The elevator doors slid open with a hiss like a sigh exhaled from some mechanical god, and for a brief, fleeting second, I thought perhaps the world had ended in our absence.
The waiting room—once buzzing with chatter and tension, stained in the invisible sweat of anticipation and despair—was now silent, sterile, hollow. The furniture still stood where we'd left it, the low velvet divans and marble benches arranged in an obscene parody of hospitality, but the people... they were gone.
No shrieking nobles, no trembling merchants, no drunken adventurers slurring about glories to come. Just absence. Just space. It was almost worse than if the room had been filled with corpses. I felt something tighten in my chest as we stepped out, the silence greeting us like an old friend, one who had grown weary of pretending they weren't waiting to be asked a terrible question.
And then—I noticed him.
A single man sat behind the front desk, hunched and humming quietly to himself as he flicked through parchment with the same casual detachment one might use to sort recipes or funeral notices.
The same man who had greeted us on the day we entered this cursed tower, like a concierge at a luxury asylum, promising nothing and implying even less. Somehow, impossibly, he looked exactly the same. Not older, not wearier, not even remotely changed by the apocalyptic breakdown that had just shaken the tower's spine.
His uniform was too neat for this mess, his sleeves rolled with surgical precision, the corners of his collar stiff as knife-edges, and above it all, his porcelain-white mask, smooth and gleaming, shielded the upper half of his face. No cracks. No grime. Not even a single fingerprint to mar its sanctity. It was the kind of mask you wore not to conceal an emotion, but to erase the idea that you were ever entitled to one in the first place.
The way his quill dipped into the inkwell, then danced across the forms without even looking—it was almost insulting. The building had nearly collapsed into metaphorical and quite literal rubble, and he was here... filing paperwork?
I approached slowly, my boots clicking against the polished floor like a countdown. My eyes burned holes into the back of his head, half-expecting him to unravel into some shadowy monster. But no. He looked up, blinked once as if I were the janitor late for shift, and smiled.
"Ah. You made it back. Lovely," he said, the words crisp and professional, as if I hadn't just returned from fighting a demigod in a throne room of blood and betrayal. "You'll be happy to know the Tower has re-stabilized. Bit of a scare earlier, of course. Everyone had to be evacuated."
Evacuated. The word echoed like a punchline with no audience. I stared at him, unblinking, as his pen scratched merrily across the page. "Everyone?" I asked, trying very hard to keep the sound of mockery out of my voice. I failed.
"Well," he said, not looking up, "all the visitors. Standard emergency protocol. We monitor structural integrity through several divine indicators, you see. All very theatrical. We cleared the lower levels just in case. But not to worry—it's settled now. We'll be reopening shortly."
There it was. The truth, spoken with the nonchalance of a man refilling a broken vending machine. I blinked, once. Twice. "Reopening?"
"Yes," he replied. "Another batch of guests will be arriving shortly. Ventri's waiting list is always full this time of year."
Another batch. More guests. More souls fed to the hunger behind these walls. I felt something hard twist in my gut, a bitter vine curling up my ribs, choking the breath out of my lungs. I turned without a word, not trusting myself to speak without lashing out. Not at him. At the system. At the way this all just... resets. The Tower breathes in new bodies like it's inhaling incense before a sermon. And no one—not the priests, not the nobles, not even the damned receptionist—thinks to question the fire they're walking people into.
As I turned, the receptionist gave a stiff, formal bow—not to me, but to Willow. "Red Mistress," he said smoothly, his voice touched with something close to reverence. Willow nearly yelped, flinching like he'd slapped her, then offered a small, pathetic wave as if she were swatting a mosquito.
"Please, gods, don't call me that," she muttered under her breath, and I bit back a smile.
Then the doors opened again, and this time it wasn't steel or stone that greeted us, but a sunset. The street outside was awash in gold. That strange, syrupy kind of dusk light that seems to melt across everything it touches, turning gutters into amber veins and rooftops into silhouettes.
The sky above Ventri was painted in brushstrokes of orange and violet, the colors dripping across the city like it was some slow-burning canvas of dying light. I stepped forward and nearly stumbled. It hit me then—the absence. The Tower's gaze, that invisible pressure that had wrapped around my bones like a fist, was gone. The breath of the place no longer brushed against my neck. The air was mine again.
I exhaled slowly, my lungs creaking like old furniture, and turned to look back at the monolith we had just emerged from. Gods help me, I missed it already.
Not the pain. Not the traps or the trauma or the monstrous horrors stitched together by sin. But the clarity. The purity of purpose. The way every step had felt necessary, every choice sharpened by consequence. Out here... the world had too many options again.
I turned sharply, forcing the nostalgia back into its coffin. "Miko," I said, voice tight with new purpose, "find us horses. Fast ones. We're heading back to Graywatch."
He raised an eyebrow, brushing his hair behind one ear. "And what will you be doing?"
I straightened my coat, flicking a piece of imaginary dust from the lapel. "I need to make some final arrangements."
He sighed, muttered something under his breath before vanishing into the thinning streets. I set off in the opposite direction, the others falling into step beside me.
We walked for awhile before we came upon it.
The Baron's theater loomed like a decadent beast, draped in crimson and gold, its exterior plastered with old posters and newer scandals. I pushed the doors open and was instantly assaulted by a wave of warm musk and wretched luxury. Incense curled from sconces, the scent of roses laced with something darker—spilled wine, perhaps. Or sweat. Or lust.
He was on stage. Of course he was.
The Baron, that corpulent bastard of theater and excess, reclined naked on a gilded chaise, three moaning women draped across him like adoring jungle cats. One was whispering into his ear, another stroking his chest, the third doing something inventive with her tongue. His laughter bounced off the curtains like cannon fire.
"Well, well, well!" he bellowed the moment he saw me. "If it isn't my little demon prince! Gods, Cecil, you look like you crawled out of a funeral—were the corpses at least entertaining?"
"About as entertaining as your taste in interior lighting," I muttered, wrinkling my nose as I brushed past. "I'm not here for drinks."
"Shame!" he roared, lifting a goblet and promptly tossing the wine into his own face before one of the women licked it off. "You're missing out!"
Then—movement. From the side of the theater, a flash of silver. Syrene.
The High Priestess of the Eastern Cathedral, with her hair like moonlight and eyes like oceans, darted across the floor in a shimmer of silk and zeal. She didn't even slow as she flung her arms around Leo.
"My gods, you're safe!" she cried, burying her face in his hair.
He giggled—yes, giggled—before prying himself gently free. I'd never seen him look so young.
I cleared my throat. "We're heading back to Graywatch."
Syrene turned to me, her expression already nodding before I finished the sentence.
"I'd like you to come with us," I said. "We'll find refuge for you in the Velvet Cathedral. You'll be safe there. And more importantly, so will Leo."
Her hands tightened around Leo's. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes. Thank you."
I gave a small nod, then turned toward the others. My gaze found Aria next, who stood apart from them, calm and unreadable.
"And you?" I asked.
He smiled softly, no hesitation. "Of course."
There was something warm in that smile. Something that made the corners of my mind curl in ways I wasn't ready to name.
Then I moved to the back room, rifling through my belongings until I found it—Mavus Grey's contract. The one that gave me dominion over the remnants of his human trafficking network. I stared at it for a long moment, then folded it neatly and slid it into my coat.
Willow hovered near the exit, arms crossed, face pale.
"And you?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
She let out a sigh long enough to echo. "I want to come with you. I really do. But... I'm the Red Mistress now."
The words hung there like a funeral dirge.
And then—
The Baron choked.
Literally choked on his wine and spat it straight across the three women still cooing around him, soaking them in sticky red droplets. They shrieked in chorus as he stumbled upright, still naked, and promptly dropped to his knees in front of Willow, arms outstretched in theatrical despair.
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something.
"Gods above," I muttered, rubbing at my temple. "You do realize what he's doing, don't you?"
Willow giggled—actually giggled—and tilted her head with a wild smirk that barely held back the feral pride curling at the edges of her expression. "He's networking," I said flatly, giving her a look.
The Baron, nose firmly buried into her arch, groaned. "She's the Red Mistress now! It's only right I pay my respects!"
"Yes, and I'm sure your tongue is very respectful," I said dryly, watching as Willow planted her foot into his face with a flourish that would've put a stage dancer to shame.
He inhaled deeply—audibly—and began to lick her sole with the worshipful cadence of a priest mid-sermon. Willow's laughter rang out sharp and reckless, her hand sliding onto her hip as she leaned in slightly, darkened hair swinging around her shoulders like the banner of a conquering queen.
"You know," she said with a purr that barely masked the gleeful madness in her voice, "this role might not be so bad after all."
I palmed my face with the kind of bone-deep weariness only true friendship could inspire. "Goddess help Ventri," I muttered under my breath. "They're already doomed."
And somewhere deep inside my chest, in the small space between admiration and concern, I shuddered at the possibilities her influence might unlock in this twisted city of whores and knives.
Just then, a sharp knock echoed against the gilded wood of the theater door—three polite raps, perfectly spaced. I stiffened slightly, stepping forward, hand brushing instinctively toward my belt, though I already knew who it was. The timing was too perfect.
I cracked the door open and found Miko standing there, reins in hand, framed by the cool velvet of Ventri's early night. The horses—four of them, lean and built for speed—stamped lightly behind him, their breath fogging in the warm air.
"They're ready," he said. His tone was neutral, but there was a slight twitch of urgency in the way he shifted his weight from heel to toe.
"Good," I said, nodding once before turning back to Willow. "Here," I added, reaching into my coat and pulling free my dagger.
She blinked at it, surprised, as I twirled the blade once between my fingers and held the hilt out toward her, flat and steady.
"You can keep it," I said. "Consider it… a reminder."
She squealed—squealed—before lunging forward and wrapping her arms around me with a force that knocked the air from my lungs. And then, with zero hesitation and absolutely no decorum, she kissed me. Not a soft, wistful little peck. A full, aggressive, breath-stealing thank-you smothered in cherry gloss and mischief.
When she finally pulled away, grinning like a bandit queen, I laughed.
"Save some of that charm for the diplomats," I said, brushing my thumb across my lips. "You'll need it."
With one final glance around the gaudy opulence of the Baron's palace, I turned toward the door, eyes landing on my party—Leo, Aria, Syrene, and Miko now back at the horses. No one said a word. We didn't need to. The air between us crackled with momentum. With unfinished business. With the grim promise of home.
And then we rode.
The city of Ventri fell behind us like a shadow peeled from the skin, its obscene laughter and perfume-stained alleys fading into the blur of speed. The road cut forward like a silver thread in the dark, and we followed it without hesitation, hooves pounding like war drums into the silence of the open fields.
It should've taken us a full day, perhaps more. But we didn't stop. Not once. No meals, no fire, no conversation beyond sharp commands and occasional glances. The night bent around us, urging us forward, wrapping the stars in a shroud that refused to let us look anywhere but ahead. I felt the ache build in my thighs and spine, but adrenaline kept my mind sharp, knotted tight with anticipation. I hadn't slept since the Tower. I hadn't breathed properly since the duel. But somehow, I kept going. We all did.
And then—like a ghost rising from the fog—Graywatch came into view.
By midnight, we broke through the perimeter. Familiar. Filthy. Home.
Graywatch did not sleep. Graywatch never slept. The city remained suspended in perpetual twilight, even in its own midnight, like some drunken god had paused time just long enough to forget it existed. Fog coiled around the jagged edges of crumbling buildings, danced between shattered lanterns and moss-eaten stones, pooling in alleys thick with rot and sin.
The cobbled streets welcomed us with the sounds of breaking glass, muffled screaming, and what I assumed was a prostitute singing opera while perched atop a man who definitely wasn't clapping. The scent of old blood and cheap perfume mingled with the salt-wet breath of the sea. Trash rustled underfoot. A dog barked from somewhere high above.
Gods, it was beautiful.
"Home sweet home," I murmured, grinning as we galloped under a collapsing bridge strung with prayer flags no one believed in anymore.
Our path was clear—at least at first. I had memorized these streets like a lover's body. The twist of the gutters. The slouch of the rooftops. The way shadows stretched a little too far near the market district and never quite left. We passed the old gaolhouse—still burnt, still humming with the phantom wails of prisoners that had died long before the fire. I scanned every window, every overhang. My fingers hovered near my pen, my eyes searching for anything that didn't belong.
But everything looked exactly the same.
No signs of Japeth. No signal flares. No lurking horrors. Just crime, misery, and a whole lot of people pretending not to notice.
The realization struck me in a strange way—not relief, not disappointment. Something liminal. Something delicate. As if the moment before a scream had been stretched so thin it just… didn't arrive. I let the feeling pass, my breath steadier than it had any right to be. Maybe, just maybe, I thought—
And that's when I saw it.
A shadow—no, a figure—bounding across the rooftops parallel to our path.
Fast. Too fast.
"Eyes up!" I barked, twisting in my saddle, trying to get a better angle. "We're not—!"
But it was already too late.
The figure dropped like a blade from heaven.
Right into the center of our party.