There are high places in this world meant for gods and gamblers, for prophets and fools, for anyone arrogant enough to believe they could touch the sky without getting burned by whatever cosmic forces governed altitude and hubris.
I stood at one such place now, on the second floor of Oberen’s Den, leaning against a stone railing that separated observation from participation, safety from the beautiful chaos sprawling below.
The space up here was darker than the golden brilliance of the pit—torches mounted at wider intervals cast pools of amber light that didn’t quite reach each other, leaving gaps of shadow between them where mystery could thrive and secrets could whisper to each other about their plans.
The population was sparser too, just a few scattered figures lingering near the railing or disappearing through doorways I hadn’t noticed from below, all of them moving with the careful deliberation of people who knew exactly what they were doing and preferred everyone else remain pleasantly ignorant.
The air itself felt different up here, heavier somehow, like the atmosphere had gained weight from all the schemes being hatched in the darkness and couldn’t quite support its own mass anymore.
I leaned further against the railing, my fingers curling over the edge as I glanced down at the central pit where people writhed like a creature with too many hands, all of them dealing, stacking, scheming, reaching for fortune or drowning in debt with equal enthusiasm.
Beside me stood the Jackal woman, her forearms folded on the railing in a posture that managed to be both casual and calculated, that knowing smirk still playing at her lips while her ears twitched at sounds I couldn’t detect.
"See them down there?" she began, her eyes scanning the crowd with the focus of a predator cataloging prey. Her voice was smooth, rich, the kind of sound that tugged you forward without permission, making your body betray you before your mind even caught up. "All those desperate souls? The poor folk mingling with the highest of nobles, everyone thinking they’re the smart one, the lucky one, the exception to every rule that’s broken a thousand gamblers before them?"
She paused, letting the question hang while her tail swayed behind her in lazy arcs.
"It’s meant to be a trap," she continued, her tone shifting into something almost educational, like a professor explaining economic theory, except the subject matter was human suffering and the examples were happening in real-time below us. "The bright lights, the golden sand, the way everything glitters, shines, and promises that this time
I noted the hypocrisy in my head—her standing here explaining the trap while being the most obvious honeypot I’d encountered since waking up in this world—but kept my mouth shut, instead focusing my attention on the pit below with renewed scrutiny.
And gods, once you knew to look for it, the tragedy was everywhere.
A nobleman in flowing silk robes kicked a man to the ground—that same bent-spine fellow who’d traded his arm at the entrance, now sobbing and clutching at his bandaged shoulder, begging for just one last chance, one more game, swearing he could win it all back if they’d just let him play.
The nobleman laughed, placed his expensive boot on the man’s chest, and asked loudly what he had left to wager now that he’d already sold himself piece by piece.
A woman sat at a card table with a blade pressed to her throat, her hand trembling but determined, using the threat of suicide as leverage in some negotiation I couldn’t hear but could imagine perfectly—offering her life as collateral, betting that whoever she was playing against would care more about avoiding a mess than collecting whatever debt she owed.
Another man was being escorted out by the casino attendants, screaming incoherently about rigged games, false promises, and how they couldn’t do this to him, his voice climbing higher and more desperate with each step until it cut off abruptly when they dragged him through a doorway and the sound just... stopped.
It was madness. Beautiful, terrible, chaotic madness. The kind of human misery that could make philosophers write dissertations, artists create masterpieces, and me stand here wondering if participating in this system made me complicit in the suffering or just pragmatic about survival in a world that didn’t care about moral high ground.
The Jackal woman chuckled—a sound that curled around me like silk spun in shadows, wrapping itself into my ears and settling there with uncomfortable intimacy.
"When I saw you enter the casino," she said, her voice dropping into something more personal, more genuine beneath the practiced seduction, "I felt something different about you. Something dangerous. Something magnetic." Her ears twitched forward, focusing entirely on me now. "I was hoping to see if that pull was real."
I turned slightly to meet her gaze, angling my body just enough to show I was engaged without fully committing to whatever game we were playing. "And did you find what you were hoping for?"
Her fingers slipped against my cheek—warm, slightly rough at the pads, like she’d done manual work at some point despite the expensive jewelry—then trailed lower, following the line of my jaw before sliding down my neck and across my collar with possessive slowness.
"Mm. That depends," she murmured, her voice taking on a quality that was half purr, half warning.
"On what?" I asked, keeping my tone light despite my brain screaming that this conversation was headed somewhere I probably shouldn’t follow.
"How many crowns you’ve got to offer." Her fingers paused at the neckline of my dress, toying with the fabric. "I don’t play with men who can’t afford to lose."
The implications of that statement hung in the air between us like smoke, visible but intangible, impossible to ignore yet difficult to grasp directly.
I decided to play it safe—or at least what passed for safe when you were being seduced by a supernatural predator on the second floor of a casino run by the man who’d stolen your life savings.
"Seventy-five crowns," I said with a shrug and a smirk, the gesture deliberately casual. "Pocket change. All I’ve got on me."
It was a lie, obviously. A complete fabrication. I still had thirty-four thousand crowns in registered value sitting in my pouch, but showing all my cards this early would be the kind of tactical error that got you cleaned out before you even sat at the table.
The Jackal woman’s ears perked straight up, twitching with an almost indecently cute flutter that clashed deliciously with the rest of her. Her eyes widened, caught somewhere between wicked amusement and the faintest, prettiest pout of disappointment. "Is that it? Seventy-five crowns? That’s all you brought with you?"
"Like I said. Pocket change."
She laughed—rich and low, the sound rolling through her chest before escaping into the air where it seemed to echo longer than physics should allow.
"Oh, sweet thing," she purred, her voice dripping with false sympathy, "with only that much, you’ll be stripped and swallowed by the time you finish your first round. The dealers will eat you alive, spit out your bones, and use them as toothpicks while they wait for the next fool to wander in thinking they’re special."
Her fingers trailed back higher, lightly grazing my neck with enough pressure to make the touch register yet gentle enough to feel like a caress.
My thoughts, however, were spiraling elsewhere entirely, racing through implications and possibilities while my face maintained that casual smirk.
I knew then—with the kind of certainty that came from spending too much time around people who wanted to use you—that this woman was playing a front. It wasn’t sex she wanted payment for, despite the touching, the innuendo, and the outfit that screamed "hire me for services both legal and otherwise."
There was something more behind this interaction, something that led deeper into whatever operation was running, something that might connect to Oberen himself, or at least to people who had access to the kind of money we needed to make this gambit work.
I slowly turned my head to face back into the pit, searching not only for my crew—I spotted Brutus’s massive frame near a dice table, Julius watching a card game with intense focus, Willow already chatting up a dealer—but for any sign of Oberen’s presence, any indication that the man himself was here watching his domain function or if he delegated that responsibility to his underlings.
My distraction didn’t go unnoticed because suddenly the Jackal woman’s hand closed around my chin with decisive force, turning my head to face hers. Then her mouth slammed into mine.
The kiss hit me like a tidal wave disguised as an ocean breeze—starting deceptively gentle before the full force crashed through whatever defenses I’d been maintaining.
Her mouth was hot, insistent, skilled in ways that spoke of extensive practice and natural talent combining into something that should’ve been illegal in any jurisdiction with functioning moral codes.
Her lips moved against mine with confident precision, parting just enough to let her tongue slide forward and trace the seam of my mouth in a slow, deliberate tease that made my brain temporarily forget how to process sensory information.
I gasped—couldn’t help it, the sound escaping me without permission—and she took the opportunity to deepen the kiss immediately, her tongue plunging past my lips to explore with the enthusiasm of someone mapping new territory and finding it surprisingly pleasant.
She moaned into my mouth, the vibration traveling through our connection and sinking low in my belly, blooming into a molten heat that spread in slow, syrupy waves, dripping along my spine before pooling thick and insistent between my thighs.
The wet symphony between us was shameless—sloppy glides of tongue, soft smacks when our mouths broke and crashed again, the lewd little suck when she sealed us tight and drew the air from my lungs into hers.
Her free hand slid through the slit in my dress—the one that ran from hem to upper thigh because apparently this outfit had been designed for strategic accessibility—and gripped with a possessive strength that made it very clear she wasn’t asking permission. Her thick fingers sank into the meat of my ass, kneading hard, dragging me flush against her until every inch of us fused.
I could feel everything—the feverish silk of her skin, the heavy sway of her breasts crushing against mine, nipples stiff and scraping through the thin layers between us, the way her breathing had accelerated to match mine, the slight tremor in her hand that betrayed genuine arousal beneath the calculated seduction.
When she finally pulled back—breaking the kiss with a wet sound that seemed pornographically loud in the relative quiet of the second floor—I couldn’t help but be flustered by the sudden advance.
My lips were swollen, slick with shared saliva, tingling with the ghost of contact that had ended too abruptly. My breathing came in short gasps that I tried desperately to control while my heart hammered against my ribs like it was attempting a jailbreak. My face felt hot, probably flushed red in ways that completely undermined any attempt to look cool and collected.
Before I could say a single word—before I could formulate a witty response, clever deflection, or anything resembling coherent speech—the Jackal woman gripped me by the wrist with the same decisive force she’d used on my chin.
She dragged me away from the railing, pulling me across the shadowy second floor toward a section I hadn’t noticed before where curtains hung in heavy folds, their deep purple fabric embroidered with gold thread that caught the torchlight and threw it back in spectral patterns.
She parted the curtains with her free hand, revealing darkness beyond that could have been a closet or a ballroom for all I could tell from this angle, and pulled me through into whatever space waited on the other side.
"Don’t talk," she whispered, her voice carrying command and promise in equal measure, her breath hot against my ear as she leaned close enough that I could smell that honey-amber scent mixing with the saliva still coating her lips. "Dance."