The air reeked of sweat, sour ale, and something older—feral. The tavern wasn't just full. It pulsed.
A single writhing beast made of shouting dark humans, clashing mugs, and breath thick with liquor. Tankards slammed onto stained tables, froth spilling over sticky wood. The floor squelched beneath muddied boots and broken glass, but no one noticed.
At the centre of it all, a thick wooden pole rose like a totem, slick with the touch of dozens of hands. Around it, the dancers moved like spirits pulled from fire.
Bare but clothed with a thin stained linen, tied around their hips and the faintest fabric across their breasts, they twisted and rolled in rhythm with the pounding harp. Wine dripped from their skin.
One woman threw her head back and laughed, stealing a man's drink mid-toast, downing it in a single pull, then letting the mug crash beside her.
Another curled herself around the pole, dragging both palms down the wood as she arched her back—hips moving slowly, taunting. Fingers from the crowd reached, but she slapped them away without breaking her rhythm, stealing a fresh tankard as payment and letting the contents pour over her bare stomach.
The men howled. Somewhere in the corner, a brawl broke out—tables upturned, fists cracking jawbone—but no one cared. All eyes remained locked on the stage, where flesh and smoke moved like sin given breath.
A barmaid pushed through the madness, tray teetering, face smeared with powder and heat. Before she could serve, a dancer snatched a mug from her tray and emptied it over her own chest, letting the ale drip between her breasts as if to baptise herself in ruin. The crowd roared louder.
And in the shadows, just beyond the noise—gathered in a far booth where the torchlight flickered low—sat the generals.
The wine did not dull their rage.
"I'm telling you—he didn't do it," one barked, slamming his mug hard enough to splash his sleeves. "Vesper was no traitor. This reeks of politics."
"Julius," another muttered darkly, "he's the snake among wolves. I never trusted that human bastard."
"He walks too close to the prince," the third growled, seated with his boots on the table, one eye twitching from drink. "Humans were never meant to rise in our ranks. They're rats, and rats chew through foundations."
"If Tenebrarum can be swayed by a human..."
The words slithered out like venom. The oldest general—grey-bearded, eyes sunken from too many years of war—leaned closer across the stained table, his voice no louder than the hiss of steam from a spilt drink.
"…then maybe he's not fit to rule."
The others stilled.
For a heartbeat, even the tavern noise dulled, as if the walls themselves recoiled. One man gripped the handle of his mug too tightly, the wood creaking under his fingers. Another shifted in his seat, eyes darting toward the curtained window—as if Tenebrarum might be listening from the shadows.
"Careful," one of them muttered. "That kind of talk gets people fed to fire."
The old general didn't flinch. He drained the last of his drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sneered.
"Then let the fire come. I've faced worse than a demon prince drunk on human scent."
A silence laced with hate fell over the table, broken only by the scream of another drunken cheer—and the dancer who climbed higher on the pole like a flame reaching for the ceiling.
But the generals no longer watched the show.
They were watching the war behind the curtain.
And Julius was their target.
-----------------------------
The sun had finally won its war against the moon.
Dawn spilled like dull gold through the slit in the velvet curtains, but it did not warm her.
Aurelia stirred.
Slowly. As if every joint had turned to stone overnight. Her body didn't ache—it screamed. Her ribs throbbed beneath the weight of each breath, and the side of her face still pulsed where Matrona's slap had landed.
She blinked up at the ceiling, the carvings above swimming in and out of focus. There was no peace in her sleep. Only fragments—dreams clawing through blood, heat, screams that felt like memories.
Her hair clung to her cheeks, dried blood sticking from the bandage to the pillow. She tried to lift her arm but hissed—her wrist still raw, the skin broken from the night before.
She turned her head slightly.
The room remained untouched. Lavish. Beautiful. But to her, it might as well have been a tomb dressed in silk.
She sat up slowly, grimacing as pain flared through her back. Her nightgown stuck to her skin in patches, stiff with dried blood and sweat.
"Good morning, my lady."
The voice struck like a whisper through glass.
Aurelia flinched.
She hadn't heard the door open. Hadn't sensed another presence in the room. The pain had wrapped her too tightly, held her in its claws like a creature gnawing at her from the inside.
She turned sharply—too sharply. Her shoulder screamed in protest, and she winced.
Fira stood at the foot of the bed. Quiet. Unmoving. A silver tray in her hands, steam curling from a porcelain teacup and a bowl of pale broth.
"I didn't mean to startle you," the girl added, softer this time. "You were… still."
Aurelia didn't answer. Her breath came shallow, uneven. Her face was half-hidden by tangled hair, the bruised side beginning to swell purple beneath her eye.
She didn't know what startled her more—Fira's voice, or the strange gentleness behind it.
"I brought food," Fira continued, setting the tray down beside the bed with careful hands. "You'll need strength. Even if you don't want it."
Aurelia looked down at her hands.
The dried blood. The trembling fingers.
She wanted to say something cruel, something cutting. But her throat closed around the words like a fist.
Instead, she said nothing at all.
Fira didn't take offence.
She only stepped closer, knelt slowly, and picked up the brush from the vanity. "May I?" she asked, voice low. "You shouldn't let your hair tangle into the wound. "
Still, Aurelia didn't respond.
But she didn't stop her either.
So Fira moved gently, like one might approach a wild, wounded animal.
She sat behind her on the edge of the bed, fingers ghosting through the blood-matted strands. The comb made its first slow drag through Aurelia's hair, catching softly, carefully. She didn't flinch, but her hands curled tighter in her lap.
The silence in the room was not empty—it pulsed. With pain. With memory. With things neither of them could say aloud.
Fira worked slowly, rinsing a cloth in the basin to dab at blood along Aurelia's scalp. Her movements were not clumsy, but practised. Tender.
"Most of the girls didn't last," Fira said, not looking at her. "Not because they were weak. Just… because they believed someone would come for them."
Aurelia blinked. Her lip trembled, and she bit down on it hard.
"I stopped believing that humans can ignore pain," Fira continued. "But then you came. And you don't even try to survive. You just bleed."
"I didn't ask you to talk," Aurelia whispered.
"No one did," Fira said. "But you should know this."
A pause. The brush slowed.
"Be careful," she added, voice barely a breath. "The Crown Prince and Kaelen are two different monsters, with different views."
Aurelia turned her head slightly—not much, just enough to glance over her shoulder. Her eyes weren't warm. But they weren't hollow, either.
If she had a choice, she would've stayed far away.
Far from silk dresses.
Far from the masked prince.
Far from Matrona.
Far from everything that made her herself.
---
To be continued...