The next morning arrived with all the gentle grace of a hangover kicking down the door of your skull to remind you that yes—every questionable decision from the night before had absolutely occurred, and no, the universe was not accepting refunds or revisions.
There was no easing into it, no gradual return to dignity. Just the blunt, unmistakable awareness that the chaos of yesterday had survived the night and was now patiently waiting for me to deal with it.
I found myself standing in the room behind the theater’s curtains—that backstage space where discarded props gathered dust and old performances lingered like ghosts in the fabric.
It was the sort of place meant for quiet preparation and whispered nerves before a show—not, traditionally, the storage of traumatized former nobles who’d attempted to murder me in my sleep. Yet here we were, expanding the theater’s functional repertoire in ways the original architects almost certainly hadn’t anticipated.
The air back here was thick with that particular theatrical mustiness that came from velvet curtains that had absorbed decades of sweat and nerves, mixed with the sharper scent of candle wax from the flickering lights placed around Elvina’s bound form.
She knelt on the floor with her hands her hands were tied neatly behind her back, rope pulled snug but not cruel, the sort of restraint designed more for certainty than punishment.
Another length secured her ankles together, limiting her movement to small shifts and awkward adjustments without quite tipping into outright torment.
Her posture radiated defeat with such complete sincerity that it almost felt theatrical—shoulders collapsed inward, spine curved as though the simple act of sitting upright had become an unreasonable demand.
Her head hung low, chin nearly brushing her chest, and her hair had fallen forward in tangled, uneven curtains that obscured her face entirely, a dark veil hiding whatever expression lived beneath it. Whether she was crying, seething, or simply empty of anything resembling resistance, I couldn’t tell.
The dim candlelight painted everything in shades of amber and shadow, making the whole scene feel like some painting titled "Consequences" made by an artist with a flair for melodrama.
I stood over her with my arms crossed, doing my best to cultivate an aura of thoughtful authority. Not overt menace—nothing so crude—but the quiet, contemplative sort that made people increasingly uncomfortable the longer it stretched without explanation.
Silence, after all, was a powerful tool when wielded correctly. Give someone enough of it and their imagination would happily do the threatening for you.
Behind me, Brutus stood exactly where he belonged in this particular tableau—solid, unmoving, a looming wall of scarred muscle that made the air feel narrower just by occupying it.
His expression shifted in small, weary increments as he watched the situation unfold, cycling between concern and the particular kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from knowing he was about to spend his morning dealing with the fallout of yet another one of my insane ideas at unreasonable hours.
I’d had the rest of our crew scatter from the scene earlier, knowing that giving Elvina some measure of privacy was probably the more merciful choice—or at least the choice that wouldn’t result in her having a complete psychological breakdown in front of an audience.
Some humiliations were meant to be witnessed. Others were better handled with discretion if you wanted the person to remain functional afterward.
"What are we going to do with her?" Brutus rumbled, his voice low enough that it barely disturbed the dust motes dancing through the air. "Can’t exactly keep her tied up forever. Eventually someone’s going to ask questions."
"We’re going to keep her for as long as necessary," I replied with the calm certainty of someone who’d already thought through most of the angles. "She’s our main piece of leverage in the coming battle with our newest enemy."
Brutus nodded slowly, his face still creased with unease that suggested he was following the logic but didn’t particularly like where it led. "And if she tries to escape? We can’t exactly keep control of her shadow magic should she choose to use it against us. The moment she decides cooperation isn’t worth it, she could slip through those ropes like they’re made of smoke."
I shook my head with a small smile that probably looked more confident than I felt. "Escape isn’t an option for her. She has nowhere to go. Think it through—she doesn’t want to return to her brothel. And if she tried escaping into the city streets?" I gestured vaguely toward the outside world. "Seraphine would take notice eventually, issuing alerts, calling in favors, ultimately having her arrested before she could gain any meaningful ground. In that case, Elvina would end up in an even worse position than she started."
I paused to let that sink in before continuing. "No, Elvina is smart beneath all the trauma. She knows that sticking with us, cooperating to take down Madame Seraphine—that’s her safest bet. Maybe her only bet. We’re the devil she knows, the enemy who at least hasn’t actively tortured her yet. She’ll stay because the alternatives are all worse."
Elvina remained silent throughout our entire conversation, not even daring to lift her head or meet my gaze. Just knelt there like a broken statue, breathing softly, existing in whatever internal hell her mind had constructed.
I felt a brief pang of something approaching sympathy before crushing it beneath pragmatic necessity—feeling bad about the situation wouldn’t change the facts, wouldn’t make her less useful or our position less precarious.
I turned back to face Brutus, shifting into command mode. "Place at least two men on watch from outside at all times regardless. Rotate them every four hours so nobody gets complacent. Make sure she gets fed—nothing fancy, just basic nutrition—and taken out to use the bathroom every few hours. We’re keeping her prisoner, not torturing her through neglect."
Brutus grunted, a sound I choose to take as acceptance because I needed it to be. With a final glance at Elvina’s bowed head, I strode past the heavy curtains and emerged into the theater’s main lobby.
There waited another prisoner—Oberen, held between two of our crew members who gripped his arms with the kind of casual efficiency that came from having done this sort of thing many times before.
He looked even more pathetic now—an impressive achievement considering the state I’d left him in previously. The once-offensive green suit had surrendered entirely to entropy, rumpled beyond any hope of redemption, its seams twisted and wrinkled like it had spent the night losing a fistfight with reality.
The white fur coat—formerly the centerpiece of his appointed nobility—was still streaked with grime and dull patches where whatever dignity it once possessed had been thoroughly trampled.
His face had swollen into something soft and miserable, eyes puffy from crying and what was clearly a catastrophic lack of sleep. The gag had been removed at some point, leaving his mouth hanging open as he dragged in ragged breaths that whistled through his throat in frantic, uneven gasps. Judging by the rhythm of it, he’d been hyperventilating long enough for panic to settle in as a permanent resident.
Willow stood beside them both with the air of someone enjoying a private joke that had grown increasingly entertaining over time. Her posture was relaxed, one hip cocked just enough to suggest confidence bordering on theatrical.
A smug little smirk tugged at her lips, the sort that hinted she had been observing Oberen’s slow emotional collapse with patient, appreciative interest. When she spotted me approaching, her eyes brightened immediately, that smirk stretching into something absolutely wicked.
"Ready?" she purred, the single word loaded with anticipation and barely suppressed glee.
"Oh, absolutely," I replied with matching energy, my own smile unfurling across my face like a flag declaring war on good sense. "I was born ready. Possibly conceived ready, depending on your views regarding prenatal consciousness. Let’s go deposit our garbage at the city’s finest disposal facility."
Willow had insisted on accompanying me on that particular excursion the night before, presenting her reasoning with the calm confidence of someone who already knew she was going to win the argument.
According to her, it was a matter of "backup necessity," which sounded practical enough on the surface—but she followed it immediately with the far more honest admission that she had never actually seen the Maw in person and was deeply curious about the experience.
Apparently, horrifying legendary locations ranked somewhere between sightseeing and recreational mischief on her personal itinerary.
I hadn’t bothered protesting. For one thing, arguing with Willow when she’d already made up her mind tended to be a waste of valuable oxygen. For another, the idea of having a powerful succubus watching my back struck me as the sort of investment sensible people made in their continued survival.
Plus her company was entertaining, and I suspected the journey would be significantly less boring with someone to trade barbs with.
We set off together into the waking city streets, dragging our prisoner along between us like an especially miserable piece of luggage. Oberen stumbled with every few steps, his legs barely cooperating as we guided him through the slums.
The air carried that distinctive quality unique to underground cities—recycled, faintly stale, touched with the lingering residue of too many lives sharing too little atmosphere. It wasn’t suffocating exactly, but it had a tired flavor to it, like breath that had been exhaled and re-inhaled one time too many.
Street vendors were already setting up their stalls, hawking everything from questionable meat to more questionable magical trinkets, their voices creating a cacophony that followed us like aggressive background music.
About half an hour later, after descending through increasingly grim districts where the architecture went from "dilapidated" to "actively malevolent," we arrived at our destination.
The Maw was absolutely massive—easily half the size of the Spire itself, which was saying something considering the Spire dominated the city’s skyline like an iron finger pointing accusingly at whatever gods had allowed this place to exist.
If the Spire represented authority, order, and the cold machinery of governance, then the Maw was something far more primitive, a blunt declaration that this place had long since stopped pretending mercy was part of the system.
Its perimeter ran in a perfect circle, enclosed by a wall of dark iron that rose at least thirty meters high, the metal surface so black it seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it. The wall itself appeared seamless, as though it had been forged in a single piece by craftsmen with access to magic or technology far beyond what should’ve been available.
Watch posts lined the top of the wall at regular intervals, each one manned by guards dressed in dark uniforms so muted they seemed less like people and more like silhouettes given permission to move. They carried strange weapons I’d never seen before—not quite rifles, not quite anything else I could name.
The devices were crafted from brass that gleamed dully in the ambient light, featuring elaborate gauges and tubes that connected to canisters secured over each guard’s back. Steam occasionally vented from the weapons in short hisses, suggesting they operated on some kind of pressurized system.
Past the perimeter wall I could see the courtyard surrounding the main prison complex—a building constructed in two distinct layers, both crafted from that same light-drinking dark metal. The lower level was broader, maybe a hundred meters across, while the upper level was slightly smaller but crowned with what looked to be observation towers.
The whole structure radiated menace with such intensity it was almost impressive—like someone had been tasked with designing "maximum intimidation" and decided subtlety was for cowards.
Just then, a guard began approaching us. This one didn’t carry any of those strange weapons, but something about his bearing commanded immediate authority—the way he moved with absolute confidence, the insignia on his uniform that probably meant something important to people who understood military hierarchy.
"State your business," he said flatly, his voice carrying the kind of professional disinterest that came from asking the same question a thousand times and hearing a thousand variations of the same stupid answers.
"We have a prisoner to deposit," I explained with cheerful brightness. I gestured toward Oberen, who’d gone chalk-white at the sight of the Maw and was trembling hard enough that our crew members had to physically support his weight. "One gambling lord with delusions of competence, ready for processing."
The guard stared at me for approximately three seconds before bursting into laughter—not amused chuckling but full, wheezing belly laughs. He actually doubled over slightly, one hand braced on his knee, before straightening with tears in his eyes.
"Oh, that’s—that’s rich," he gasped between residual chuckles. "You think you can just deposit prisoners? Like this is some kind of—some kind of public service?" He laughed again, shaking his head. "Even if you had proper paperwork—which you most certainly do not—that wouldn’t be possible regardless."
I tilted my head with exaggerated confusion, my expression shifting into something between curious and challenging. "Why not?"
The guard waved off my question without bothering to answer, his amusement fading back into professional indifference. "Doesn’t matter. Point is, you’re wasting my time and yours. Take your prisoner to the Spire if you want him processed through official channels. Now leave before I decide to charge you with loitering outside a restricted facility."
I slowly turned to face Willow, one eyebrow rising with pointed inquiry, meeting her gaze with the kind of silent communication that came from people who’d already discussed exactly this scenario and prepared accordingly.
Willow met my gaze with a wicked little glare, emerald eyes practically glittering with barely contained enthusiasm. If anything, the guard’s refusal had only improved her mood. She looked like someone who had just been handed permission—however accidental—to cause trouble in a highly regulated environment.
A smirk spread across my face, matching the one currently stretching across hers.
"Well then," I said lightly, turning back to the guard with renewed energy, "I suppose we’ll just have to be more persuasive about our request."