Quentin’s hand shot out faster than I expected—which, admittedly, wasn’t that fast, but I was running on fumes and blood loss at this point—and his fingers clamped around my metal collar with enough force to make my skull vibrate.
He yanked me forward, our faces suddenly inches apart, and began screaming with the kind of manic, vulgar rage that only comes from watching everything you care about collapse in real time.
Spit flew from his lips and speckled my cheeks with warm, disgusting droplets. "You fucking piece of shit!" he howled, his voice cracking around the edges, his breath hot and rancid against my face. "You think you’ve won? You think you can just—just destroy her like this and walk away?! I’ll kill you! I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands, I’ll—"
I gave him my dumbest smile—the kind that suggested my brain had checked out for lunch and wasn’t planning on returning anytime soon—and let him finish his tirade before speaking with exaggerated politeness.
"You know," I said conversationally, as though we were discussing the weather rather than my imminent murder, "I’d be more concerned about your threats if your breath didn’t reek of Elvina’s foot. Seriously, how long did she have her heel on your tongue? Because whatever it was, it wasn’t worth it."
His face went from red to purple, a vein pulsing in his temple so prominently I briefly worried it might actually burst and spray the arena with his congealed rage.
His grip on my collar tightened, his other hand coming up as though he fully intended to start pummeling me right there in front of everyone, consequences be damned, and I’ll admit, there was a tiny part of me—the part that handles survival instincts and self-preservation—that started screaming about how maybe antagonizing the unhinged man with his hands around my throat wasn’t the best tactical decision I’d ever made.
Then Director Thalen’s voice cut through the air like a guillotine blade—sharp, final, and utterly devoid of tolerance.
"Quentin. That is enough." The words weren’t shouted, weren’t even loud, but they carried a weight that made the entire arena seem to hold its breath.
I felt Quentin’s hands freeze on my collar, his body going rigid as though someone had poured ice water directly into his spine. He released me with a shove that sent me staggering back a step, my boots scuffing against the sand, and turned toward the viewing platform with his jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding from three meters away.
"Director," he began, his voice still trembling with barely suppressed fury but now forced into something resembling respectful address, "with all due respect, the information that has been disclosed here tonight—information about the Veylith family—was supposed to remain private, kept only by the highest ranking scholars and officials within this tower."
He swept his arm out in a wide gesture that encompassed the paper-strewn arena, the crowd clutching their incriminating parchments, the chaos still simmering just below the surface.
"Releasing this knowledge to the public should be considered a capital offense, punishable by death. Every single person involved in this—" he spun, pointing directly at Brutus in the front row, then at Freya near the archway, Mia on the stairs, Renly by the eastern exit, each member of my crew picked out with accusatory precision, "—should be executed on the spot for their crimes against the security of this tower and the safety of its operations!"
Director Thalen tilted his head, one skeletal finger rising to tap thoughtfully against his chin. I watched with growing unease as he considered Quentin’s words with what appeared to be genuine contemplation.
The silence stretched, uncomfortable and heavy, broken only by the rustle of papers still settling across the arena floor and the soft murmur of confused spectators trying to understand what was happening.
Several Velvets and nobles began to rise from their seats, making their way toward the exits. Quentin’s head snapped toward them with predatory focus.
"Halt!" he commanded, his voice sharp enough to stop them mid-step, "Each and every person in this room is now a walking information hazard. You possess knowledge that makes you targets, that makes you liabilities, and I cannot—I will not—allow you to leave until this situation is resolved."
The nobles in particular bristled at that, their faces flushing with indignation, because apparently being ordered around by someone they considered beneath them was more offensive than potentially being murdered for knowing too much.
"How dare you!" one of them spluttered, a woman dripping in jewels and self-importance. "You presume to give us commands? A mere slave? Guards, remove this insolent—"
Director Thalen raised one hand, the motion small but impossibly commanding, and silence crashed down over the arena like a physical force.
"Quentin is correct," he said simply, his voice carrying that terrible calm that suggested arguing would be not only futile, but potentially fatal. "Given the sensitive nature of what has been revealed here tonight, I must insist that everyone remain seated until we determine the appropriate course of action. The Veylith family is... not known for their mercy toward those who possess knowledge of their practices. Your safety, and the security of this tower, depends on containing this information."
The nobles and Velvets who’d been moving toward the exits reluctantly, resentfully, returned to their seats, their grumbling filling the space like the buzz of angry wasps.
Thalen’s gaze swept across the arena, settling on the papers scattered like fallen leaves, and when he spoke again, his tone had shifted into something more grave, more weighted with implications.
"The disclosure of this information was indeed meant to be kept in absolute secrecy," he continued, and I saw Elvina’s face light up then, hope flickering across her bloodied, tear-stained features like the last guttering of a dying candle. "The Veylith family has considerable reach, considerable resources, and they have demonstrated in the past that they are willing to go to extraordinary lengths to silence those who threaten their reputation."
Quentin’s expression transformed, that manic fury melting into something triumphant, cruel, a smile spreading across his face that made him look like he’d just won the lottery and discovered it came with a free license to murder whoever he wanted.
He turned toward me, that smile widening into something that showed far too many teeth, and began to speak with the kind of gloating pleasure that only comes from watching your enemy’s plan crumble before their eyes.
"You hear that?" he said, practically purring the words. "Your little scheme, this pathetic attempt at revenge—it’s all falling apart. The information you’ve disclosed here won’t pass beyond these walls. We’ll contain it, bury it, and everyone involved in spreading it will be dealt with accordingly."
He took a step closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried across the sand.
"You’ve accomplished nothing except signing your own death warrant and dooming everyone stupid enough to help you. How does that feel, knowing you’ve killed them all for nothing?"
I paused, letting his words hang in the air, letting him bask in his perceived victory for just a moment longer, because the fall was always so much more satisfying when they thought they’d won.
Then I started to snicker.
Just a small sound at first, a quiet chuckle that bubbled up from somewhere deep in my chest, but it grew, building in volume and intensity until I was laughing—really, truly laughing—with the kind of unhinged joy that made me look absolutely deranged.
Tears formed at the corners of my eyes, my shoulders shaking, and I had to bend slightly at the waist because the laughter was making my injured side scream in protest, but I couldn’t stop, couldn’t contain the sheer absurdity of it all.
Quentin’s smile faltered, confusion flickering across his features. I straightened slowly, wiping at my eyes with the back of my bloodied hand.
"Oh, Quentin," I said, my voice still trembling with suppressed laughter, "you absolute idiot. Did you really think I’d go through all this trouble, orchestrate this entire scheme, and not account for the possibility that someone might try to contain the information?"
I shook my head, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. "I knew something like this would happen. Of course I did. So I made preparations—insurance, you might call it—for this exact situation."
His face twisted, confusion morphing into something darker, more uncertain. He opened his mouth to respond just as the massive double doors behind Director Thalen’s viewing platform burst open with a crash that echoed across the arena like thunder.
A man stumbled through—an attendant, judging by his uniform, his face flushed and his chest heaving like he’d just sprinted up several flights of stairs. He held a paper clutched in one trembling hand, raising it high.
"Director!" he shouted, his voice cracking with urgency and panic. "Director Thalen, urgent news—they’re everywhere! These papers, information about the Veylith family, they’re raining down into the city! The entire inner circle is in chaos, people are reading them, spreading them, the nobles are in an uproar—" He broke off, his gaze finally landing on the paper-covered arena floor.
Then his eyes widened with dawning comprehension.
The arena froze. Not metaphorically—literally, every single person in the room seemed to stop breathing, to stop moving, to stop existing for one perfect, crystalline moment as the implications of those words sank in.
Director Thalen’s expression went utterly blank, his skeletal features smoothing into a mask that revealed nothing, but I saw the way his fingers tightened on his cane, the subtle tension that rippled through his frame.
Quentin’s face, in contrast, went through a fascinating journey of emotions in rapid succession—confusion, disbelief, horror, absolute pants-shitting terror—before settling on something that looked like a man watching his own execution being prepared before his eyes.
And Elvina, still kneeling in the sand where I’d left her, simply stared up at me with an expression of such complete, devastating shock that I almost—almost—felt sorry for her.
I dusted off my hands with exaggerated nonchalance, making a show of brushing sand from my palms, and smiled at Quentin with a sweet, innocent expression.
"Whoops," I said lightly.
Before anyone could process what was happening, before the words could fully register, another commotion erupted from one of the archways in the seating area behind us.
Two bronze-plated guards came marching through, and between them, held firmly by his arms, was Malrick of all people—lanky frame, long straight hair hanging in greasy strands around his face, eyes wide and manic with that twitchy, unfocused energy that came from too many days without his fix.
His fingers spasmed and flexed constantly, reaching for things that weren’t there, and even from a distance I could see the way his pupils had blown wide, consuming his irises in black pools of chemical desperation.
"Director," one of the guards called out, "we caught this man on the western balcony, throwing sacks of papers down into the city streets. He had accomplices, but they scattered before we could apprehend them all."
Malrick wriggled in their grip like a caught fish, his laugh sharp and fractured. Then his gaze found me across the sand and his entire face lit up with manic glee.
"Loona!" he shouted, his voice cracking on my name. "I did it! I did everything you asked! I distributed the papers just like you said, covered half the inner circle before these tin-plated bastards grabbed me!"
He thrashed harder against the guards’ hold, his tone shifting from triumphant to pleading in a heartbeat. "So how about it? Can I get some Erosin now? Just a drop, just one little drop, it’s been so long since I had a taste and I’m crawling out of my skin here, I did good, right? I did what you wanted so just—"
One of the guards cracked him across the back of the head with an armored fist, the sound ringing out sharp and final. Malrick’s words cut off mid-sentence as his eyes rolled back and his body went limp in their grip.
More guards began filing in from the other entrances, each pair dragging or escorting another familiar face—the former drug lords I’d assimilated into my crew, each one looking varying degrees of disheveled, defiant, or resigned to their fate.
They lined up along the edges of the arena like some perverse gallery of criminals, and I had to bite back another laugh because the sheer absurdity of it all was almost too perfect to be real.
Director Thalen’s gaze swept across the parade of chaos, then settled on me with an intensity that should have been terrifying, yet felt oddly approving instead.
"Well," he said slowly, his voice carrying a note of something that might have been admiration if you squinted hard enough, "it appears you’ve been more thorough than I anticipated." He paused, his skeletal fingers tapping against his cane in a rhythm that somehow managed to sound contemplative despite the chaos surrounding us. "The damage, I’m afraid, has already been done. Attempting to contain this now would be like trying to catch smoke with bare hands—futile, visible to all, and ultimately more damaging than simply accepting what has been revealed."
Quentin’s head snapped toward the viewing platform, his expression twisting into something caught between desperation and outrage.
"Director!" he shouted, his voice cracking with the force of it. "You can’t possibly—you’re just, what, going to let him walk away from this? After everything he’s done, after the chaos he’s unleashed, you’re going to let him off the hook?!"
"Yes," Director Thalen interrupted. The old man’s gaze remained fixed on me, something unreadable flickering in those ancient eyes. "I am going to let him, as you so eloquently put it, ’off the hook.’"
He shifted his weight against his cane, his posture somehow managing to convey both weariness and absolute authority. "And I will tell you precisely why, Quentin, so that perhaps you might understand the position we find ourselves in." He gestured with one skeletal hand out toward the arena.
"Loona here has ensured that any action we take against him—any punishment, any execution, any attempt to silence him—would only serve to validate the information he’s released. He would become a martyr, a symbol of truth suppressed by corrupt authority, and the Veylith family’s crimes would be etched into the public consciousness as fact rather than rumor. Punishing him now would do far more damage to this tower’s reputation than simply accepting his victory and moving forward."
I spread my arms wide, ignoring the way the motion made my side scream in agony, and gave him a bow. Then I straightened, turning to address the crowd, the nobles clutching their damning papers, the Velvets trying to process what they’d just witnessed, Elvina still frozen in her shock, and Quentin looking like he might vomit.
And then I spoke.
"You wanted to contain the information? Too late. You wanted to kill everyone who knew? Congratulations, you’d have to murder half the inner circle, and I’m fairly certain even the Veylith family doesn’t have the resources to make that many nobles disappear without waging war." My smile sharpened into something dangerous. "The secret’s out. The truth is flying through the streets on paper wings. And there’s not a single thing any of you can do to put it back in its box."
The silence that followed was absolute, perfect, the kind of quiet that feels like the world itself is holding its breath. And in that moment—covered in blood, sand, and exhaustion, surrounded by the wreckage of Elvina’s reputation and the evidence of my reckless brilliance, I felt something close to peace settle over me.
The match was over. The secret was free. And I’d won in every way that mattered.