The courtyard, they called it. A charming word, really. Courtyard. Makes you think of fountains, hedges, maybe a pair of half-naked statues spitting water into a pool where noble ladies toss in coins and prayers.
No—this was not that.
This was a graveyard that had tried on a carnival costume and failed spectacularly. The ceiling arched high above us like the ribs of a whale, a massive cavern braced with iron beams, chains, and hanging platforms, all half-lit by oil lamps that belched smoke like drunkards belching regrets.
The stone walls wept moisture, black rivulets trickling down into grated gutters, and every corner seemed to shiver with the echo of voices, clanging metal, and laughter that carried more malice than joy.
It stretched wide, far wider than I’d ever thought possible inside a prison. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve sworn I’d walked into an underground city—the kind where you trade in sins instead of coin and the mayor was a rat with three knives.
Stalls lined the uneven walkways, slapped together from splintered wood and bent nails, selling goods of dubious origin: shanks carved from bones, jewelry made from teeth, bottles of liquid that looked like they’d kill you twice before breakfast. Off to one side, a pit ringed with crude ropes thrummed with the sound of fists meeting flesh. Off to another, a row of cages rattled with creatures—or men—too misshapen to classify.
I walked slowly, eyes darting everywhere, drinking it all in like a man at an orgy trying to sample every flavor before the punch ran out.
And yes, I caught it—the whispers.
The way heads tilted as I passed, voices dropping to conspiratorial murmurs. That’s him.That’s the gutterslut.The one who cheated the Boss.
My name slithered across the air like perfume, and gods, it smelled delicious. Fame is a tricky thing you see—it’s either the sweetest nectar or the deadliest poison, depending on how you sip it. I, for one, intended to guzzle.
"Don’t let it get to your head," Brutus muttered beside me, his broad frame shouldering through the press of bodies like a ship cutting water.
"Too late," I whispered back, fluttering my lashes at a passing thug who nearly tripped over his own boots. "It’s already gone straight to my tail. Any higher and it’ll give me a nosebleed."
Brutus grunted, which in Brutus-speak meant, you’re impossible to deal with but I can’t stop you, so I’ll just suffer quietly. He reached into his belt and produced a small pouch, worn leather, tied with twine. He handed it to me without ceremony.
"What’s this?" I asked, weighing it in my palm. Light, soft, faintly crinkly. I shook it by my ear like a present.
"Our product," he said simply. "The Boss gave us this much to start."
I untied the pouch and peeked inside. Green leaves. Crushed, dried, faintly aromatic, like some aunt’s herbal tea. I sniffed. The smell was sharp, bitter, and earthy, though not entirely unpleasant.
"So... what is it? Parsley? Oregano? Sage?" I pinched some between my fingers and sprinkled it in the air. "You gave me a bag of seasoning. How thoughtful. What do we do, sell it with roasted chicken?"
Brutus gave me a flat look, the kind that could sand wood. "It’s a common drug. Prisoners use it for relief. Smoked, chewed, brewed. The Boss expects us to move it."
I arched a brow. "Relief? Brutus, darling, I’m already the premier relief provider in this prison. No herb required."
He ignored that. "We can’t sell it as is though. It’s too weak, too easy to get. If you wanna make an impact—if you want influence—you’ll need to turn it into something stronger."
I tilted my head, grinning. "So you weren’t lying after all, about your past as a dealer and all that. I knew it. Those calm eyes? The stoic silence? Classic ex-drug-lord vibes. Tell me, did you have a street name? Big B? Wolf Daddy? The Brute with the Boot?"
His mouth twitched. He smirked—just slightly. "Shut up."
Victory. I tucked the pouch into my belt with a flourish. "Fine, fine. I’ll drop it."
Just then, as if summoned by the gods of bad timing, a wiry little man with too many teeth and not enough hygiene slithered out from one of the ramshackle stalls.
In his hands he held what I can only describe as a crime against carpentry: a lumpy, splintered, vaguely phallic object that looked like it had been whittled by a drunkard armed with nothing but spite and a butter knife. He thrust it toward me with all the confidence of a man presenting royal jewels.
"For you, pretty one!" he cackled, shaking it so the loose shavings sprinkled off like dandruff. "Handcrafted! One-of-a-kind! Give your backside a proper stabbing—eh?"
I blinked. Then I blinked again. My mouth opened, closed, and then betrayed me by whispering, "That looks like tetanus with a handle."
The man grinned wider, clearly mistaking my horror for interest. "Only two silver crowns! You won’t find craftsmanship like this anywhere—"
A large, scarred hand landed on my shoulder, squeezing just firmly enough to mean don’t even think about it. Brutus leaned down, his breath warm at my ear. "Focus," he said, though his tone had warmed—like maybe even he was fighting a laugh.
The vendor slunk back into the crowd, muttering something about "no taste these days," and I let out a sigh so dramatic it deserved applause.
"You’re no fun, you know that? I could’ve been a pioneer. The first man in history to die of both splinters and syphilis at the same time."
Brutus didn’t dignify that with a response. He just straightened, silent for a beat, before pausing to speak again.
"Before we get to mixing we’ll need to meet our new companions."
"Companions," I repeated, savoring the word like wine. "Sounds sexy. Who are they? Tell me one of them’s a gorgeous elf with a tragic backstory and an open relationship policy."
"You’ll see," he said, steering me toward the largest of the pits.
What we found there was a show of blood.
The crowd surged around the edge, roaring, jeering, coins changing hands faster than kisses at a brothel. Inside the rope ring, two fighters circled each other. One was tall, broad, muscled to the point of parody—veins bulging, fists like bricks, the kind of man sculpted to make lesser men feel insecure.
The other... well, the other was half his height, scarred like a map of bad decisions, with wild orange hair that stuck up like a bonfire. A dwarf. Shirtless, bloody, grinning like he’d just found a gold vein and three naked twins. His teeth flashed red, his chest heaved, and yet he looked... delighted.
The big man lunged, swinging a fist like a sledgehammer. The dwarf ducked under, nimble despite his stocky build, and slammed his head upward into the man’s gut. The crowd whooped as the giant staggered, wheezing. But the dwarf wasn’t done. He feinted left, darted right, and—gods bless him—bit the man’s thigh. Bit him. With teeth. Like a starving dog at a buffet.
The roar of laughter was deafening. The big man bellowed, swatting down, but the dwarf darted away, spitting a gob of blood and flesh onto the dirt with relish.
"Tastes like chicken!" he shouted, and the crowd howled.
They clashed again—fists, kicks, sweat spraying like rain. The big man got a grip, lifted the dwarf high, ready to slam him down. But in midair, the dwarf twisted, slipped a hidden blade from his boot, and jabbed it—not into flesh, oh no, that would’ve ended the game too soon—but into the man’s waistband. The blade hooked, tugged, and with one brutal rip, the man’s trousers split.
Down they went.
The big man froze, humiliated, his dignity flapping in the stale air for all to see. The crowd erupted into feral screams. The dwarf dropped to his feet, pointed at the man’s dangling shame, and bellowed: "Winner by cock-out!"
The pit shook with laughter, coins flying, men and women doubling over. The giant fled, red-faced, hands cupping himself. The dwarf stood victorious, arms raised, grinning so wide I thought his cheeks might split.
I let out a low whistle. "Well. If that’s not love at first sight, I don’t know what is."
And I, because I am who I am, hopped the rope and sauntered stright into the pit. My boots squelched in the blood-muddied dirt, but I didn’t care. The dwarf turned, spotted me, and his grin widened.
"Well, well," he said, voice booming like a tavern song. "If it isn’t the little cum-sniffer himself! Heard about you already. The way you rattled the big boss. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful."
I bowed low, hair falling like silk, hips swaying more than strictly necessary. "Loona, at your service. Cum-sniffer, gutter-stray, tail extraordinaire. And you, darling?"
He slammed a fist to his chest, leaving a smear of blood. "Name’s Dregan. Dregan Fallahan Lover of battle, drink, and anything with a pulse willing to sit on my face."
"Charmed," I purred. "And for the record, I’m very flexible on the last requirement."
He barked a laugh, loud and filthy. "Gods, I like you already. You got the stink of trouble on you. And I mean that in the best way."
"Oh, I stink, do I?" I teased, stepping closer. "Careful, dwarf, or you’ll find yourself addicted."
"Promises, promises," he winked, and then leaned down conspiratorially. "You know, I used to run with your boy here." He jerked a thumb at Brutus, who had appeared at the edge of the pit, arms folded, expression unreadable. "Back when he was in section six. Good times. Plenty of blood, plenty of coin. Plenty of whores too. Though he never touched any. Didn’t matter how cheap, how eager, how many spread legs were thrown his way—he wasn’t biting. Always figured he was more into the men."
I gasped, theatrically before whipping around to face Brutus. "Brutus, darling, are you blushing? Saints above, you’ve been holding out on me. Your mysterious past, laid bare in front of a new friend. How scandalous."
Brutus rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might pop out. "Enough of this. We should move."
"Ah," Dregan chuckled, licking blood from his lip. "Still the same old Brutus. Always the serious one. Don’t worry, pup. I’ll keep your new partner entertained."
"Oh, I think we’ll entertain each other just fine," I said sweetly, flashing a wicked smile.
Brutus groaned. I winked. The dwarf laughed like thunder. And just like that, I knew: this would be the beginning of something very messy, very dangerous, and utterly divine.