The remaining days leading up to the day of assignment passed in what I can only describe as a blur of tactical instruction mixed with mounting existential dread, punctuated by the bittersweet moment when I transferred ownership of the blackbane back to Iskanda—a transaction that left me feeling oddly hollow despite knowing it was only meant to be a temporary bond.
From then, Iskanda threw herself into my education with renewed intensity, glazing over the city’s hidden passages I’d somehow missed, explaining the intricate web of alliances and rivalries that governed the inner circle’s power structure, teaching me secret signs and code phrases that would identify me as someone worth knowing rather than robbing.
She mapped out safe houses and dangerous territories, explained which noble families were rising and which were falling, detailed the various brothels’ reputations and specialties with the clinical precision of someone reviewing restaurant menus.
It was exhausting, exhilarating, and exactly the kind of information I needed if I was going to survive what came next—but through it all, one thing kept nagging at me like a persistent itch I couldn’t quite reach.
She didn’t mention her ruby. Not once. Not a single peep, whisper, or casual inquiry.
The silence on the subject was so complete, so conspicuous, that it actually unsettled me more than if she’d confronted me directly, because it meant one of two things: either she somehow hadn’t noticed it was missing, which seemed statistically impossible given how perceptive she was, or she had noticed and was just pretending otherwise for reasons I couldn’t begin to fathom.
Maybe she was waiting for me to bring it up first, testing to see if I’d confess. Maybe she already knew I had it and was playing some elaborate game I wasn’t clever enough to see yet. Maybe—and this was the most unsettling possibility—she simply didn’t care, which would suggest the ruby was either less valuable than I thought or she had contingency plans I really didn’t want to contemplate.
Either way, the whole situation felt like walking around with a live grenade in my pocket while pretending everything was perfectly normal, which, to be fair, wasn’t that different from my usual existence but still managed to add an extra layer of stress to an already stressful week.
I decided not to dwell on it too much, forcing my thoughts instead toward the rapidly approaching day of selection, because obsessing over things I couldn’t control was a fast track to the kind of anxiety spiral that ended with me doing something spectacularly stupid.
My hopes were modest, really—I just wanted to avoid ending up in the absolute worst parts of the city, the slums where survival was measured in days rather than years and where the brothels were less "establishments of refined pleasure" and more "places where hope goes to die."
The mid-tier would be ideal, somewhere with actual resources and clients who possessed both wealth and a vested interest in keeping their entertainment alive.
I could only pray—and I wasn’t even sure which deity to pray to, given that most of them probably had strong opinions about succubi such as I—that my name following the match would spread fast enough for someone powerful to set their sights on me and offer their patronage before the random selection lottery condemned me to someplace truly horrific.
Of course, there was also the very real possibility that the exact opposite would happen, that my reputation as a chaos-generating menace who’d publicly destroyed someone’s entire existence would make me too risky for anyone sensible to touch, in which case I’d be stuck hoping that whatever kind of crazy was willing to take me in would at least be the interesting kind of crazy rather than the "lock you in a basement and forget you exist" kind.
My nights were filled with variations of these thoughts, cycling through possibilities, contingencies, and backup plans until my brain felt like it was running on fumes and spite, and then suddenly—blessedly, terrifyingly—the day arrived.
I was the first to wake, which was unusual enough to be noteworthy given my general preference for sleeping until either forced awake or bribed with food, but excitement and nervousness had formed an unholy alliance in my gut that made continued unconsciousness impossible.
I sat up in my bunk with the kind of explosive energy usually reserved for small children on their birthdays, swung my legs over the edge, and launched myself into open air with what I can only describe as reckless optimism.
I executed a completely unnecessary flip on the way down—because style points matter even when there’s no one awake to appreciate them—and landed on the floor below with a soft thump that was far more graceful than I had any right to achieve given that I’d just woken up and my depth perception wasn’t fully online yet.
I slipped on my boots with practiced efficiency, the leather familiar and comfortable against my calves, then reached up to pull the ruby from beneath my pillow where it had spent the past several nights radiating vague magical menace.
The gem felt warm in my palm, almost alive, pulsing with that same rhythmic energy I’d noticed before, and I tucked it carefully into my boot where it pressed against my skin with reassuring weight.
Brutus grumbled awake at the sound of my landing, his single arm coming up to rub at his eyes with the bleary confusion of someone who hadn’t intended to be conscious yet.
"Wha’time’issit?" he mumbled, the words running together into a single slurred sound that might have been language if you were feeling generous.
"Time to change our lives forever!" I announced with excessive enthusiasm, spinning in place with my arms spread wide. "Or at least time to find out if we’re going to do so in luxury or abject misery. Could go either way, really. The day is young and full of terrible possibilities!"
The rest of my crew began stirring then, roused by either my voice, Brutus’s grumbling, or simply by the cosmic awareness that something important was happening and sleeping through it would be a poor decision.
They stumbled out of their bunks with varying degrees of grace—Renly managed it smoothly despite the bandages still wrapped around his torso, Freya dropped down with a predator’s precision, Mia needed help from both of them as she looked like she could collapse back into sleep at any moment.
Brutus took an extra moment, and I caught him reaching into his sack, retrieving something wrapped in cloth that I knew was his shotgun. He unwrapped it before tucking it carefully into the inside of his belt with practiced efficiency, the bulge barely visible if you weren’t looking for it.
From then, we filed out into the hallway where Iskanda was already waiting, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed and an expression that suggested she’d been standing there long enough to be mildly annoyed but not quite irritated.
Her eyes swept over our disheveled group and landed on me with particular focus, one eyebrow arching with amused incredulity.
"You seem unusually energetic this morning," she observed, her tone carrying that dry kind of quality that suggested she found my enthusiasm both adorable and slightly concerning. "I expected you to stumble out here half-asleep and complaining about the hour. What happened? Did someone spike your water with concentrated sunshine?"
I grinned at her with enough brightness to constitute a safety hazard. "I’m ready," I declared, bouncing slightly on the balls of my feet because apparently my body had decided we were doing this with maximum enthusiasm whether my brain was on board or not. "Ready to leave this cursed tower, ready to step out into the city and seize new opportunities, ready to discover what fresh horizons await me in the great wide world beyond these oppressive marble walls!"
I threw my arms out in a dramatic gesture that nearly clipped Brutus in the face. "Can’t you feel it, Iskanda? The universe is practically vibrating with possibility right now. Today is the day everything changes!"
Iskanda rolled her eyes with the kind of fond exasperation usually reserved for dealing with overexcited puppies.
"Whatever," she said, though the smirk tugging at her lips rather undermined the dismissive tone. "Come along, you bunch of lunatics. Let’s get you processed before your collective energy becomes a fire hazard."
We followed her through the tower’s marble halls, twisting and turning through passages I’d walked a dozen times but somehow felt different now, charged with significance and finality.
This was the last time I’d walk these corridors as a resident of the tower—the next time I saw these walls, if I ever did, I’d be someone else entirely, transformed by whatever came next. The thought made something flutter in my chest, equal parts excitement and terror doing an elaborate dance that made my heart skip erratically.
Finally we emerged into a massive circular room I’d never seen before, one that made even the dining hall look modest by comparison.
The ceiling soared overhead in a perfect dome, and surrounding the space was a balcony that ran the entire circumference, accessible by a spiraling staircase carved into the far wall.
Along every section of wall were those same pneumatic glass tubes I’d seen in the upper floor’s library, each one humming with quiet mechanical energy, ready to shoot their cargo of papers and scrolls to waiting recipients.
Behind each cluster of tubes sat large wooden desks, manned by attendants in crisp uniforms who looked like they’d been professionally trained to project both efficiency and complete indifference to human suffering.
But what really caught my attention were the statues—towering marble figures positioned at regular intervals around the room’s perimeter, each one depicting a stern-faced individual in elaborate robes with expressions that suggested they’d spent their lives being deeply disappointed in everyone around them.
They had to be past Directors of the tower, I realized, immortalized in stone and positioned to watch over the selection process like judgy ancestors presiding over a family gathering where everyone knows someone’s going to start a fight before dessert.
I nudged Brutus with my elbow, pointing at one particularly pompous-looking statue whose marble nose had been carved at such an angle he appeared to be perpetually looking down it at everyone.
"You think that one died of natural causes," I stage-whispered loud enough for half the room to hear, "or did someone finally get tired of his shit and push him down the stairs?"
Brutus snorted, his scarred face creasing into a grin. "My money’s on assassination. Nobody gets a statue that smug without making enemies." He gestured toward another one, this one depicting a woman with severe features and what looked like a permanent scowl etched into marble. "That one, though? Definitely died cursing everyone she’d ever met. You can see it in the eyes."
I was about to crack another joke when movement in my peripheral vision made me pause, my attention snagging on a figure huddled against the base of one of the statues.
Elvina sat there, or rather collapsed there, her body curled into a tight ball with her knees drawn up to her chest, her dark hair undone and hanging in limp strands around her face.
She was sobbing—soft, broken sounds that hiccupped in her throat—and even from this distance I could see the way her shoulders trembled with each breath. She’d been brought here privately, probably escorted separately to avoid any incidents, and something in my chest did an uncomfortable squeeze at the sight of her reduced to this, at what I’d done to her for my own selfish progression.
The moment stretched, guilt trying to worm its way into my consciousness and establish a foothold, but before it could gain any real traction Iskanda’s voice boomed across the room like a cannon shot.
"Step forward!" she commanded, her tone cutting through the ambient noise and scattered conversations with authority that made everyone instinctively straighten. "Allow room for the other parties to make their way through. And for the love of all that’s holy, don’t touch anything expensive—half the artifacts in this tower are cursed and I don’t want to spend my morning explaining to the Director why someone’s hand turned into a crab."
As if her words had been a cue, the massive double doors we’d just entered through burst open with theatrical timing, and a torrent of slaves poured into the room like a breaking dam.
They flooded in by the dozens, maybe hundreds, each one accompanied by their own high-ranking Velvet who looked varying degrees of bored, impatient, or actively hostile.
Within moments the entire space was packed to the brim with bodies, voices rising in nervous chatter and anxious speculation, the air itself seeming to compress under the weight of so much collective anticipation and dread.
And thus began what I could only think of as The Ritual—though calling it that felt overly dramatic even by my standards, so let’s say it was more like The Extremely Organized Chaos That Would Determine Everyone’s Immediate Future And Also Possibly End In Tears.
The glass tubes along the walls began to whirl and hiss with sudden life, the sound building from a quiet hum into a mechanical symphony of pneumatic pressure and rushing air.
Scrolls shot down through the tubes with impressive velocity, landing in receiving baskets at each desk with soft thumps, and the attendants sprang into action with the coordinated precision of people who’d done this a thousand times and had the process down to a science.
They snatched up scrolls, unrolled them just enough to read the names inscribed in flowing script, and began calling out in a torrent that made individual announcements blur together into a continuous stream.
"Marcellus! Assigned to the Rose Garden!"
"Lydia! The Gilded Cage!"
"Thomas! The Silk Den!"
The room filled with reactions—nervous laughter, relieved sighs, choked sobs, excited squeals—as slaves began filing out with their new assignments clutched in trembling hands.
Some looked thrilled, having landed in establishments known for treating their workers well. Others looked like they’d just been handed a death sentence, their faces draining of color as they processed where they were headed.
The majority fell somewhere in between, too numb or overwhelmed to process anything beyond the basic fact that their lives had just changed irrevocably.
I grew what I can only describe as spectacularly bored as the names continued spilling forth in endless succession, none of them mine, watching person after person claim their scrolls and vanish through the exits like actors leaving a stage.
My crew started disappearing one by one—first the lesser members I’d barely gotten to know, then some of the drug lords I’d assimilated who gave me nods of acknowledgment as they passed.
Freya and Mia came up together, their names called almost simultaneously, and Freya strode over to collect both scrolls with a grin splitting her face.
"We got assigned the same place!" she announced, bouncing on her toes with excitement. "Some brothel in the middle of the city—The Rose Garden, apparently. Supposed to be decent, not too violent, good clientele." She turned to me, her expression sobering slightly. "You better end up somewhere we can visit you, or I’m breaking into wherever you are and causing problems until they let me see you."
Relief flooded through me so intensely it made my knees weak. "Thank the gods," I breathed, reaching out to grip her shoulder. "Keep her safe, Freya. Promise me. Whatever happens, whatever clients she gets, whatever situations arise—you watch her back."
Freya’s grin returned, sharp and dangerous. "As if you even need to ask. Anyone tries anything, they’ll learn why they call me Freya the Flayer." She paused, then added with mock seriousness, "Well, okay, nobody actually calls me that yet, but they will after I establish my reputation."
She turned to Brutus, her expression softening. "Take care of yourself, big guy. Don’t let any fancy nobles push you around just because you’re missing an arm. You’re worth ten of them."
Brutus rumbled something that might have been agreement or might have been an emotion he was trying very hard to suppress, and Freya squeezed his massive shoulder once before turning and leading Mia toward the exit.
Renly went next, his name called shortly after, and he gave me a little salute that was equal parts cheeky and genuinely affectionate before vanishing into the crowd.
Even Elvina was called, though she had to be physically helped to her feet by an attendant who looked like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. She stumbled toward the exit without ever looking in my direction, her eyes fixed on the floor, and I watched her go with emotions I wasn’t entirely comfortable examining too closely.
The exodus continued until the room had emptied to perhaps a quarter of its original population, and then—abruptly, jarringly—the names stopped being called entirely.
The attendants at the desks looked up from their scrolls, exchanged glances with each other, and then simply... waited. Silence fell across the remaining slaves, confused murmurs building as people looked around trying to understand what was happening.
My own confusion grew thicker with each passing second, because my name hadn’t been called and Brutus was still standing beside me. Neither of us had received our assignments.
Iskanda’s voice boomed from the center of the room, cutting through the anxiety like a blade. "If you’re still remaining in this hall," she announced, her words carrying to every corner of the space, "it means you’ve been selected by a last-minute patron. The regular lottery process doesn’t apply to you. Wait there for personal delivery of your assignments."
Brutus and I glanced at each other in stunned surprise, his eyes going wide with disbelief that probably mirrored my own expression.
A patron. Someone had specifically requested me. After everything that happened with Elvina, after the spectacle, the chaos, and the absolute insanity of that match, someone with power had looked at all of that and thought "yes, I want that one."
The desk attendants began moving through the room with renewed purpose, carrying the remaining scrolls and distributing them personally to the handful of slaves left standing.
One approached me—a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses and an expression suggesting profound indifference to human existence—and extended a scroll in my direction.
I snatched it from his fingers before he even had time to properly offer it, probably nearly taking his hand off in my haste, and unrolled the parchment so fast it made a sharp snapping sound.
My fingers were sweating, actually sweating, leaving damp marks on the expensive paper as my eyes scanned the text written in elaborate calligraphy.
And then I saw it.
No way.
No fucking way.
"Are you—is this—what the actual—" I stammered, eloquence completely abandoning me as curse words of joyous disbelief tumbled from my mouth in a torrent. "This can’t be real. After all this time. After everything. It can’t possibly be—"
But it was. Right there in flowing script at the bottom of the letter, the name of my new patron stared back at me with undeniable clarity.
Julius Ficklebottom.