Moments later, we were out on the platform again, the wind brushing across my skin in cold sheets as I tried, desperately, not to think about the fact that I was dozens—no, hundreds—of meters above the ground and that the only thing keeping me alive was my meager sense of balance and the whims of a woman who’d thrown an arrow at my skull just a few minutes ago.
The tower still thrummed with that mechanical heartbeat—chains rattling, gears groaning, steam vents sighing like the tower itself had grown bored of my continued existence.
Iskanda flicked open her stopwatch in one sharp motion, letting the tiny metallic click echo across the platform like the opening note to some cruel symphony written specifically for my suffering.
She gave me a nod—small, casual, utterly merciless—and I had just enough time to swallow the lump in my throat before the sound of the stopwatch’s lever snapping down signaled the beginning of yet another round of hellish optimism.
I ran.
Saints above, I ran like my soul had been set on fire and someone had dared me to complain about it.
My feet struck the dark metal panels with crisp, decisive taps, and the entire tower seemed to hum beneath me in response, as if it were waking from a long nap to observe the idiot scrambling across its spine yet again.
This time, however, everything felt... different.
The world had texture, depth, and a certain vibrating sharpness that wasn’t there before. I slid into each movement with the careful precision of someone who’d just learned not only where his body was, but what it could do.
Micro-enhancements, Iskanda called them—small pulses of strength, speed, or balance injected directly into a single muscle for only a heartbeat at a time.
The trick wasn’t brute force; it was finesse, subtlety, timing. Three things I was absolutely terrible at, but was currently pretending to excel in.
I vaulted over the pipes with a newly tuned spring in my legs, feeling the faint glow of an enhancement spark through my calves like lightning dipped in honey.
The chain swing came next. I grabbed it, felt my shoulder spark with a brief flare of enhanced stability, and swung across, letting my feet land on the next platform with a thump that I prayed sounded more heroic than desperate.
The gears followed—massive, grinding teeth of iron that rotated in overlapping patterns, spewing bursts of steam that hit my face with the sharp sting of scalding rain. I ducked and darted between them with barely a centimeter to spare.
Then I reached the gap.
The same one that had murdered my dignity last time. The yawning space that seemed to widen every time I looked at it, as if laughing at the sheer audacity of believing my legs could do anything other than tremble in its presence.
I stood there, heart thundering, the wind tugging at my skirt as if urging me to hurry up and die already.
I closed my eyes for a single breath, then another, and dug deep—deep into that current of energy humming inside me, threading through muscle, bone, and breath alike.
Two enhancements. One in each quad.
Saints above, I could barely handle one, but I trusted myself now. Trusted that flickering spark inside me, small but bright.
I sprinted.
The tower blurred. The wind tore at my eyes. My legs pulsed with electric fire as I pushed off the edge with all the strength I could muster, launching myself across the chasm in a long, soaring arc that felt like pure freedom distilled into motion.
For two seconds, I flew. For another half-second, I hovered. For the final half-second, I screamed internally, because I landed—but only just. Barely
My toes kissed the far ledge before the rest of me toppled forward in a graceless skid that would haunt me later if I survived long enough to remember it.
But I made it.
And saints above, I celebrated. A single victorious sound—half laugh, half wheeze—escaped my mouth before I forced myself onward, racing through the remaining obstacles until at last the final turn brought me full circle to where I had started.
I burst through the finish line, which was really just an imaginary line painted by my own desperation, coming to a staggering halt before Iskanda, who regarded me with the kind of expression one might reserve for a small dog who’d miraculously learned to juggle knives.
"Well?" I gasped, hands on my hips, chest heaving.
She smirked—not large, not showy, just a small upward curl of the lips that somehow managed to ignite my sense of accomplishment like dry tinder.
"Great work," she said, and with that simple word she lifted her hand and patted me lightly on the head.
I froze. Absolutely and completely froze.
Heat shot through my cheeks so violently it felt like someone had slapped me with a hot pan. She withdrew her hand almost immediately, moving with the casual indifference of someone who had no idea the kind of emotional crisis she had just inflicted upon me.
"We’re going again. Until you can clear the course in time," she added, already resetting the stopwatch.
"W-Wait— again?" I squeaked, voice cracking in a spectacularly embarrassing fashion.
"Yes."
"But— I— I just— the jump—"
"Yes."
"Iskanda, I need you to really think about what the word ’pacing’ means—"
She clicked the stopwatch.
And I ran.
It went on like that for what felt like hours, though in reality it was probably somewhere between "an eternity" and "a reasonable amount of time for someone who isn’t a fragile slip of a succubus running on spite and anxiety."
Each time, I improved. Each time, I grew faster. Stronger. More precise. And each time, I still barely scraped by on the final lap, lungs burning and legs quivering like they were plotting a coup against the rest of my body.
By the end, when I finally stumbled across the platform for what had to be the fifteenth time, Iskanda didn’t even bother smirking anymore. Instead, she nodded with this quiet, nearly imperceptible flicker of approval that struck me harder than any praise had business striking.
"You’re nearly ready," she said.
"I— Really?" I huffed, leaning against a railing that I prayed was securely bolted.
"Yes."
That single word lit something warm and dangerous in my chest—hope.
And then my stomach growled. Loudly. Obnoxiously. Violently enough to echo off the metal quills of the tower like some beast announcing its hunger to the heavens.
Iskanda blinked once. Then she laughed—full-bodied, booming, echoing laughter that shook her shoulders and made the platform tremble slightly beneath us.
I gave a pathetic little giggle in response, mostly because I didn’t know what else to do and partially because if I tried to stay stoic my stomach would betray me again with a noise that sounded like a dying whale.
"You hungry?" she teased, hands on her hips.
"No," I lied immediately.
She lifted a brow.
"Okay—maybe—slightly." I gave her a weak, pitiful smile. "I may have forgotten to eat."
"You think?" she teased, her tone filled with mock concern. "Starving yourself is hardly conducive to training."
"I wasn’t starving myself! I was merely... forgetting to un-starve myself."
"Mm-hm."
She turned toward the hatch and gestured with a lazy flick of her hand. "Come along."
I scrambled on feet—slowly, painfully—and followed her down into the tower.
Moments later, the second floor’s dining hall opened up before us. The place was vast—an enormous chamber carved from black marble that caught the warm lantern light and reflected it in soft golden ribbons across the polished floor.
Rows of long wooden tables stretched from one end of the room to the other, each one packed with Velvets moving with the hectic, buzzing energy of bees crowding around a strange new hive.
The sound alone was overwhelming—a cacophony of laughter, shouting, footsteps, cutlery, and the occasional magical spark that crackled through the air like a lightning strike. The air smelled of spices, seared meat, toasted grains, and far too many conflicting perfumes.
I shrank instinctively, shoulders curling, eyes darting between the clusters of Velvets who moved with the casual confidence of people who’d spent years surviving whatever madness this place demanded of them.
Iskanda rested a hand on my back—cool, steady, grounding—and guided me through the chaotic crowd until we found a spot in the middle of a long table.
I barely had time to sit before a half-full mug of ale splashed across the wood near my elbow, forcing me to jerk back with an undignified squeak.
Someone laughed nearby—no idea who, too many limbs and conversations overlapping into a blur. I huddled closer to Iskanda for protection, earning a faintly amused glance from her.
I was just beginning to settle in when the shadow of a mountain came blocking out the soft lantern-glow behind me.
I blinked. Once. Twice. Then very slowly lifted my eyes from the comforting, glossy surface of the wooden table to the equally glossy, absolutely ridiculous expanse of chest looming over me.
And towering above that was a man with a spill of red hair so wild it looked like someone had skinned a comet and stapled it to his head.
I swear his shoulders were wider than the table, his arms bulged like over-inflated wineskins ready to burst, and for some godsforsaken reason he was smiling at me with a wild glint in his eye.
"Hey there, pretty thing," he rumbled, voice low enough that the wood vibrated beneath my elbows.
I stared at him, then down at myself, then at him again, and internally launched a prayer to any deity who might specialize in politely rejecting advances from men who could fold me into a neat square and use me as a napkin.
Out loud, however, I gave a carefully measured, charmingly bashful, "Oh! Uh... hi. I appreciate the compliment, really, but I—uh—I’m actually already taken for the evening. Early night. Big day tomorrow. You know how it is."
He blinked those ridiculous eyes at me, squinted like he was trying to process the concept of ’no,’ then chuckled and gave a slow nod that rattled the plates of the table behind him. "Aw, that’s fine, sweetheart. Name’s Dominic. Let me know if things change."
He winked. I think the wink alone weighed a hundred pounds.
Then he swaggered off, muscles rippling like a sack of angry serpents under his skin, and I exhaled so forcefully that my soul nearly left my body and took the rest of me with it.
Iskanda, who had been watching the entire spectacle with an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and a patient caretaker witnessing a toddler walk into a wall, snorted loudly and slapped her palm against the table.
"Don’t mind him," she said with that calm, predatory smile of hers. "Dominic means well. Mostly. He’s harmless unless someone pays him to be otherwise."
I gave her a look. "You say that like it’s supposed to make me feel better."
She shrugged. "Compared to the average Velvet down here? It should."
I couldn’t disagree. But saints above, the way he stared at me like I’d wandered naked into a gladiatorial pit—Saints, I had enough troubling things to think about without adding being pulverized via flirtation to the list.
"I mean," I muttered as I folded my hands to stop them from trembling, "it’s not like I don’t enjoy the attention. I’m just a little... preoccupied right now. With the whole impending match thing. And, you know. Maybe dying."
Iskanda tilted her head and smirked.
Before I could question that look on her face, an attendant materialized behind us with the quiet efficiency of a trained assassin.
His expression was serene in a way that suggested nothing in the world, not even me, could possibly disturb his composure.
Iskanda didn’t even glance at the menu. "Two dinner plates," she ordered smoothly, "the usual for me. Something hearty for him. And two cups of ale."
The attendant bowed with a flourish that probably took years of training and vanished back into the crowd. I would’ve killed for half that grace. Actually, no, I’d settle for just a quarter.
Iskanda leaned back, elbows on the table, and shifted her attention entirely to me. Her eyes were sharp, bright, annoyingly perceptive. "Your match is tomorrow night," she said, tapping her finger lightly against the wooden surface. "Midnight sharp. The crowd will be loud, the arena will be a madhouse, and Elvina won’t be holding back. So." She paused. "Are you ready?"
I inhaled slowly, feeling the breath stretch tight through my ribs, and nodded. "I’ve been studying her magic. All of it. Everything I could find."
One of her eyebrows lifted. "Studying what kind of magic, exactly?"
"Shadow magic," I said, leaning forward, lowering my voice. "I found a tome—well, a very old book. In the library on the third floor. It talked about her family, their history, vile stuff. Really vile. Human experimentation, forbidden rituals, you name it."
Iskanda stared at me. Actually stared. Not with disbelief, amusement, or condescension, but genuine surprise—a rare thing for her.
"Saints," she breathed. "Well. That explains the nerves."
Before she could continue, the attendant returned balancing two trays piled so high with food I briefly wondered if he was trying to kill me via generosity.
The instant he set mine down, something primal deep within me lunged forward and seized control of my body.
I attacked the plate like a starving wolf in a snowstorm, shoveling food into my mouth so fast steam probably came out my ears. The ale I washed it down with only made things worse; some instinctual part of me seemed to believe that if I didn’t eat all of it within five seconds, someone would come snatch it away and laugh in my face.
By the time I resurfaced, Iskanda was staring at me like I was the most adorable gremlin ever birthed into existence. "You’re cute when you eat like that."
I choked. "Sh—shut up."
She didn’t. Of course she didn’t. Instead she placed one hand on my thigh—firm, warm, slow—and traced a circle with her thumb, leaning in like she was about to impart the wisdom of the ancients directly into my bloodstream.
Her eyes gleamed with the kind of confidence unique to powerful women who knew they were dangerous and enjoyed it immensely.
"I know just the thing to calm your nerves," she purred.
I almost groaned. Not because I disliked it—gods help me—but because I could already sense she was about to do something catastrophically stupid.
And right on cue, she stood. Snatched her ale. Planted one boot on the table like a pirate captain claiming a ship. Then raised her glass high above her head.
Oh no.
"Oh gods, please no," I whispered, shrinking into myself. "Iskanda don’t you dare—"
"Hey!" she bellowed, the sound ringing off the marble walls like a warhorn. Every Velvet within three tables turned to look at her. Then more. Then more. Within seconds, she had the room’s attention like she’d pulled the lever on some massive spotlight.
"My lovely little student here"—she pointed directly at me, and I tried melting into the bench—"is running a match tomorrow night! Midnight sharp! And he’s absolutely brimming with nerves!"
The hall erupted in laughter, cheers, and several wolf whistles.
I considered dying. Right there. On the spot.
"So!" she continued, beaming proudly, "I think he deserves a little support, don’t you? Say now," She paused for a moment, letting her words hang in the air. "Who wants to fuck?"