Brutus lumbered up behind me, his boots thudding like war drums on the cobblestones. When his gaze lifted to the sprawling madness of the city, his eyes went so wide I swore they’d pop out and roll down the street like lost marbles.
His voice, when it finally came, barely cleared his throat. "Saints above... this place looks like a whorehouse built by a god with too much money and no shame."
I smirked back at him, planting my hands on my hips like a conqueror surveying his new kingdom, the steam curling around my ankles like affectionate cats. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."
Brutus grunted, crossing his arms. "Bad? No. Just... excessive. Like everything here’s screaming for attention."
"Yeah," I said, leaning back on my heels with a smirk. "It’s perfect, isn’t it?"
Freya’s boots clicked up behind us, sharp and impatient. She stopped just short of the doorway, her eyes narrowing as the scene unfolded in front of her.
"Saints save us," she muttered, shaking her head. "We just crawled out of hell, and now we’ve landed in its prettier cousin."
The rest of the crew followed—Mia, pale and quiet, holding onto Dunny like he was the last good thing in this rotten world; Malrick, already twitching, his fingers tapping against his thigh like he was looking for an excuse to cause trouble; and Iskanda, of course, her posture loose but her eyes sharp as a blade’s edge.
She looked at the city, then at us, then at the long stretch of street that curved into the chaos ahead. With a flick of her wrist, she gave a lazy wave. "Eyes on the prize, darlings; the city’s pretty, but it bites if you stare too long."
We started down the street, our little parade of misfits cutting through the amber-lit haze. The moment we stepped into the crowd, heads turned. Conversations hiccuped. Nobles in embroidered coats whispered behind jeweled fans, their eyes wide with fascination and disgust. I caught fragments as we passed.
"Are they... workers?"
"No, look at them—filthy. Probably from the lower layer."
"Saints, is that blood?"
"Someone fetch a cleaner before they touch something."
I could’ve laughed. Hell, I did laugh, a sharp bark that made a few of them flinch. I raised a hand in mock salute to a gaggle of perfumed courtesans who scurried by, clutching their skirts like I might bite.
They weren’t wrong.
Brutus kept his head low, shoulders squared, his sheer size enough to part the crowd like a ship through oily water. Freya’s eyes darted like knives, cataloguing every potential threat. Iskanda glided ahead, completely unbothered, as if she were immune to disgust. I, however, had other priorities.
The city was alive, and I wanted to taste it.
Before anyone could stop me, I darted away, weaving between nobles and performers like a particularly pretty rat. The crowd reacted with a ripple of alarmed murmurs as I slipped into the street proper, my boots splashing through shallow puddles of something that might’ve been wine or blood. Hard to tell here.
I twirled past a group of street dancers breathing fire, narrowly avoiding a plume that singed a few curls of my hair. "Lovely technique!" I called out, clapping as they stared, stunned. "But I think your third inhale was a little rushed. Pacing, darling, pacing!"
The lead dancer snarled something in a language I didn’t understand and spat another gout of flame in my direction. I blew him a kiss and sidestepped it, grinning like a maniac.
I turned next toward a knot of nobles lounging on a balcony, their drinks glowing faintly from whatever alchemical horrors they were laced with. "Gentlemen, ladies, creatures of uncertain anatomy," I greeted, sweeping into an exaggerated bow. "How fares your decadence this fine night?"
One of the women blinked, clearly offended. "Who let the beggars in?"
I straightened, smirk curling sharp. "Sweetheart, if I’m a beggar, then you’re an unpolished coin."
Before she could answer, Brutus’s shadow fell over me. A large, calloused hand grabbed me by the collar, hauling me backward like a misbehaving cat. My feet kicked uselessly as he lifted me clear off the ground.
"For Saints’ sake, Loona," he growled, holding me at arm’s length. "Can you go five minutes without making a scene?"
"Define ’scene,’" I said, grinning. "Because if you mean ’performance,’ then no. I was born for it."
He rolled his eyes and, with a sigh, shifted me until I was perched on his broad shoulders like an oversized child. "There. Now stay put before I tie you to a lamppost."
I laughed, resting my chin on his head. "You know, this is probably the closest I’ll ever get to seeing the world from a moral high ground."
"Enjoy it while it lasts," he muttered. "It’s temporary."
Before he could retort, the crowd shifted around us—then promptly surged. Figures emerged from doorways and balconies, drawn like moths to Brutus’s size and, let’s be honest, his tragic lack of subtlety.
Women mostly, though a few men joined the swarm, all glimmering under the lamplight in silks and lace. They circled him with predatory smiles, their laughter sweet and sharp.
"Well, hello, soldier," one purred, pressing close. "You look like you could use a rest."
"Or a drink," another added, brushing her fingers over his arm. "Come to the Siren’s Rest—we’ll make sure you forget whatever hell you crawled out of."
A third, tall and golden-skinned, tilted her head coyly. "Or maybe you prefer company that listens. The Gilded Lily is just around the corner."
"Oh, saints, they flirt," I said, clapping my hands. "I adore them already."
More voices joined, overlapping in a dizzying chorus of offers—silk sheets, warm baths, laughter that never ends. Their perfume hit like a wave, floral and sweet enough to sting the eyes. Brutus stood frozen, the mountain besieged by a tide of velvet.
I cackled from my perch. "Careful, big guy. They smell blood in the water." He shot me a look that could’ve flattened a wall. I leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially, "Maybe if you flexed a little, they’d start offering discounts."
Freya stepped forward then, glaring down the group with practiced ease. "Back off."
One of the girls giggled, unfazed. "Don’t be jealous, love. There’s enough sin to share."
Brutus opened his mouth to respond, but Iskanda’s voice sliced through the chaos like a whip. "Enough." She stepped forward, her tone cool and commanding. The crowd parted around her instinctively. "Keep your hands to yourselves, darlings. These ones aren’t for sale."
The women pouted but backed away, dispersing with the soft rustle of silk and murmured disappointment. As they did, I noticed something glint around their throats—thin collars, delicate and light compared to the ones we’d worn in the prison, but unmistakable all the same.
It had to be them. The Drudgewhores.
"Stay focused," Iskanda said, glancing over her shoulder at us. "They mean well. It’s their job to seduce."
Brutus frowned, still watching the women with visible discomfort. "This happen a lot?"
Iskanda’s eyes flicked to him, then to the departing crowd. "Very. The Velvet Chambers were built for one purpose—to entertain. Every pleasure, every vice, every twisted fancy the upper layers could conjure. This city exists because the nobles demanded it. A playground, built on bodies and broken promises."
Freya snorted. "Charming."
Iskanda shrugged one elegant shoulder. "Depends who you ask. Some call it paradise. Others, a cage of silk."
I tilted my head slightly. "And you? Which camp do you fall into?"
She smiled, a thin curve of lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I stopped picking sides a long time ago." She paused for a moment. "Now hurry along. We have business to attend to." She gestured toward the colossal tower rising in the center of the city, that monolith of bronze and steel so tall it vanished into the cavern’s shadowed ceiling. "That’s where we’re headed."
I squinted at it, my grin returning. "What, the big shiny one that looks like it’s compensating for something?"
Iskanda ignored me, which was fair. She was probably used to tuning out idiots. "They call it the Spire. Everyone who enters this layer must be recorded and sorted. You’ll be assigned your new ranks before being issued a brothel. Until then, you’ll stay within the Spire’s quarters."
Brutus shifted his shoulders under me. "And if we don’t?"
"Then you’ll find out how quickly this city can eat you alive."
Freya folded her arms. "What a lovely tour guide."
Iskanda gave a small, humorless smile. "You’ll thank me later."
We walked—or rather, Brutus walked while I rode, the Spire looming closer with every step. As we approached, the chaos of the Velvet Chambers dulled into something almost reverent.
The crowds thinned. The air cooled. Even the music, ever-present and delirious, faded into a low hum, replaced by the rhythmic click of boots on cobblestone.
Surrounding the tower was a garden—if you could call it that—a careful imitation of nature crafted by someone who’d only ever read about it in expensive books.
Bronze vines climbed metal trellises, flowers glowed faintly with alchemical bio-light, and the trees were trimmed into impossible geometries. Each leaf shimmered with dust, like the whole place had been dipped in honey and left to crystallize.
The perimeter was enclosed by a gate of beaten bronze, etched with serpentine runes that pulsed faintly when Iskanda stepped forward.
Two guards stood at attention, their armor identical—seamless plates of bronze that made them look like living statues. The instant they saw her, they stiffened, then bowed deeply, voices resonating through their masks.
"Lady Iskanda."
I swear I could feel her smirk from where I stood. "Gentlemen," she said, casual as sunlight, "you’re looking shiny today."
The guards didn’t react—probably trained not to—but they moved in perfect unison to swing the massive gate open. It didn’t creak. Of course it didn’t. Everything here had been oiled within an inch of its life.
I couldn’t help it—a giggle slipped out. "Lady Iskanda," I whispered under my breath, drawing out the syllables. "Oh, how very noble. Should I curtsy, or is that too gauche?"
Brutus grunted. "You curtsy and I’m leaving you here."
"Tempting," I replied, still grinning. "I’d make a lovely statue in the garden. Maybe they’d water me every full moon."
He muttered something unkind about fertilizer, and we followed Iskanda through the gates. The path wound between gleaming hedges and over a small bridge that crossed a pool of liquid gold—not real gold, mind you, but a bubbling mixture of light and chemical trickery meant to look decadent.
The smell was faintly metallic, sharp enough to sting the nose. Everything shimmered. Everything gleamed. Everything was trying too hard.
When we reached the entrance, Iskanda didn’t pause. She pushed the heavy doors open, and the world exploded.
Light assaulted me. Blinding, golden, merciless. I hissed, staggering back, throwing up an arm to shield my eyes.
For a brief, horrifying moment I thought I’d gone blind—then shapes began to emerge from the haze. The glow resolved into marble floors polished so perfectly they reflected everything like a pool of light. Sandstone pillars rose in stately rings, each one carved with intricate reliefs of lovers, warriors, and beasts entwined.
And there was gold. Everywhere. In the veins of the marble, in the trim of the archways, even in the air itself—a hazy shimmer that caught on every breath. I blinked, squinting until my eyes adjusted.
We were in a vast circular chamber, the ceiling lost in a halo of light. Around the perimeter, plush black leather sofas gleamed under the glow, their edges inlaid with delicate filigree of gold leaf.
"Well," I muttered. "Looks like the afterlife’s sponsored by a luxury brand."
Freya elbowed me. "Behave."
"I’m trying," I whispered. "But the furniture’s flirting with me."
Across the chamber, I spotted other groups like ours, each led by a Velvet in a silken collar. I couldn’t help the grimace that tugged at my mouth. "Oh great," I murmured. "There’s more of them."
Before I could sink deeper into my own sarcasm, a voice cut through the hum of the room—smooth, deep, and carrying the kind of charm that could peel paint.
"Iskanda!"
The crowd parted as a man approached—tall, statuesque, with hair that fell like a spill of ink down his back. His eyes were an unnatural blue, bright enough to border on dangerous, and his smile could’ve sold religion.
His outfit was a study in restraint and temptation: black velvet, high collar, a hint of skin where the fabric opened just enough to make you wonder.
"Quentin," Iskanda greeted, her tone softening into something dangerously close to affection. "Still alive, I see."
"Regrettably," he said with a bow so graceful it bordered on performance. "Though I suspect you’re here to change that."
They laughed—low, practiced, intimate. Two people who’d played this game before. I couldn’t help but watch, fascinated and mildly irritated by how effortless they made it look.
"New acquisitions?" Quentin asked, glancing at us. His gaze lingered on me just a little too long. "They look... lively."
"Lively is one word," Iskanda said with a small smirk. "Unbroken is another."
"Ah," Quentin murmured, his smile widening. "How refreshing."
I leaned toward Brutus, whispering, "I feel so objectified right now. It’s wonderful."
He didn’t even look at me. "Try not to embarrass yourself."
"Too late."
Iskanda clapped her hands lightly, drawing our attention. "I’ll see to the front desk," she said, gesturing toward a massive marble counter where several attendants worked beneath hanging lanterns of white flame. "They’ll need our paperwork. Try not to start a riot while I’m gone."
"Can’t make promises I don’t intend to keep," I replied, earning myself a glare and a faint smile at once.
She shook her head, half amused, half exasperated, and swept away with Quentin at her side. The two of them moved like a pair of stage performers exiting a spotlight, all poise and self-assurance.
The moment she was gone, the chamber felt louder. The noise swelled—laughter, footsteps, murmured conversations. I sank onto one of the sofas, stretching my legs out, trying to look like I belonged there. I didn’t, obviously, but that’s never stopped me before.
Freya was scanning the room with that sharp, suspicious gaze of hers, while Mia tried to soothe a half-awake Dunny on her lap. Malrick was... well, muttering to himself again. Brutus stood like a statue, arms crossed, eyes on the doors. We were the picture of subtlety, truly.
I leaned back, closing my eyes for just a second. My thoughts wandered to the heat of the lower layers, to Atticus and Dregan. To the smell of ash and iron. It already felt like another life. The Velvet Chambers were too bright, too polished. It made the memories seem unreal, like a fever dream fading with the dawn.
Just then, a voice cut through my peace like a stiletto through silk, sharp, wet, and dripping with venom.
"Hey, gutter-whore! Did the sewer rats line up to take turns on you, or did they just piss in your mouth and call it a baptism?"