Julius took a few more faltering steps backward, his boots grinding shards of the shattered wine glass into glittering dust beneath his heels, each movement looking less like strategy and more like his body was operating on pure instinct—desperately negotiating for space from whatever threat had materialized in our doorway.
Then the visitor crossed the threshold with the languid certainty of a cardsharp who’d already palmed the winning hand and was now savoring the moment everyone else realized the deck had been stacked from the start.
He was a man who wore middle age the way others wore armor—not as something endured, but as a position he’d claimed and intended to occupy with absolute authority. Not young enough to be dismissed, not old enough to be pitied, but poised in that exquisite, enviable corridor where experience lent weight over weariness.
His hair was cut short and impeccably styled, a cool ash-blond that caught the light without trying for it. It framed a square, well-balanced face composed of clean, aristocratic lines—handsome not in a way that demanded attention, but in the far more dangerous way that assumed it.
And those eyes—bright, piercing green—gleamed with a cold, calculating intelligence that swept over you like a jeweler’s loupe, assessing flaws, value, and potential leverage in a single, unsettling glance.
A neatly trimmed beard traced his jaw, maintained with surgical precision, and he was dressed in a tailored suit. It was green, a deep, masterful shade that sat somewhere between emerald and old money, the kind of color that didn’t ask whether it suited you so much as inform the room that it had already decided.
The fabric was flawless, cut with ruthless precision to his frame, every seam intentional, every fold controlled. When he moved, the lining flashed gold—subtle but unmistakable, a quiet glint of excess revealed only to those paying close enough attention.
Draped over it was a vast white fur coat, heavy and unapologetic, resting on his shoulders like a declaration of sovereignty. The fur was pristine, impossibly so, the sort of white that spoke not of innocence but of expense, maintenance, and the expectation that no one nearby would dare stain it. The man wore it loosely, as if the sheer weight of luxury required no effort on his part to keep in place.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed enough to seem harmless at first glance—an illusion so carefully constructed it read less like passivity and more like performance.
His face was twisted into an expression of great joy and gentle nature—warmth radiating from those green eyes, lips curved in what appeared to be a genuine smile—but I could see it, could feel it beneath the surface like a splinter working its way deeper under skin.
Something else was hiding there. Something predatory. Something that wore kindness like a mask and would discard it the moment it ceased to be useful.
It didn’t help that two fairly intimidating figures entered alongside him, flanking his frame like living weapons trained to stand at parade rest until violence became necessary.
My heart caught—actually stuttered in my chest, missing a beat and then racing to catch up—when I noticed their collars.
Silken. Expensive. Marked with subtle patterns that identified their status as clearly as if they’d been wearing signs.
They were Velvets.
And this man owned them. Commanded them. Walked into our establishment with them at his sides like they were fashion accessories.
Except that was impossible—not figuratively impossible in the way people described unlikely events, but literally, categorically, legally impossible according to every law and precedent that governed how Velvets operated in society.
Velvets weren’t meant to be owned by anyone, not in any conventional sense of the term. They were only meant to work directly under government officials in the Spire. Not even Silas—a representative of the pantheon itself, had access to Velvets for personal use.
He could request their services through proper channels, could petition the Spire for temporary assignment if circumstances warranted, but he couldn’t just walk around with them as bodyguards, status symbols, or whatever this man was using them for.
Which posed the deeply uncomfortable question of exactly how powerful this man had made himself out to be, what connections he possessed that transcended normal hierarchies, what leverage he held over institutions that were supposed to be above leverage.
The first one, a woman, wore black like a second skin—velvet so fine it seemed to drink the light, clinging to her curves with possessive elegance while her companion, a man of lean, predatory grace, matched her in midnight velvet, a coat draped over his shoulders with casual arrogance.
My mind immediately began racing like a clockwork engine pushed to its limits, gears whirring as it sifted through the critical questions. Who was this man, why was he here, what did he want, and how badly was he about to destroy everything we’d just accomplished?
The man’s eyes drifted across the lobby in a slow, deliberate sweep—appraising, savoring, as though he were admiring a fine painting or weighing the value of a vintage wine.
When he spoke, his voice rolled out warm and cultured, each syllable perfectly placed by years of practice—the kind of voice that could soothe a council into agreement or condemn a man with gentle regret.
"Oh my," he said, "What a charming space this has become. Truly. The bones of it, you understand—the architecture, the layout, the way the light catches the upper balcony. Magnificent. Absolutely magnificent."
He took a few steps further into the room, his movements careful and measured. "I can see the vision here, the potential that’s been lying dormant beneath all this... well, all this character, shall we say. The decadent illusions of grandeur, the way the space tries so desperately to remember what it once was—it’s quite touching, really. Like visiting an aging courtesan who still applies her makeup with the same care she did in her youth."
He carried on in that vein, his voice settling into the hypnotic cadence of someone who could monologue for hours if left unchecked, waxing poetic about architectural details, historical significance, and the kind of melancholy that came from watching beautiful things deteriorate with time.
The words spilled forth like water from a broken pipe—impossible to stop, increasingly off-topic, building momentum with each detour until you forgot what the original point had been.
"And the craftsmanship!" he exclaimed, gesturing at the ornate molding along the broken ceiling. "You simply don’t see this kind of attention to detail anymore. Modern builders, they’re all about efficiency, cost-cutting, speed—no appreciation for the artistry that went into structures like this."
His gaze drifted slowly toward the scattered crates of gold then, and I watched with mild horror as the warmth in his expression vanished as cleanly as if someone had snuffed a candle.
The kindly mask remained, smile still gently curved, eyes still crinkled at the corners, but beneath it something cold and ravenous slid into place, sharpening every line of his face into quiet calculation.
Julius spoke up then, his voice carrying a stammer he was trying desperately to control. "W-what—what are you doing here, Oberen?"
I froze, my heart clenched by a horror so sudden and complete it felt as though an icy hand had plunged into my chest and crushed it mid-beat.
Oberen.
The name struck like a bell in a tomb, familiar and dreadful. I clawed through the cluttered shelves of my memory, shoving aside more recent terrors and triumphs, until—
There.
Iskanda. She’d told me about him during one of our late-night sessions. Oberen was that high-ranking noble who ruled a gambling den nestled in the city’s mid-section, one of those establishments that existed in the gray area between legal entertainment and organized crime.
She’d described him as dangerous—not in the obvious way that came with physical violence, but in the subtle way that came with intelligence, resources, and a complete lack of moral constraints when it came to pursuing his interests.
And now he was here, standing in our dusty lobby as casually as if he’d been invited for tea, gazing at our hard-won gold with the lazy satisfaction of a cat who’d just discovered a cornered mouse.
My mind raced, grasping for any innocent reason a noble with a gambling empire would wander into a crumbling brothel in the slums. A charitable inspection? A sudden nostalgia for authentic decay? A wrong turn on the way to somewhere infinitely more respectable?
None of them fit.
Then the answer settled in my stomach like molten lead—slow, heavy, burning away the last of my hopeful illusions.
This wasn’t coincidence. This was strategy.
Oberen’s smile widened slightly. "What am I doing here? Why, Julius, my boy, I’m simply checking on my property. Making sure my investment is being properly maintained. Surely you don’t begrudge a landlord the occasional inspection?"
His tone was light, almost conversational, yet laced with subtle undertones that made it clear the question he was asking wasn’t truly a question at all.
"Though I must say, I’m quite impressed by what I’m seeing. When you first approached me about renting this space, I had my doubts—serious doubts, to be frank—about whether you could make anything of this place. But look at you now! Hosting parties, attracting... associates." His gaze flicked meaningfully toward the gold again. "Clearly business is booming far beyond what either of us anticipated."
Julius swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. "We’re just—this is just a celebration. We recently secured some funding for renovations, nothing more. Surely there’s no issue with—"
"Issue?" Oberen interrupted gently, raising his hand in a gesture that looked conciliatory but somehow felt threatening. "No, no, dear boy, there’s no issue. None whatsoever. In fact, I’m delighted to see you’ve found such... substantial backing for your endeavors. It speaks well of your business acumen, your ability to attract investors, your general competence."
He paused, his smile taking on a quality that made my skin crawl. "Though it does raise certain questions about our current arrangement, doesn’t it? The terms we originally agreed upon were based on certain assumptions about your financial capabilities. Assumptions that appear to have been... shall we say, conservative? Given this rather dramatic change in circumstances, it seems only fair that we revisit those terms to ensure they properly reflect the reality of your situation."
The words were polite, reasonable even, if you didn’t listen too carefully.
Julius’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his body language screaming frustration even as he forced his voice into something approaching serenity. "Revisit the terms? Oberen, you just raised the rent two days ago. Surely you’re not suggesting—"
"Three days ago, actually," Oberen corrected. "Wednesday evening, if memory serves. I sent my letter to inform you of the increase—a modest adjustment, really, barely fifteen percent—which you accepted without complaint. Water under the bridge, as they say."
He clasped his hands in front of him now, his posture shifting into something almost apologetic. "But circumstances change, Julius. The economic landscape is constantly evolving. Costs rise, property values fluctuate, and landlords must adapt to maintain the solvency of their investments. Surely you understand this? You’re a businessman yourself now, after all."
The reasoning was elaborate—almost convincing if you didn’t notice how paper-thin it was, how little effort Oberen was actually putting into making it sound legitimate. He wasn’t trying to convince anyone he was being fair; he was just going through the motions of justification because convention demanded it, not because he actually cared whether we believed him.
Julius took a breath, composing himself with visible effort, his shoulders squaring as he forced his features into something approaching professional neutrality.
"Fine," he said, the word coming out clipped and tight. "How much? What’s the new rate?"
I saw the calculation flash across his face—the recognition that arguing was probably pointless, the pragmatic acceptance that we had ten thousand crowns sitting in crates around the room and could theoretically afford a reasonable increase, the desperate hope that "reasonable" was actually on the table.
Oberen’s smile widened into something wicked.
Not just wicked—terrifying
"Three thousand percent," he said simply.
The words hung in the air like a noose made of silk—soft, elegant, and absolutely lethal.
Julius’s jaw dropped—his mouth falling open in an expression of such complete shock that under different circumstances it might’ve been comical. Then the shock ignited, rage flooding his face in a hot, incandescent wave—cheeks flushing crimson, hands trembling with the kind of fury that made knuckles go white and veins stand out like cords.
"Three thousand percent?!" he exploded, his voice cracking on the numbers. "That’s—that’s not a rent increase, that’s extortion! That’s—you can’t possibly expect—that would make the monthly payment—" He broke off, doing the math in his head with the frantic desperation of a man watching his future burn in front of his eyes. "You’re insane! This is robbery dressed up as a lease agreement! I won’t—we can’t possibly—"
Oberen picked at his ear with one finger, the gesture so dismissive and casual it was clearly calculated to infuriate. When Julius finally ran out of breath, Oberen examined whatever he’d extracted from his ear canal with mild interest before flicking it away and returning his attention to the conversation.
"If you can’t comply with the new terms," he said, "then naturally I’ll have to exercise my rights as property owner and have you removed from the premises. It’s all quite standard, really—spelled out clearly in the contract you signed. Non-payment or refusal to accept rent adjustments constitutes breach of lease, which allows for immediate eviction with forfeiture of any improvements made to the property."
He smiled again, that same terrible expression. "Though I’d hate for it to come to that. Such an ugly process, eviction. All that unpleasantness with guards and legal proceedings. Much better for everyone if we can reach an amicable agreement, don’t you think?"
Julius was at a complete loss for words, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly while his brain tried to process the sheer audacity of what was happening.
My own mind had started going into overdrive, racing through possibilities and implications with the kind of frantic energy that came from recognizing disaster in real-time.
How had he known?
This was obviously a setup—too perfectly timed, too specifically targeted to be coincidence. Oberen would have no reason to visit a failing brothel in the slums on a whim, no reason to suddenly demand such an astronomical rent increase unless he knew something that made it worthwhile.
He’d known we were receiving these funds. Known the exact timing, known the approximate amount, known enough to calculate exactly how much he could extract before we’d be completely broken.
Had our radio communication been intercepted? The frequencies weren’t encrypted, anyone with the right equipment could have been listening when Atticus confirmed the ten thousand crowns. Or were there spies among the people on the streets we’d passed? Someone reporting our movements, cataloging the crates we were carrying, doing the math and selling that information to interested parties?
Or maybe—and this thought made my stomach twist with paranoia—maybe there was someone in our crew itself, someone who’d been compromised or bought, feeding information to people like Oberen in exchange for coin or favors.
I couldn’t tell. Had no way of knowing which vector had been compromised, which trust had been betrayed.
Oberen continued speaking then. "Let me see... your current rent is, what, three hundred twenty crowns per month? Quite reasonable for a property this size, even in the slums. A three thousand percent increase would bring that to..." He paused, clearly enjoying the mathematics. "Nine thousand nine hundred and twenty crowns per month. Quite the jump, admittedly, but well within your capabilities given your recent windfall."
His eyes tracked to the crates again. "And to ensure there’s no confusion about timing or expectations, I’m adjusting the payment schedule as well. Your next payment—the first at the new rate—will be due..." He paused, his face set in mock contemplation. "Immediately. Today, in fact. Right now, if that’s convenient."
He smiled like a benevolent uncle bestowing us a generous gift, rather than the architect quietly orchestrating our complete financial ruin.
"Consider it a gesture of good faith," he added. "Paying promptly demonstrates your commitment to maintaining our arrangement, proves you’re serious about running a proper establishment rather than some fly-by-night affair that might vanish into the shadows owing rent."
Oberen took Julius’s stunned silence as compliance—or perhaps just didn’t care, the distinction being irrelevant to his purposes—then snapped his fingers with the effortless command of someone accustomed to the world rearranging itself at the sound.
The two Velvets moved at once, their bodies flowing from statuesque stillness into purposeful motion with the flawless synchronization of dancers who’d rehearsed this particular step a thousand times.
They advanced on the crates with measured grace, black velvet shifting over lean muscle like liquid shadow. Each bent in perfect unison and lifted a crate as though it weighed no more than a hatbox, despite the fact that I’d personally watched ordinary men stagger and curse under the burden of the same load.
They began moving toward the door, carrying our fortune, everything we’d just worked to secure.
And I understood then, with crystalline clarity, that I needed to do something.
Now.