I planted my hands on my hips, staring at the absolutely monumental pile of wealth sprawled before us in the basement like some kind of fever dream conjured by a particularly greedy deity with poor organizational skills.
Crates upon crates of gold filled the space in precarious towers that defied both physics and common sense, some of them spilling their glittering contents across the floor in cascades that caught the torchlight and threw it back in dazzling explosions of reflected brilliance.
Jewels lay scattered among the coins like fallen stars that had decided earthly real estate was more appealing than the night sky, their facets winking with colors that ranged from deep emerald, to brilliant sapphire, to a particular ruby red that made me briefly consider pocketing a few when no one was looking.
Expensive artifacts occupied their own corner of this treasure trove—jeweled goblets studded with gems that probably had names I couldn’t pronounce, ornate weapons with hilts wrapped in precious metals, what appeared to be a regal crown that glimmered softly in the dim light.
In the center of this ridiculous display of ill-gotten gains lay Oberen himself, tied with enough rope to secure a small ship, gagged with what appeared to be one of his own expensive silk handkerchiefs—poetic justice at its finest—and squirming on the floor with all the dignity of a fish that had just realized it was very far from water and deeply regretting its life choices.
His ugly green suit was rumpled beyond salvation and his white fur coat had collected enough dust and grime to qualify as a biological specimen.
Tears streaked his face in paths that suggested he’d been crying for quite some time. The muffled sounds escaping around his gag carried notes of desperation that would’ve been pathetic if they weren’t so satisfying.
Lloyd stood behind me in the doorway, his considerable frame blocking most of the light from the stairwell, creating a silhouette that looked carved from shadow until he stepped fully into the torchlit basement.
Then his jaw dropped with such cartoonish perfection I half-expected it to literally hit the floor and bounce a few times before reattaching itself.
The sound that escaped his throat wasn’t quite a word—more like the noise someone makes when their brain has temporarily forgotten how language works because all available processing power has been redirected to calculating impossible numbers.
"That’s—" he started, voice strangled somewhere between a whisper and a shout. "How much—I mean—where did you—?" His hands came up in aborted gestures, fingers twitching like they wanted to count the piles but couldn’t quite commit to the movement. "This is—saints above—this has to be—" He swallowed hard enough that his throat clicked audibly. "Hundreds of thousands. Maybe—maybe close to—"
"Closer to half a million," I supplied helpfully, watching his face cycle through several shades of red before settling on a purple that suggested cardiovascular distress.
Lloyd’s mouth worked silently, opening and closing like a fish attempting to discuss philosophy, before words finally managed to claw their way out of his paralyzed vocal cords. "How—how did you—where—when—" He gestured wildly at the fortune surrounding us, his professional composure having apparently fled the building in terror. "You can’t just—people don’t just—there are laws about—"
"Oh, the laws," I said with a dismissive wave, my tone suggesting laws were adorable suggestions that applied to other people. "Yes, well, I took down Oberen in a series of increasingly improbable gambles, seized all his assets through a combination of blackmail and strategic violence, and now technically own everything he possessed including multiple brothels, this obscene pile of money, and his immortal soul if the contract he signed has any legal weight." I paused, tilting my head thoughtfully. "Which it probably doesn’t, but the sentiment stands."
"You—" Lloyd’s voice came out approximately three octaves higher than normal. "You what?"
"Took down a gambling lord, seized his empire, became fabulously wealthy overnight through the power of being smarter than people who underestimate me," I recited like reading a shopping list. "You know, standard weekend activities."
Lloyd pressed both hands to his face, fingers digging into his temples like he could physically massage understanding into his brain through applied pressure. "I need—I need you to explain—in detail—exactly how—"
"Later," I interrupted cheerfully, spinning on my heel to face him with a smug little grin. "I promise I’ll regale you with the full story complete with dramatic reenactments and puppets if I’m feeling theatrical, but right now what’s important is assessing our relative needs. So tell me, Lloyd—how much do you actually need to get started on transforming this place into something that’ll make the Pantheon weep with jealousy?"
Lloyd coughed several times, the sound rattling in his chest as he attempted to steady his composure through sheer force of will. His hands came down from his face to clasp in front of him, fingers interlacing with white-knuckled tension as he visibly dragged his professional self back from wherever it had fled.
"The cost depends on how extravagant you want the theater to become," he managed, his voice shaking only slightly.
"I want you to go all out," I said with absolute certainty, my arms spreading wide to encompass the entire basement and its ridiculous fortune. "Spare no expense. Use the finest materials, hire the best workers, install equipment so fine it makes other establishments look like they’re operating out of garbage heaps. I want this place to be so spectacular that when people walk in they briefly forget how to breathe."
Lloyd’s eyes went distant as numbers started dancing through his head, mental calculations clicking into place with the precision of an accountant who’d spent years pricing construction projects.
His lips moved silently, counting, adding, and multiplying factors I couldn’t begin to guess at, before his focus snapped back to me with focused intensity.
"One hundred thousand crowns," he declared with the confidence of someone who’d just solved a complex equation. "That would get you everything. The absolute best lumber from the surface city, marble imported from proper quarries, theatrical rigging designed by master engineers, furnishings custom-built by artisans who actually give a damn about their work. At that budget I could make this place legendary."
I clasped my hands together with such delight I nearly bounced on my toes, my smile widening until it threatened to escape my face entirely. "Excellent! Perfect! One hundred thousand crowns to make dreams reality. I love it. Take it. Take two hundred thousand if you think you can use it. Saints, take three hundred thousand and build us something that makes the gods themselves jealous."
Lloyd blinked several times, clearly recalibrating his entire understanding of how this conversation was supposed to go, before nodding slowly and turning back toward his crew who’d followed him down the stairs.
His men stood frozen in the doorway like someone had hit pause on reality, their expressions ranging from dumbstruck to catatonic. Several had their mouths hanging open so wide I could probably have tossed coins into them from across the room.
One particularly muscular specimen was actually drooling, a thin line of saliva connecting his lip to his chin as he stared at the gold with the kind of reverence people typically reserved for religious experiences.
"Right," Lloyd said, clapping his hands together sharply enough to snap several of them out of their stupor. "Count out one hundred thousand crowns. Start transferring boxes upstairs. Move with purpose, gentlemen—this fortune isn’t going to organize itself!"
His crew erupted in a cheer so loud it probably rattled the floorboards above us, their voices overlapping in enthusiastic chaos as they surged forward to begin the work.
Gold clinked against gold as they started sorting through crates, the sound creating a musical backdrop that spoke to wealth in motion. Several of them were still grinning like maniacs, clearly thrilled beyond reason at handling this much money even if none of it was technically theirs.
Lloyd turned back to where Oberen lay squirming on the floor. His expression shifted into something between curiosity and concern as he addressed me with careful neutrality. "What exactly do you plan on doing with him?"
I stepped closer to our captive casino lord with leisurely confidence, my boots clicking against stone as I closed the distance before crouching down beside his tear-stained face.
My finger reached out to poke his cheek with playful cruelty, the touch making him flinch like I’d applied hot iron to his skin. Up close I could see the absolute terror in his eyes, pupils blown wide with fear that suggested he knew exactly how precarious his situation had become.
"You’re not going to torture him, are you?" Lloyd asked softly, the question carrying notes of genuine concern that were almost sweet in their naiveté.
I burst into laughter, the sound bright with amusement at the very suggestion. "Torture him? Gods no, what would be the point? He has nothing left to offer us—no secrets worth extracting, no leverage to exploit, no hidden fortunes we haven’t already seized. Torturing him would be a complete waste of everyone’s time and energy." I stood, dusting off my dress with exaggerated care. "No, Oberen is nothing but wasted space now. Dead weight. It would be best to get rid of him as soon as possible. We already have Lord Verrin rotting in here—two prisoners feels quite excessive, don’t you think?"
Willow perked up from where she’d been examining a particularly beautiful emerald, her eyebrow rising with pointed curiosity. "Then what was the point in bringing him here in the first place?"
I turned to face my assembled crew with the expression of someone about to explain something both obvious and pointedly delicious. "As I said before, I want to choose his fate on my own terms. If I’d simply let the city handle him—turned him over to the Spire for his crimes—he would’ve gotten an easy way out. Oberen has connections, you understand. Friends in high places, officials he’s bribed over the years, people who owe him favors. He’d probably end up in the loftiest cell imaginable, sitting comfortably while his lawyers worked to reduce his sentence, eventually walking free after a few years of mild inconvenience." My smile turned sharp then. "No, I already have a much better place in mind for him."
Julius spoke up with obvious confusion, his theatrical soul clearly troubled by the implications. "What kind of place?"
"There are many prisons scattered throughout the city," I explained, beginning to pace with my hands clasped behind my back like a professor delivering a particularly grim lecture. "Most of them are exactly what you’d expect—cells, guards, prisoners serving time for various crimes. Unpleasant but manageable. However, there’s one particular facility that stands out from all the others. One that Iskanda mentioned repeatedly during our training sessions, usually when she wanted to emphasize what happened to people who crossed certain lines." I paused for effect, letting the anticipation build. "It’s called the Maw of Despair, though most people just call it the Maw because adding ’of Despair’ feels redundant when you understand what the place actually is."
The basement went quiet save for the continued clinking of coins as Lloyd’s crew worked. Everyone was listening now, attention focused on me with varying degrees of horrified fascination.
"The Maw," I continued, my voice taking on storytelling cadence, "is where the city sends people it wants to forget. It’s placed in the slums. Not very far from here actually. The cells are so small you can’t fully extend your limbs. The air is thick with mold spores that make breathing feel like inhaling razor blades. Rats the size of small dogs roam freely, biting prisoners who can’t defend themselves. The guards are selected specifically for their cruelty—people who failed psychological evaluations for regular positions because they enjoy violence far too much."
Oberen’s muffled screaming intensified, his body thrashing against his bonds with renewed desperation. I ignored him completely, warming to my subject.
"But that’s not even the worst part. See, everyone sent to the Maw is already condemned to death. It’s essentially death row, except the execution schedule is..." I smiled without humor. "Creative. Every single day, at noon precisely, they select one prisoner at random. Sometimes it’s quick—a blade to the throat, over in seconds. Sometimes it’s elaborate—public torture that lasts hours while the other prisoners are forced to watch, learning exactly what might await them tomorrow. The randomness is part of the punishment. You never know if today is your last day until the guards come for you."
Nara’s ears had flattened against her skull, her usual bubbly demeanor completely absent. "You can’t mean—"
"Oh, I absolutely do," I confirmed with dark satisfaction. "Now, some prisoners are sent there for extreme crimes—murder, treason, crimes against the city itself. But here’s the fascinating part: most of them are there for insurmountable debt. Debt they couldn’t possibly repay in ten lifetimes. Debt that grew exponentially through predatory interest rates until it consumed everything they had and everything they’d ever have." I turned to look directly at Oberen, whose face had gone chalk-white beneath his tears. "And where do you suppose most of that debt originated?"
Understanding dawned across several faces simultaneously. Willow’s eyes widened, Brutus let out a low whistle, Julius made a sound like he’d just been punched in the stomach.
"Oberen’s casino," I said simply, spreading my hands. "More than a few of those prisoners fell victim to his rampant cheating, his rigged games, his contracts designed to trap people in spiraling obligations they could never escape. And when they couldn’t pay, Oberen twisted the legal system in his favor—used his connections, bribed the right officials, had them condemned to the Maw where they’d suffer and die while he continued profiting from their misery."
I crouched back down beside Oberen, leaning close enough that he could see every detail of my expression in the torchlight. "Now imagine what happens when you arrive at the Maw. When those prisoners—people who lost everything because of you, who’ve spent months or years in that nightmare waiting for random execution—discover that the man responsible for their suffering has joined them."
My smile was all teeth. "They’ll tear you apart. Slowly. Creatively. The guards won’t stop them because frankly, you’re not important enough to protect. You’ll die screaming, probably over the course of several days, experiencing every ounce of pain you inflicted multiplied by however many victims recognize your face."
Oberen’s muffled scream reached a pitch that suggested actual psychological breakdown, his body convulsing with such violence that his bonds creaked from the strain. Tears and snot streamed down his face in rivers, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets.
Lloyd let out a breathy giggle that sounded slightly unhinged, one hand pressed to his chest like he needed to physically steady his racing heart. "You’re absolutely terrifying," he said with something approaching admiration. "Remind me to never, ever get on your bad side."
I opened my mouth to respond—probably with something witty about how he was already on my good side so he had nothing to worry about—when footsteps thundered down the stairs with urgent speed.
One of Lloyd’s crew members I didn’t recognize burst into view, breathing hard like he’d just sprinted several flights. "Someone’s at the door!" he announced between gasps.
The entire basement went still, everyone processing this information with varying degrees of concern. Who would be visiting the theater at this hour?
I straightened slowly, brushing imaginary dust from my dress with exaggerated calm. "Well," I said with false brightness that didn’t quite hide my sudden wariness, "I suppose we should see who’s come calling at such a delightfully inconvenient time. Lloyd, have your crew continue working. Everyone else—let’s go greet our unexpected guest and hope they’re not here to ruin what’s been an otherwise excellent evening."