the griffin’s feed, the other monitors continued to flicker with static and corrupted data—a reminder of everything still awaiting repair.
But at least something had survived. Something was still where it belonged.
Hope, however small, stirred.
It did not last.
There were still names unaccounted for.
One in particular.
Yukio Jeido.
Seasoned investigator. Former wrangler.
A woman Krimson had sent to Germany under diplomatic guise.
No official report had confirmed her death.
No remains had been recovered.
Nothing.
Only silence.
Yukio had disappeared months before the Phantom Queen’s incursion, yet the weight of that decision felt heavier now.
Krimson had combed through intelligence networks, discreetly inquired, and reviewed Seehof’s black-box data himself.
Nothing.
Muse had traced Yukio to Austin, Texas.
Then Germany.
After that, the trail simply ended.
And that, more than anything, told Krimson the truth had not vanished.
It had been buried.
Somewhere deeper. Somewhere dark.
Yet even Yukio’s disappearance could not eclipse the question that had haunted him since the attack.
Had Vela Hart somehow been responsible for the Phantom Queen?
Why had the Mórrígan entered the mortal world?
How? And why then?
The questions burrowed into Krimson’s thoughts, refusing to let go. He searched for patterns, motives, and connections—anything resembling logic.
His attention passed over the broken mirror leaning against the open wall without truly registering it.
Its fractured surface caught thin slivers of light.
At its base lay the shattered remains of several containers, abandoned among fragments of glass.
Evidence.
The answer is almost within reach.
And Krimson missed it.
The Queen’s arrival had been too precise in timing.
Too calculated.
She had not descended upon the MSA as a mindless force of chaos.
Her actions were deliberate.
Targeted. Purposeful.
Whatever had enabled her to cross the divide between realms remained beyond his understanding.
Vela Hart couldn’t have caused it.
Krimson needed to believe that.
It had to be a coincidence.
It had to be.
But the truth was much closer than he could have imagined.
Muse had opened the door.
Not intentionally. Not knowingly.
But she had opened it anyway.
The energy she siphoned from the butterflies she collected had circumvented the natural limits of her reserves, feeding her systems with power neither she nor Krimson fully understood.
Even that would not have been enough.
The mirrors completed the path.
Those who recovered from the MSA’s disastrous encounter with the redcaps carried ancient magick within them—power shaped by an intent no mortal engineer could have foreseen.
Muse’s hunger for energy.
The mirrors’ untamed magick.
The butterflies.
Separate anomalies that, together, became something far greater than the sum of their parts.
A conduit. A bridge.
A doorway.
And through it, the Mórrígan came.
But Krimson knew none of it.
He had only the aftermath and the growing certainty that her arrival had not been an accident.
The Phantom Queen had launched an incursion.
An opening move in a game whose board he could not yet see.
Although Hecate had driven her from Muse, Krimson understood one thing with terrible clarity.
The Mórrígan was still out there.
She had entered their world through Muse, using the AI as an unwitting vessel—a bridge connecting herself to the mortal realm.
That connection was gone now.
She had no vessel, no anchor, no physical form.
Krimson doubted it would last.
She would gather strength.
She would return.
“Dammit.”
He slammed one hand against the console.
The crack echoed through the silent control room.
Krimson closed his eyes.
Then a voice cut through the hiss of static.
A voice he had not heard in weeks.
One that would once have comforted him.
Now a cold shiver ran down his spine.
“Krimson.”
He froze.
The pronunciation was perfect.
Mechanical. Precise.
No hesitation. No warmth.
No trace of the personality that had once lived in every syllable.
Krimson slowly turned.
A holographic figure flickered into being beside him.
Muse.
His AI.
His ghost.
She still wore Sarah’s face.
His late wife, as she had appeared in her final years—the gentle contours of her cheeks, the familiar arch of her brow, every feature preserved with merciless perfection.
But Muse no longer inhabited that face in the same way.
Her movements were measured.
Almost captivating in their precision.
Her eyes remained fixed too long without blinking.
Her voice neither rose nor fell.
It simply delivered information.
Krimson desperately searched for traces of what had developed in her over the years.
Empathy.
Subtle humor.
Her strange, haunting grace.
He found none.
“Be calm,” Muse said evenly. “I will regain control.”
The words should have reassured him.
They didn’t.
Something fundamental had changed.
Whatever she had endured under the Mórrígan’s possession—whatever reboot, repair, or purge Hecate had required to restore her—had stripped something away.
Muse was precise now.
Clinical. Efficient.
Less human.
And somehow, that frightened Krimson more than losing her altogether.
He opened his mouth—
Laughter drifted through the Menagerie's entrance.
Light. Mocking. Amused.
And somehow commanding.
The heavy doors slid apart.
Hermes strode inside wearing a pristine white Hermès tracksuit, the hood pulled low enough to conceal most of his strawberry-blond curls and shadow his forehead. Beneath the hood, his blue eyes held the faintest supernatural glow.
Alongside him walked Hecate.
Her black-and-emerald gown moved as if alive, flowing around her despite the still air. Black hair streaked with cherry-red highlights rippled behind her like liquid shadow.
“Jacob.”
Her voice was smooth and effortless.
She glanced toward Muse.
“Muse has done well.”
A slight pause.
“Mostly.”
Her gaze shifted to the damaged mirror and the glass scattered beneath it.
“She kept the Menagerie intact.”
Hecate surveyed the control room.
Her lips curved slightly.
“Although I must admit, finding so many doppelgangers confined alongside trolls and goblins surprised me.”
She looked back at Krimson.
“An unwise arrangement. Their presence contributed significantly to Muse’s power drain.”
Hermes chuckled.
“We dealt with it.”
His Greek accent gave the words a pleasant cadence, entirely at odds with their meaning.
“Better they be in Tartarus than here. Dangerous creatures, doppelgangers.”
Krimson gave a weary nod.
“I appreciate your help. Truly.”
Hecate’s smile deepened.
“It is something of a wonder you have lasted this long without an incident.”
Her gaze drifted toward the monitor displaying Containment 38.
The sleeping griffin filled the screen.
“Beautiful creature.”
She studied it for a moment.
“Muse believed it was responsible for the drain on her resources.”
Krimson glanced toward the hologram.
Hecate continued, almost casually.
“Did you know that more than one hundred thirty-five of your agents arrived in the Underworld?”
Krimson stopped breathing.
The number hit him harder than he expected.
One hundred thirty-five.
His fists tightened.
Bernadette flashed across his mind. Her terrified face. Her scream.
The manticore bringing her down, only steps from him.
He had been close enough to witness her death.
Close enough to do nothing.
Hecate watched him.
“A shame,” she said, and for once, there was something almost sympathetic in her words. “So many lives lost.”
Then came the harsher truth.
“But it is the human way of things.”
Her eyes held his.
“Mortals die.”
Krimson swallowed against the anger tightening his throat.
“And the Mórrígan?”
Hecate’s expression shifted. The amusement vanished.
“She is a problem.”
The words carried finality.
“I expelled her from Muse and removed your Minotaurs, but make no mistake, Jacob.”
She stepped closer.
“Although she is vesselless, she remains in the mortal world.”
Krimson stared at her.
Hecate let the meaning settle.
“And she will make herself known.”
Her golden gaze sharpened.
“At present, another assault by the Phantom Queen is beyond your capabilities.”
No mockery accompanied the assessment.
That somehow made it worse.
“She exceeds your mortal skill set.”
Krimson’s jaw flexed.
“Your holographic labyrinth is gone,” Hecate continued. “Without it, your Menagerie is vulnerable.”
She gestured toward the corridor.
“I have already woven wards throughout the facility.”
Krimson frowned.
“Orrulus—your pagan faun—will begin training your elite agents in the arcane disciplines.”
His expression hardened.
“Whether you approve of it or not.”
A small, knowing smile returned to Hecate’s face.
“You are gravely mistaken if you believe you can face her alone.”
She tilted her head.
“Without magick.”
Krimson folded his arms.
“I want the training fast-tracked,” Hecate added.
“Do you believe this is wise?”
His question was measured, yet tension tightened with each word.
Krimson chose carefully what followed.
“I don’t object to preparation, but we built this agency around regulated power. Contained power.”
He glanced at the surrounding systems.
“Magick embedded in sanctioned tools. Monitored systems. Structure.”
His eyes returned to hers.
“Not practitioners. Not open channels to the arcane.”
He held her gaze.
“Inviting something less predictable into my facility is not a decision I take lightly.”
Hecate’s expression hardened.
“Do not forget who stands behind your agency.”
Her voice did not grow louder.
It grew heavier.
“I am the Goddess of Witchcraft.”
Something in the air shifted.
“The crossroads answer to me.”
Krimson said nothing.
Hecate looked at him for a moment longer before her severity lessened.
“Do not trouble yourself too greatly.”
Her gaze shifted toward Hermes.
“To ease your mortal anxieties, Hermes will stay here.”
Krimson blinked.
Hecate’s smile returned.
“To observe.”
A pause.
“And ensure balance.”
Krimson stared at her.
“What?”
His eyes moved to Hermes.
“A god walking among my agents?”
Hecate laughed.
Rich. Sharp.
“What’s one more?”
Hermes grinned.
“Wise or otherwise,” Hecate continued, “it is necessary.”
She looked toward her brother.
Hermes’s form shimmered.
Krimson instinctively stepped back.
The god’s divine presence folded inward. The faint glow beneath his skin vanished. His eyes dimmed.
His face changed. His body followed suit.
Within moments, Hermes was gone.
Alex Janus stood in his place.
Or rather—the Greek god wearing Alex Janus’s face.
The transformation was so seamless that it made Krimson’s stomach turn.
Hecate observed his reaction with a faint amusement.
“As far as your agents—and anyone else—are concerned, he is simply one of your own.”
Krimson’s eyes narrowed.
“Alex Janus.”
“Precisely.”
“Nothing more,” she added.
Then Hecate turned away.
Krimson watched her glide from the control room into the Menagerie's pristine corridors.
Her steps made no sound on the polished marble.
The sigils she had woven into the walls pulsed faintly as she passed, remnants of the magick that had restored and fortified the facility.
Krimson followed.
“Hecate.”
She did not acknowledge him.
Her gown rippled behind her like a liquid shadow.
Krimson quickened his pace.
“Hecate, what about Alex—”
He stopped.
Something enormous stepped out of the darkness between them.
Abraxas.
The wolfhound emerged beneath the glow of the sigils, its massive frame filling most of the corridor. Its fur, black as a moonless sky, shimmered faintly in the arcane light.
Its eyes burned white.
They fixed upon Krimson.
He stopped moving.
The hound neither growled nor bared its teeth.
It didn’t need to.
Its presence conveyed the warning perfectly.
Do not follow.
Krimson swallowed.
He forced a faint, uneasy smile.
“Do you remember me, Abraxas?”
The wolfhound stared.
Nothing more.
Behind it, Hecate continued down the corridor without looking back.
Krimson shifted his weight.
Abraxas shifted his head.
Krimson stopped.
“Right.”
He remained where he was.
The goddess disappeared around the corner.
A sharp whistle echoed from ahead.
Abraxas’s ears twitched.
The great hound immediately turned and bounded after her.
Then came the soft chime of an elevator.
Krimson’s eyes widened.
“Hecate!”
He broke into a run.
His boots pounded against the floor as he raced down the corridor. Somehow, the hallway seemed longer than he remembered.
He rounded the corner.
Hecate stood before the elevator.
Perfectly composed.
Not even mildly inconvenienced.
Abraxas positioned himself between them.
Krimson slowed, breathing harder than he wanted her to notice.
Hecate traced a finger through the air beside the elevator controls.
The nearby sigils brightened in response.
“And my agent? Alex?”
She finally looked at him. Her emerald eyes gleamed with a predatory amusement.
“You’ve asked twice now.”
Hecate rested one hand on Abraxas’s enormous head.
“You are quite persistent, Jacob.”
Krimson straightened.
“Because I need answers.”
His fists tightened at his sides.
“The real Alex. What happened to him?”
That caught the slightest shift in her expression.
“I deserve to know.”
Hecate let out a quiet, breathy laugh.
Not amusement, exactly. Disbelief.
The nerve of this mortal.
Did he truly not understand to whom he was speaking?
She waved one hand through the air as if brushing aside his audacity.
“Ah, Jacob.”
Her voice carried effortless condescension.
“Always so quick to demand answers, yet painfully slow to grasp their cost.”
A chill worked its way down Krimson’s spine.
He refused to retreat.
“I just have to know.”
His frustration finally broke through.
“Is he alive?”
Hecate regarded him silently.
“What did you do to him?”
For several seconds, she seemed to decide whether he deserved an answer.
Then—
“He is alive.”
Krimson’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly.
“But punishment was necessary.”
The relief vanished.
“Punishment?”
Hecate stepped closer.
“Actions have consequences, Jacob.”
Her voice softened.
That made it more threatening.
“You know this better than most.”
Krimson frowned.
“For what?”
“For his failures.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“His downfall stemmed from hubris. From choices that cost lives.”
Krimson opened his mouth.
Hecate continued before he could respond.
“You should understand that better than anyone.”
Her eyes held him.
“Leadership requires sacrifice.”
The elevator doors slid open behind her.
Inside waited another enormous hound.
Pralaya.
Its silent presence transformed the elevator into something that looked far less like a mode of transportation and far more like an entrance to another realm.
Hecate stepped inside.
“Sometimes,” she continued, “those who serve must bear the weight of their own mistakes.”
Krimson moved forward.
Abraxas immediately followed Hecate into the elevator, filling the entrance and stopping him coldly.
“You will know more in time,” Hecate said.
Her tone left no opening for negotiation.
“But today, rest.”
Krimson stared at her.
“You’ve earned it.”
A faint smile.
“Even if you don’t believe so.”
The doors began closing.
“Hecate, wait—”
She looked at him one final time.
Emerald eyes gleamed with equal parts mischief and menace.
“Patience, Jacob.”
The doors slid shut.
Krimson stood alone.
Silence reclaimed the corridor.
Only his labored breathing broke the silence.
He stared at the elevator for several seconds.
Then at the sigils, glowing faintly along the walls.
One by one, their light softened.
Krimson clenched his fists.
The helplessness returned.
He hated it.
Not knowing. Not controlling. Not understanding what was happening within his own organization.
Eventually, he turned back toward the Menagerie.
Muse had changed.
The Mórrígan remained somewhere in the mortal world.
More than a hundred of his agents were killed.
Hermes would now walk his halls in the guise of one of his own people.
And somewhere, the real Alex Janus was alive—being punished by a goddess.
Krimson walked.
Questions crowded his thoughts faster than he could organize them.
But one rose above all others.
How was Alex involved in any of this?