The vibrating edge bit into Eliana’s throat. Sterling’s gaze locked onto Benedetto. "Surrender, or watch your little fiancée disintegrate." Benedetto’s gaze, previously burning with controlled fury, now became something else entirely. Violet sparks flared behind his retinas, jagged and hungry. A low growl rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating through the fractured stone of the foyer. It was not human. It was the sound of something ancient and terrible, finally unbound. Eliana felt the Arc-Scythe press harder, a sliver of heat against her skin. She saw Benedetto’s knuckles whiten on his prosthetic arm, then the metal began to ripple, not bending, but *shifting*. Dark, jagged projections, like shards of obsidian glass, erupted from the joins and seams. Viscous miasma began to coil around his limb, drowning brass pinions beneath black sludge. It pulsed with an infernal, hungry light. “No,” Eliana rasped, trying to twist away, her voice tight with fear for *him*, not for herself. “Benedetto, don’t!” He ignored her. His form seemed to stretch, growing taller, broader. Dense gloom clung to him, swirling like an aura of oil smoke. The ornate gold filigree on his prosthetic arm dissolved, replaced by a brutal, unyielding carapace of shadow and raw force. The air crackled with expelled power. The very ground trembled under a pressure Eliana hadn’t known was possible. Cogsworth, standing a few paces away, his usual stoicism faltering, raised a hand, a single, metallic click echoing in the sudden silence. “Sir, the containment protocols…” “Silence, Cogsworth,” Benedetto’s voice ripped through the air, deeper, layered with an echo that vibrated against Eliana’s very bones. It was a command that brooked no argument, a primal roar of possession and defiance. “She is mine to protect.” The inspector's sneer faltered. His fingers pinched into Eliana's shoulder reflexively, his pupils pinning on the transformation unfolding before him. He had seen the curse, understood its destructive potential, but he had never seen it *harnessed* like this. Never seen Benedetto willingly become its vessel. With a guttural roar, Benedetto lunged. He moved with impossible speed, a blur of shadow and distorted form. Volkov, a seasoned fighter, barely had time to react. He swung his weapon toward Benedetto's skull, but the blackened arm intercepted the shaft. The impact wasn’t metal on metal; it was force against force. The crescent head shrieked, its blue arc-fire sputtering out before the steel shattered into bright shrapnel. The blast threw the inspector backward. His grip tore free, leaving Eliana stumbling across cracked flagstones. Before the fallen officer could roll upright, Benedetto pinned him beneath a towering silhouette. A dark, clawed hand, impossibly sharp, snatched him by the throat, lifting him clear off the ground. The man thrashed, boots scraping marble, helpless against the monstrous torque. The remaining Guild enforcement squad, who had breached the outer defenses, froze. They were veteran fighters, armed with magi-rifles and reinforced armor, but the sight of their leader dangling like a puppet, and the unholy aura emanating from Benedetto, drained all fight from them. One by one, their weapons clattered to the floor. Benedetto slammed him against a crumbling pillar. The stone groaned, then fractured, showering them with dust. The inspector’s eyes rolled back in his head. Benedetto held him there, not quite killing him, but inflicting a terror that would linger far beyond consciousness. It was a brutal, overwhelming display, a raw exhibition of what the curse could do when unchained. But the cost was immediate and devastating. The volatile shroud that had fortified Benedetto’s arm began to ripple uncontrollably. The dark carapace around his limb cracked, spiderwebbing with angry, crimson light. Eliana watched in horror as purple discharge tore through metal and flesh, exposing the core of his affliction. The containment had failed. Amidst the wreckage of Benedetto’s arm, a single, intricate gear, no larger than Eliana’s palm, pulsed with a furious, malevolent purple. It was the master gear, the true heart of the curse, now laid bare. It spun wildly, accelerating into an ear-splitting whine that rattled the brass chandeliers. The entire House of Sforza groaned under the strain. Automatons throughout the estate began to shriek, their movements erratic and violent. The spectral phantoms, previously banished, flickered into existence around them, their moans rising to a crescendo of agony. The very air grew cold, heavy with despair. Eliana looked at the calendar-automaton in the corner of the foyer. Its date display, flickering erratically, settled on a single, stark date: the anniversary of the Grand Orrery’s failure. The curse’s final consumption had begun. Benedetto sagged, his monstrous silhouette wavering as corruption ate inward. His claw opened; the unconscious inspector dropped limp to the floor. The purple light in Benedetto’s eyes intensified, spreading, clouding his vision, threatening to devour his very awareness. He was losing himself. Eliana felt the panic claw at her, but through it, a desperate clarity emerged. Livia’s journal, clutched in her hand, suddenly felt warm. She flipped through the frantic script. *Vettori blood… a neutralizing agent…* No. Not a mere anchor. Livia would never settle for a remedy that only halted the decay. It had to be more. Benedetto stumbled, clutching his exposed, raging arm, his expression a mask of agonizing internal struggle. The shadows around him thickened, reaching for his face, his mind. “Benedetto!” Eliana screamed, stepping forward, thrusting the journal out. Her voice, though trembling, cut through the cacophony of the dying house. “Wait! The blood isn’t an anchor, it’s a key! It has to be my choice!”

The Beast Unchained