There was a moment—just a moment—where the world didn't breathe.
Helena's body had grown still in a way that felt colder than death, more final than grief. A silence hung across the throne room like a veil stitched from sorrow and dust, pulled tight over our heads, suffocating in its reverence.
Vincent's eyes locked somewhere far beyond the velvet and blood, as if even he didn't quite know which plane of memory he'd been dragged into. His expression was carved from stone now—too composed, too smooth, the tremble of earlier swallowed up by the return of something older. Familiar. A mask that had learned how to bury pain beneath charm.
I watched the seams pull tight across his features. The way he lifted his chin. The way his spine realigned beneath the weight of invisible expectation. It was like watching a man crawl back into a coffin, one lined not with silk but with performance. And I knew that version of him. I'd worn that mask myself. Maybe we all had.
Behind me, Aria's voice broke softly through the stillness, no louder than a confession spoken behind cathedral glass.
"So… what happens now?" he asked. "Now that she's dead?"
I didn't turn to face him, not at first. I just stared ahead at the throne, at the impossible beauty of the woman draped across it like a final prayer left unanswered. I didn't know what I expected to happen next. A ghost? A revelation? The ceiling caving in, perhaps. But instead, the answer came from somewhere far smaller.
The attendant moved.
A trembling shift, barely perceptible at first. She was still crumpled on the floor where Vincent had dropped her—hair a tangle across her face, robes wrinkled and stained, dignity scattered like petals in the dirt. But she rose. Slowly. Shakily. Her hands pressed to the floor like she was crawling up from the wreckage of something far deeper than the stone.
"She may be dead," the woman said, voice hoarse but steadying, "but the contract she upheld is still in place."
That caught Vincent's attention. His head jerked slightly in her direction, though he said nothing yet. I narrowed my eyes, watching her through the haze of grief and magic, trying to decide whether she looked defeated… or simply hollow.
"What do you mean?" Aria asked, still quiet.
The attendant drew herself up to full height now. Her spine was still stiff with resolve, though her arms trembled faintly at her sides. When she spoke again, it was with the same ceremonial rhythm I'd heard in her earlier explanations—except now, something in it faltered. Something human had bled through.
"When a Red Mistress dies," she said, "the seat does not stay empty for long. A successor is chosen. Not by will, nor blood, nor declaration. But by ritual. The choosing is random—blind, unmerciful, without preference or petition. The city decides. It always has."
Miko stepped forward then, eyes narrowing with that sharp, impatient glint he got when logic frayed at the seams.
"You're saying there's a system in place for this?" he asked. "A whole ceremony? That'll take days. Weeks even. And even if someone is chosen, they'd still need to get to the Tower to carry out whatever's left of this damn contract."
He wasn't wrong. The logistics alone felt like a slap in the face, considering how much blood had been spilled just to make it this far.
But the woman held up a hand—not dismissive, but calming. A placation meant for wounded nerves. Her voice was gentler now, steadier.
"The ritual is already in motion," she said. "It began the moment Helena breathed her last breath. The city will choose quickly—swiftly, even—because the Tower demands it. And once chosen, the new Red Mistress will not be required to ascend the tower. She will contact us. A letter. A seal. A message of intent. That is all that's needed to transfer her authority in honoring Helena's unfinished oaths."
Miko didn't look convinced. His lips parted as if to argue again, but Vincent beat him to it.
"No," he said, voice low and distant. "That's not entirely true."
The room turned toward him—slow, wary, like a forest waiting to see which branch the predator would snap next. He still stood before the throne, back straight, gaze forward, the very image of practiced poise. But something beneath the surface of his eyes still burned. Not rage anymore. Not grief, either. Something quieter. Like a man whose last secret had been hollowed out and left echoing inside of him.
"My part of the contract," Vincent said, "could only be fulfilled physically. That's why I came to the Tower. Why I had to face her. Because the terms involved… a transfer. A negotiation with elements that required proximity."
He paused then, glancing at the attendant.
"And more importantly," he added, "the contract was tailored specifically to Helena. The language, the clauses—they were built around her." He paused for a brief moment. "But that doesn't mean it ends here. Adjustments can be made. If the next Mistress allows it."
That was when I stepped forward.
Because I was done waiting. Done being left in the dark.
My voice came like frost beneath a sunrise—cold, creeping, and resolute.
"Cut the dancing. Just tell us what was in the damn contract already."
Vincent didn't answer immediately. His eyes moved toward the attendant again, just a flicker of hesitation, the kind a man wears when he's about to admit something irreversible. But whatever restraint he'd been holding onto died quietly in his chest. There was no more room for secrets here. Not with her dead. Not with the Tower watching.
"The Red Mistress," he said slowly, "holds access to a system few understand in its entirety...a system of brothels."
My brow arched.
"That's what this was about?" I asked. "Brothels?!"
"No," he snapped, sharper than expected. "Not like that. Brothels, yes—but not for the reasons you think. The network of Ventri's brothel system is vast. Centuries old. Rooted in entertainment, pleasure, and intimacy—but evolved. Beneath the surface, they've become more than houses of silk and sin. They've become hubs of information. Nests of influence. And within them, hidden across parlors and pleasure dens...a league of assassins."
The silence hung thick in the room as his words settled in the air.
"They're trained not just in death," he continued, "but in patience. In politics. In the art of vanishing. And they've been cultivated to serve Ventri's interests quietly—guiding diplomacy, managing threats. Ensuring the city remains untouched while others burn."
I stared at him, heart beginning to twist with something colder.
"You're saying The Red Mistress commands a hidden army," I said. "And you made a deal to use them."
He didn't nod. But he didn't deny it, either.
"I was approached, as you may already know," Vincent said. "By my homeland, Dulmor. They wanted the Graywatch Council eliminated. Silently. Without suspicion. Without war."
The pieces snapped together all at once. Miko exhaled a sharp breath beside me. Willow went rigid. Aria's hand clutched mine like he needed proof of something solid.
"Of course," I whispered. "If Dulmor did it themselves, they'd be exposed. Accused. Retaliated against. But if Ventri's assassins carried it out…"
"No one would trace it back," Vincent finished. "Dulmor walks away clean. Graywatch falls. Power shifts in their favor without a single blade bearing their name."
The logic was terrifying. Elegant. Utterly disgusting.
"And in exchange?" I asked.
Vincent's mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something smaller. Sadder.
"In exchange," he said, "I would fake Helena's death."
My breath caught.
"To free her," he continued, "from the title she never wanted. From the throne she was forced to bear. She asked me to make it look real. To make her disappear. To let her die in myth and live in secret."
My heart dropped hard, a weight settling deep in my chest as Vincent's words clicked into place—the part about his role in the contract being fulfilled only through presence finally making sense.
But then why? Why had she chosen to take her own life? The question burned beneath my skin, raw and urgent, and Vincent's voice answered before I could speak it aloud.
"There was a strict date we were set to meet," he said quietly, voice thick with something like regret. "The contract was to be sealed in time with her ascent of the Tower. But..." He trailed off, and I didn't need him to finish.
I'd been the one to delay her destiny, the chaos of our fighting bleeding precious moments between them, leaving her stranded in a nightmare of suspicion and doubt as her faith in Vincent fractured with every second he failed to arrive—paranoia growing in the dark, twisting her will until it snapped.
The weight of that revelation hung heavy between us, a fragile silence thick with blame and loss. Vincent's eyes didn't meet mine as he said, "There was nothing to be done. It was inevitable..."
I lowered the gun completely now, the fire inside me dimming into a cold, resigned respect. The blinding rage that had fueled my every breath with him now faded, replaced by a quiet understanding.
Our conflict was no longer between two men clashing—it was a battle shaped and shadowed by forces far beyond our reach. We were pieces moved by a hand neither of us could see, caught in a game that didn't care about grudges or justice. But I refused to let this end in blood and bitterness. Not like this.
Before I could say more, the attendant stepped forward, moving to the center of the chamber with a solemn grace that made the air itself hold still.
"It is time," she said.
Her voice rose, chanting words that seemed to pull the very light from the shadows, thickening the air until molten gold shimmered into being, dripping and pooling like liquid fire. The golden light twisted and folded itself into the shape of a goblet, its surface glowing with quiet power, a relic both ancient and terrible.
We waited, breath caught in the pit of our lungs, until the goblet shattered with a sudden burst—an explosion of pure white paper birds fluttering forth, hundreds, maybe thousands, filling the space with a delicate storm of silent wings. Their feathers whispered secrets as they soared, drifting like ghosts across the chamber. The attendant's eyes closed as if in prayer, and with swift hands she caught one of the birds mid-flight, folding it carefully until it transformed into the shape of a sealed envelope.
My heart thundered loud, the sound nearly drowning out the quiet rustle of paper wings. The rest of the birds spiraled back toward the broken goblet, vanishing as if swallowed by the shadows themselves. The attendant moved deliberately now, unfolding the envelope with reverence. The city had spoken, and the next Red Mistress had been chosen.
Her eyes narrowed as she read, a frown creasing her brow.
"Ah, thats strange. There doesn't seem to be a last name."
She flipped the card over to reveal the other side, and my breath caught so sharply I thought I might choke.
"No fucking way," I muttered, voice barely a whisper, staring at the name sprawled in crimson ink across the pale paper:
Willow.