The great hall had been stripped of its finery and remade into a stage for violence. Chandeliers glimmered above, casting fractured light over polished marble floors now marked with wards and sigils. Guests gathered at the edges, their laughter subdued, their curiosity sharpened to hunger. This was entertainment: blood wrapped in silk, spectacle sanctioned by the Master himself.
Nitron sat at the head, a throne of black stone behind him. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence was gravity enough to pull the room tight.
Elma stood alone in the center, clad in white silk that clung to her curves like it had been designed for the sole purpose of being ruined. Her heels clicked once against the marble, echoing across the hushed chamber. She could feel the leash coiled around her spine, humming, eager for her to prove herself again.
The envoy of House Thorn entered like winter given form. Tall, broad, his armor shimmered with frost etched into steel. His breath smoked in the air, and when he smiled, his teeth glimmered sharp as ice.
"So this is the Master's waitress," he sneered, his voice carrying easily. "The gutterspawn dressed in silk. I expected more."
Elma smirked, rolling her shoulders. "You expected wrong. That happens to men like you all the time."
A ripple of laughter stirred among the guests. Nitron didn't move, but Elma swore she felt the weight of his eyes pressing harder into her back.
The envoy unsheathed his blade, a long sword humming with frost. The air grew colder, mist curling along the floor. He pointed the tip at her. "Kneel now, and I'll leave you with enough bones intact to crawl back to your master."
Elma let out a low laugh. "You talk too much. Let's skip to the part where you beg."
The crowd roared approval, the tension snapping.
The Duel
He moved first, a blur of frost and steel. Elma slid aside, skirts whipping, the blade slicing air inches from her ribs. Her heel lashed out, catching his knee. The clang of metal on marble rang out as he staggered.
Snarling, he slammed his palm to the ground. Ice erupted in jagged spikes, racing toward her like a living cage. Elma flipped backward, landing on the tips of her heels as the floor sealed into a frozen trap around her.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The envoy's laugh was a glacier cracking. "Pretty toys won't save you here."
Elma's grin sharpened. "Neither will your dick when I snap it off."
Her aura flared, heat rolling off her skin in waves. The ice cracked, hissing under the sudden steam. With a twist of her hips, she broke free, shards scattering like diamonds. She lunged, her stiletto heel catching his thigh, piercing through armor. He roared, swinging his sword in a desperate arc.
She ducked low, spinning, her heel dragging a crimson line across his shin. His balance faltered. Elma was already on him, climbing his body like a dance, thighs wrapping his torso, nails raking his face.
He grabbed her, slammed her into the floor. The breath left her lungs, but the smirk never left her lips. "That's it?" she coughed. "I've had clients go harder before dessert."
The hall erupted in laughter. Even some of Thorn's own guests chuckled behind their hands. The envoy's face burned red—not from heat, but humiliation.
Rage made him sloppy. He lunged again, blade raised high. Elma slid under his arm, twisting behind him. Her heel drove into the back of his knee, sending him crashing down.
In one fluid motion, she straddled his chest, pinning him to the cold floor. Her hand pressed to his throat, nails dimpling skin. The sharp point of her stiletto hovered over his heart.
The hall went silent.
Elma leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. Her voice was silk laced with razor wire. "Now you beg."
His pride fought, but the leash pressed in. Her aura pressed harder. He choked out the words, each syllable killing him. "I yield."
The silence shattered into applause, cheers, gasps. Elma stood, brushing frost and blood from her gown, lifting her chin as if she hadn't just ripped the envoy's pride to shreds. Guards dragged him away, broken but breathing.
The system purred.
[Quest Complete: Break the Envoy]
Reward: +3 Levels.
Loyalty Rating: Stable.
Rumor Circulation: 22%.
Warning: House Thorn humiliated. Retaliation imminent.
Nitron's lips curved the faintest degree. Not approval. Not pride. Something darker—satisfaction.
The Dinner
The hall was restored to elegance within the hour. The blood scrubbed, the frost banished, the guests resettled at the long banquet table as if violence had been nothing more than an appetizer.
Elma sat lower down the table, gown smoothed, skin glowing faintly from the fight. She lifted her glass, wine staining her lips. Pride hummed in her chest, but suspicion lingered heavy.
Calista entered late, in crimson silk, her hair sculpted into perfection, her eyes sharp as cut glass. She sat beside Nitron, her hand brushing his wrist with practiced familiarity.
Elma caught her gaze once, waiting for the glimmer, the secret smile, the silent promise. It didn't come.
Instead, Calista's lips curled, and her voice carried down the table like poison in honey.
"You all saw the spectacle tonight. Impressive, perhaps, but really—what else would you expect from a gutter rat trained to spread her legs for anything that walks?"
The table hushed. Forks froze in midair. Then laughter broke, nervous, delighted, cruel.
Elma's jaw clenched.
Calista went on, sipping her wine. "They say loyalty cannot be bought. But it seems it can be rented, at least for a few hours." She glanced at Elma, her smile crueler than any blade. "Our Master is generous to keep her. Most men would've tired of such a toy long ago."
Heat crawled up Elma's neck, rage and humiliation warring with the urge to leap across the table and shut her mouth with a kiss—or a knife. She forced her smirk back into place. "Toys are only dangerous when you forget they can bite."
A ripple of chuckles. Calista's eyes narrowed.
Nitron sat silent, sipping his drink, but Elma could feel his satisfaction rolling off him like smoke. He'd done this. He'd spoken to Calista. Twisted her. Threatened her. Made her his weapon too.
At first Elma thought it was an act, a cover to throw him off. But the sharpness in Calista's gaze told her otherwise. This wasn't play. This was punishment.
The system chimed again, cold as steel.
[Rumor Meter: 24%]
Status: On the brink.
New Flag: Calista as Hostile Actor.
Elma sat in silence, wine burning her tongue, her smirk carved too tight. Across the table, Calista laughed softly at some donor's joke, her hand resting casually on Nitron's arm.
The leash burned in Elma's chest. The crown gleamed on Calista's head. And in that moment, Elma understood:
The coldest knives didn't come from enemies.
They came from lovers forced to turn their blades.