Summoned by desperate messengers, Elric returned to the Widow's Market.
Mistress Dour awaited in her war chamber, her black silks glistening with rain. Maps and blueprints sprawled before her, pinned with knives. Around her stood lieutenants with weapons drawn, their expressions carved in iron.
"You've brought me nothing but ruin," she snarled. "The Cradle, the rebellion, even my own—splintered because you whispered of hope."
Selene's hand tightened on her knife, but Elric stepped forward. "You knew the risks. Hope is not safe. It never was."
Dour's eyes burned. "Then we gamble. We strike the Cradle now, even if it is a trap. Better to die on our feet than rot in his perfect cage."
The lieutenants murmured assent. Evangeline hesitated, clutching the Prism Gear. "If the Cradle falls too soon, the automaton may rise broken—mad. Do you understand what that would mean?"
Mistress Dour bared her teeth. "Better a mad god than a perfect one."
Elric studied her, then the rebels who waited with feverish eyes. He saw the truth: desperation was no longer an ally. It was the Phantom's greatest weapon.
Still, he gave a curt nod. "Then we strike. But not as a mob. As a blade."
Selene smirked coldly. "And blades cut both ways."