Moments later, I found myself transported from the chaotic celebration of the hot springs to the building’s rooftop.
The space was completely empty save for two plush velvet seats positioned on either side of a low table that sat at the center of the area like some kind of negotiation altar, intimate yet formal in ways that made my instincts scream warnings about power dynamics and carefully constructed traps.
A dozen or so guards stood in perfect formation around the perimeter—all wearing pure white armor polished to such an incredible sheen they caught the ambient light from the street lamps below and threw it back in blinding reflections.
The armor itself was a masterwork of craftsmanship, each piece fitted with precision that spoke to both protection and aesthetic consideration, plates overlapping in patterns that allowed mobility while presenting no obvious weak points.
Their helmets concealed their faces entirely behind narrow vertical eye slits, transforming them from people into symbols of authority made manifest in metal and menace. Each one held a wicked-looking spear with a shaft of polished marble and a head forged from gleaming metal.
I took my seat with measured care, the velvet cushioning beneath me doing absolutely nothing to ease the tension coiled tight in my muscles.
Even without actively reaching out with my magical senses, I could feel it—the weight in the air, the pressure of contained force held in perfect check. These weren’t decorative guards hired to impress or intimidate through spectacle alone. They radiated power, the kind that came from relentless training and disciplined control.
They seemed to be around Velvet-level in raw capability, the sort of elite operatives who didn’t get stationed on random rooftops unless whatever conversation was about to happen carried weight that justified their presence.
I doubted I’d escape alive if things devolved into violence, not against all of them at once—not without pulling tricks I didn’t currently possess or getting extremely lucky with environmental factors.
Directly in front of me sat Lord Erwin, his posture so perfectly straightened it looked painful, spine aligned with geometric precision, hands resting on his knees with fingers positioned at exact intervals.
He’d somehow made sitting in a velvet chair look like a formal military inspection, his entire being radiating the kind of discipline that treated relaxation as a character flaw to be eliminated through rigorous self-correction.
Priscilla came skipping up to us—her boots tapping against the rooftop in a rhythm that suggested she’d never encountered a situation too serious for whimsical locomotion—carrying a silver tray that held an ornate teapot and three delicate cups painted with designs too intricate to properly appreciate in the dim light.
She set the tray down on the low table with surprising care given her manic energy, then began pouring tea with movements that were almost ritualistic in their precision, steam curling upward from the cups in lazy spirals that caught the ambient light.
I leaned forward slightly, abandoning any pretense of patience because waiting had never been my strong suit.
"So," I began, my voice carrying just enough casual interest to mask the calculating assessment happening behind my eyes. "What kind of proposition are we talking about here?"
Lord Erwin’s expression didn’t shift, his face maintaining that same carefully neutral composition. "I would like your brothel—the Moonlight Sonata, I believe it’s called—to join our faction within the Pantheon. A formal alliance that would bring you under the Ivory Gambit’s sphere of influence, allowing you to represent our interests while receiving the considerable benefits such an arrangement provides."
My mind set ablaze the moment those words finished arranging themselves into comprehensible meaning, thoughts spinning faster than seemed physically possible as implications cascaded through my consciousness like dominoes toppling in increasingly complex patterns.
This offer was complicated, loaded with political ramifications I needed to untangle immediately before responding with anything except carefully measured neutrality.
I pulled up Iskanda’s lessons from memory with the efficiency of someone accessing a well-organized mental filing system, reviewing the sessions where she’d explained the Pantheon’s current political structure with her usual blend of tactical precision and barely-concealed contempt for nobility.
The Pantheon was currently split into two separate factions maintained in a state of perpetual cold war, each controlling exactly half the total power structure in a balance so precarious it made every decision feel like it carried the weight of potential catastrophe.
Five brothels sided with the Crimson Court at their forefront, the establishment Silas represented when he’d approached me about Lloyd’s debt—while the other five aligned themselves with the Ivory Gambit, creating a perfect balance of power that had remained stable for years through mutual deterrence and carefully maintained equilibrium.
The split itself had historical roots stretching back decades, originating from a philosophical disagreement between the Pantheon’s founding members about how the organization should operate, what values should guide its decisions, whether expansion or consolidation better served their collective interests.
The Crimson Court advocated for aggressive growth, for expanding influence beyond the Pantheon’s traditional boundaries, for treating the organization as a launching point for greater political ambitions that could reshape the entire city’s power dynamics.
The Ivory Gambit, by contrast, championed stability, arguing that the Pantheon’s strength came from maintaining its current position as arbiter of upper-tier affairs, that expansion invited risk and potential collapse if pursued too eagerly.
What began as philosophical difference calcified over time into genuine hostility, each faction viewing the other not merely as competitors but as existential threats to their vision of what the Pantheon should become.
They competed for clients, for territory, for political influence with the Spire’s administrators, for anything that could be quantified and ranked, their rivalry defining the upper tier’s entire social and economic landscape in ways that rippled down through the rest of the city’s power structure.
Joining Lord Erwin’s faction would mean subjecting the Moonlight Sonata to work under the Ivory Gambit’s direction. Not within the Pantheon itself, but merely representing their interests in the Velvet Chambers’ lower tiers, becoming one of their affiliated establishments acting as an extension of their influence in spaces they couldn’t directly control.
This was standard practice, actually, the expected progression for any brothel that demonstrated sufficient success to warrant attention from the powers above.
All high-level brothels eventually paired with one faction or the other, tying themselves to one of the ten establishments that composed the Pantheon’s core.
The benefits were substantial enough to make the arrangement attractive despite the loss of complete independence. Backing from one of the city’s most powerful organizations, exclusive access to their supply networks, political cover when conflicts arose with other establishments, guaranteed clientele drawn from their patron base who wanted variety without sacrificing the quality assurance that Pantheon affiliation provided.
I leaned forward slightly, keeping my tone light despite the weight of what I was asking. "That’s a very generous offer. Almost suspiciously generous given our current position. What exactly would this arrangement imply in practical terms? What obligations would we inherit, what freedoms would we retain, and—most importantly—what happens if we spectacularly fail to meet whatever expectations come attached to this alliance?"
Priscilla offered her father tea which he accepted with a single nod of acknowledgment before bringing the cup to his lips for a measured sip. She turned to me next, her smile bright and genuine despite the calculating intelligence I could see flickering behind those impossibly dark eyes, extending a cup toward me with both hands in a gesture that managed to be simultaneously gracious and vaguely threatening.
I took it because refusing felt like it would create more problems than it solved, the porcelain warm against my remaining fingers, steam rising to brush against my face with herbal fragrances I couldn’t identify.
I didn’t drink it yet, some instinct screaming warnings about accepting anything from people this powerful without thorough consideration of what acceptance might signify beyond simple hospitality.
Priscilla came around my chair without warning, draping her arms over my shoulders from behind in a casual embrace that made me tense involuntarily, her chin resting on top of my head with comfortable familiarity. She giggled softly to herself, the sound bright and pleased, humming with private amusement.
Lord Erwin set his teacup down with precise placement, his dark eyes never leaving my face as he began detailing the arrangement’s specifics.
"The arrangement would function as follows. Your establishment would receive financial backing to accelerate renovations and operational improvements, priority access to our network of suppliers and service providers, political protection from rivals who might otherwise feel emboldened to interfere with your business, and advisory support from experienced administrators who can help navigate the complexities of running a successful operation in the Velvet Chambers."
"In exchange," he continued without pause, "you would be expected to attend faction meetings when summoned, vote in accordance with our strategic interests when matters require collective decision-making, contribute a percentage of your profits to the faction’s shared resources, and occasionally perform services that advance our position relative to the Crimson Court. Nothing that would compromise your establishment’s integrity or place you in unreasonable danger, but tasks that require discretion and capability of the sort you’ve already demonstrated."
I let that information settle, processing the implications with the part of my brain that specialized in identifying problems hidden inside seemingly reasonable offers.
The arrangement sounded fair on the surface—standard political alliance, mutual benefit, clear expectations. But there was a structural issue that made me deeply uncomfortable, one that Iskanda had spent an entire session explaining with diagrams and increasingly creative profanity.
"Here’s my concern," I said slowly, organizing my thoughts into coherent sentences despite Priscilla’s arms still draped over my shoulders in a manner that made concentration considerably difficult. "All establishments tied to either faction operate within a hierarchical structure where competition is especially fierce, correct? A ranking system where those at the top have higher chances of entering the Pantheon if a spot ever opens up, with their respective faction backing them to skew the results of whatever competition determines succession?"
Lord Erwin’s expression shifted fractionally—not quite approval, but something adjacent to it, the faintest suggestion that he’d recalibrated his assessment of me based on my demonstrated understanding.
"Precisely. The structure ensures loyalty through incentive. Those who serve well, who demonstrate value to the faction, rise through the ranks and position themselves favorably for potential elevation."
"The only problem being," I continued, warming to the topic now that I’d identified the core issue, "that a spot in the Pantheon hasn’t opened in the past decade. All ten brothels have been using their combined backing to maintain a constant power structure that prevents any newcomers from breaking through, which means joining your faction would place us in direct competition with establishments that have had years to build advantages while we’re barely getting started. We’d be entering a race we’re already losing by default."
"The only way a spot opens," I pressed further, "is through sabotage. If one brothel attacks another within the faction, creates circumstances that force their removal or collapse. But getting caught doing that would lead to grave consequences—either the sabotage backfires on your own faction or sets in motion even greater conflict between the two sides. So what you’re really offering is the privilege of joining a system where advancement is functionally impossible unless someone else makes a catastrophically stupid decision."
Lord Erwin regarded me with what might’ve been respect, his posture shifting fractionally in a way that suggested I’d passed some kind of unspoken test. "Your analysis is sound. The structure does favor established players over newcomers. However, circumstances are changing. Tensions between factions have been escalating. The Crimson Court has been making aggressive moves that suggest they’re preparing for some form of direct confrontation. Having fresh blood with unique capabilities could prove invaluable when that confrontation arrives. Maybe then could you earn yourself a valuable position."
"Plus you’re adorable!" Priscilla added cheerfully, squeezing my shoulders. "We could dress you up in matching outfits and take you to faction meetings and everyone would be so distracted by how cute you are they wouldn’t notice Father making strategic maneuvers! It’s the perfect plan!"
I couldn’t help but smile slightly despite the weight of the decision pressing down on me, because Priscilla’s enthusiasm was genuinely infectious even when applied to schemes involving my weaponization as political decoration.
The silence stretched between us then, Lord Erwin waiting with that same infinite patience, Priscilla humming softly behind me, the guards maintaining their perfect formation around the perimeter.
The moment felt suspended, heavy with implication, the kind of decision point where choosing wrong could alter trajectories in ways I couldn’t predict.
And then I made my decision.
"I decline," I said finally, the words settling into the space between us with terminal finality.
Lord Erwin’s expression didn’t shift—not even fractionally, not even the microscopic twitch of a single facial muscle to suggest my refusal had registered as anything more significant than mild weather commentary.
He simply sat there in that perfect posture, hands resting on his knees, dark eyes tracking across my features with the same measured assessment he’d maintained throughout our entire conversation.
Priscilla’s arms tightened around my shoulders, her entire body going rigid against my back as though my words had physically shocked her nervous system into temporary paralysis.
"What?" she breathed, the single word carrying such genuine confusion it almost sounded hurt. "But—why would you—Father offered you everything! Protection, resources, backing from one of the most powerful brothels in the Pantheon! Do you have any idea how many establishments would kill for this opportunity? How many have begged for years just to be considered?"
I set down my still-untouched tea with careful precision, the cup meeting the silver tray with a soft clink that echoed across the quiet rooftop, meeting Lord Erwin’s impossibly dark eyes with as much confidence as I could project.
"You understand," he said slowly, "that refusing this offer places you in a precarious position. Without faction backing, you’ll be vulnerable to pressure from both sides. The Crimson Court will see you as potential recruitment or potential threat. Rivals within the Velvet Chambers will feel emboldened to test your boundaries. You’re choosing isolation in a system that punishes independence."
"Maybe," I acknowledged with a shrug. "But here’s the thing—I wouldn’t join any faction unless it guaranteed me complete and absolute backing without the competition attached. Not promises of support contingent on performance within some ranking system. Not vague assurances about ’valuable positions’ that might materialize if circumstances align favorably. Actual, concrete commitment that my establishment receives full resources and protection regardless of where we fall in whatever hierarchy you’re maintaining."
Priscilla had gone completely still behind me, her breathing shallow and rapid against my neck, her arms hanging loosely now as though she’d forgotten they were there. When she finally spoke, her voice had lost all its manic energy, replaced by something quieter and far more dangerous.
"Father," she whispered, "he just—did he really just—"
Just then, a sudden commotion erupted next to us, the sound of shouting voices rising in panicked discord, crashing through the heavy silence on the rooftop.
Then came the scream—blood-curdling, raw with terror and pain, a sound so visceral it made every hair on my body stand at attention and sent ice flooding through my veins.
I was already on my feet, enhancements flooding my system on pure instinct, my nerves screaming that whatever had just happened was about to make my already complicated evening significantly worse.