After the show concluded, the lobby transformed into what could only be described as controlled chaos masquerading as sophisticated celebration.
A massive party erupted with the kind of spontaneous energy that only came from people who’d just witnessed something genuinely shocking and needed to process it through alcohol and social performance, nobles streaming from the theater proper into that impossibly beautiful space with its fake stars and artificial moonlight, their voices rising in overlapping waves of excited chatter.
The whole scene radiated that particular brand of upper-class revelry where everyone was performing wealth and sophistication for each other, measuring their reactions against their peers, calibrating their enthusiasm to match whatever social consensus was forming about whether tonight’s entertainment had been brilliantly transgressive or simply tasteless.
I watched from my position by the door as nobles clustered into small groups defined by invisible social hierarchies I couldn’t quite parse.
Some were clearly scandalized, their expressions tight with disapproval even as they accepted wine and stayed to gossip, because leaving immediately would signal weakness or prudishness and nobody wanted that reputation.
Others looked genuinely thrilled, their faces flushed with excitement and possibly arousal because violence had that effect on certain types of people, awakening something primal that polite society usually kept carefully suppressed.
A few appeared thoughtful, philosophical even, as though they were genuinely contemplating the artistic merit of watching a man’s neck snap in real time versus the ethical implications of finding entertainment in actual death.
The diversity of reactions fascinated me in an abstract way—how the same event could produce such wildly different responses depending on each person’s particular cocktail of trauma, privilege, and moral flexibility.
But I wasn’t particularly concerned about the party right now, couldn’t quite bring myself to care about whether the nobles approved or which factions were forming around different interpretations of what they’d witnessed.
I had work to do, practical matters that required attention before I could indulge in celebration or philosophical rumination, so while the other guests filtered toward the lobby and its promises of wine and social validation, I slipped away from the crowd with practiced stealth and made my way backstage.
The path took me across the emptying theater—it’s seats still radiating residual warmth from departed bodies, the air thick with lingering perfume and that particular smell crowds left behind, something combining sweat, excitement, and too many people breathing the same recycled atmosphere.
I passed the stage where a set of attendants were already working to clean up the bloody scene with the efficient detachment of people who’d seen worse and didn’t get paid enough to have emotional responses to gore.
They moved with coordinated precision, one mopping the spreading pool of blood that had leaked from Orion’s corpse while another carefully collected the severed ear that still lay where it had fallen, dropping it into a small cloth bag with the casual handling you’d give any other prop.
A third attendant scraped chunks of vitreous fluid and tissue from where Hodor’s eye had exploded, their expression suggesting they were mentally composing a strongly worded letter to whoever had approved this particular entertainment concept.
I gazed at the mess with an expression of complete indifference, not a care flickering through my thoughts beyond mild curiosity about how long the cleanup would take and whether the bloodstains would add character to the stage or end up looking slightly unsanitary.
Death was death, violence was violence, and getting sentimental about the inevitable consequences of our deliberately dangerous business model seemed like wasted emotional energy I could better spend on literally anything else.
I strolled past the curtains with my hands clasped behind my back, my dress swishing softly against my legs, and stepped into the backstage area to meet our victor.
The rest of my crew was there—all except Julius who was currently performing his hosting duties with what I could only assume was practiced charm and mild panic.
Brutus leaned against the far wall, his expression unreadable but his posture suggesting satisfaction with how things had gone. Willow perched on a prop crate, her skin still flushed from whatever magical assistance she’d been providing during the performance, emerald eyes tracking my entrance with knowing amusement.
Llyod stood near the costume rack examining one of Orion’s discarded robes, while Felix—still in his clown costume, saints help us all—sat cross-legged on the floor playing with what looked to be spare buttons.
Grisha was very much present now—looming near the edge of the room like a satisfied storm that had decided, for the moment, not to break. One massive arm rested against the wall while the other hung loosely at her side, her tusked grin faint but unmistakable.
Nara hovered nearby, though "hovered" felt like an oversimplification for someone who treated stillness as a personal insult. She drifted from spot to spot with restless energy, occasionally crouching, occasionally perching, her bunny ears twitching sharply at every sound like they were independently conducting surveillance.
Her crimson eyes darted across the room, lingering just a second too long on anything that looked even mildly breakable or interesting, which, knowing her, were functionally the same category.
Every so often she would reach out to poke at something—a loose thread, a dangling accessory, a decorative prop—only to withdraw her hand at the last second, as though actively negotiating with herself about whether or not to cause problems. The fact that she hadn’t yet was less reassuring than it should’ve been.
And in the center of this assembled chaos, sitting on a wooden crate like some kind of gore-covered king claiming his throne, was Hodor.
Blood had dried in streaks across his face and chest, the empty socket where his eye used to be was a mess of congealed tissue and leaked fluid, and his remaining ear—the one still attached to his head—looked slightly swollen from the earlier violence.
But despite the horrific state of his body, despite having just killed a man with his bare hands in front of hundreds of witnesses, he looked satisfied in a way that suggested this was likely the best evening he’d had in years.
I opened the conversation with a cheerful energy that definitely didn’t match the gore-soaked atmosphere, clasping my hands together and bouncing slightly on my toes.
"Congratulations on your absolutely spectacular victory! Truly magnificent work up there—the way you just kept going even after losing an eye? Chef’s kiss. Peak performance. I’m genuinely impressed and also slightly concerned about your pain tolerance, but mostly impressed!"
Hodor sneered, his lips pulling back to reveal teeth stained red with blood he’d probably swallowed during the fight, but behind that aggressive expression I caught a glimpse of something else—pride, maybe, or just the simple satisfaction of someone who’d proven they could still win despite his ruined condition.
"I’m free now," he rumbled, his voice rough from screaming. "Our agreement was I fight, I win, I walk out of here a free man. So unless you’re planning to go back on your word—"
I blinked a few times, processing what he’d just said, and then burst out laughing—full-bodied, shoulder-shaking laughter that made several crew members turn to stare because apparently my amusement was louder than anticipated.
"Oh, oh that’s—" I wheezed between giggles, actually bending slightly at the waist. "I wouldn’t say free
Hodor’s expression turned dark, his remaining eye narrowing with the kind of focused intensity that usually preceded violence. His voice dropped into a low growl that made the air feel heavier with each word. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
I tilted my head with exaggerated patience. "Our agreement was that if you won, you wouldn’t be set free—you’d merely earn the opportunity to work in our theater." I paused, then added with a grin, "Should’ve paid more attention during the contract negotiation phase, big guy. The details really matter."
The man burst into outrage—actually burst, like a dam breaking, his voice rising into a roar that rattled the props hanging on the walls.
"You lying little bitch! I killed a man for you! Spilled blood on your stage! Lost my fucking eye—" he gestured violently at the ruined socket, "—and you’re telling me it was all for nothing?!"
I waved my hand dismissively, completely unbothered by his fury. "Oh stop being so dramatic. It wasn’t for nothing—you’re alive, you’re fed, you have purpose, employment, and a really impressive new facial scar that’s going to make you look incredibly intimidating to future audiences. That’s significantly better than rotting in the Maw waiting for your execution number to come up!"
I examined my nails with theatrical disinterest. "Besides, you really should’ve asked more questions before agreeing to participate in a death match orchestrated by a femboy with documented trust issues and a flexible relationship with conventional morality. That’s just basic survival instinct."
Hodor seethed, his massive chest heaving with each breath, hands clenching and unclenching as if he were imagining wrapping them around my throat, and I genuinely expected him to lunge at me or, at minimum, continue screaming.
But instead—shockingly, bewilderingly—he simmered down, the rage draining from his expression and being replaced by something approaching resigned acceptance. His shoulders slumped slightly, and when he spoke again his voice carried exhaustion rather than fury.
"What will my duties be?" he asked in a low growl that still managed to sound threatening despite the obvious defeat in his posture.
I felt genuine surprise flicker through me because I’d honestly expected this conversation to end with violence and multiple incidents involving property damage, not reasonable questions about job responsibilities.
"Well!" I said brightly, recovering quickly. "You’ll be put on security duty now that there’s going to be an influx of customers—people saw what happened tonight and they’re going to want to come back for more, which means we need someone intimidating at the door to handle crowd control and discourage troublemakers. Alongside that, you might be brought back occasionally to perform in future plays. Not as the main attraction necessarily, but as a recurring figure for the audience to grow attached to—give them someone familiar to root for or against depending on their personal preferences." I paused, considering. "Unless you wanted to fight again, of course. I wouldn’t deny you that right. Seems cruel to take away something you’re clearly talented at."
Hodor breathed a heavy sigh that made his entire frame shudder, then nodded once with finality. "Fine. I accept my role. But if you fuck me over again—"
"Yes, yes, terrible consequences, creative violence, I’ve heard the threats before," I interrupted cheerfully, then gave a little clap of my hands and snapped my fingers in Willow’s direction. "Willow, darling, would you be a dear and fetch our newest employee’s uniform? Can’t have him greeting customers while covered in blood and viscera—well, actually we could, that would certainly make an impression, but probably the wrong kind."
Willow rolled her eyes with fond exasperation but complied, hopping off her crate and rummaging through a stack of storage containers until she produced a black suit—tailored, professional-looking, definitely too small for Hodor’s massive frame—and a pale theater mask split perfectly down the middle, one half depicting tragedy with downturned mouth and sad eyes, the other showing comedy with upturned smile and gleeful expression.
She handed both items to Hodor with a smirk that suggested she knew exactly how ridiculous he was about to look.
"Strip," I instructed casually, making little spinning motions with my finger.
Hodor’s eye widened. "Absolutely fucking not. I’m not—"
I rolled my eyes with theatrical exasperation. "Oh please, don’t be such a prude. It’s not like I’m asking you to perform a striptease—though honestly that might draw crowds too, there’s probably a market for extremely muscular violence-scarred men removing clothing in controlled environments. Note to self, explore that business model later." I waved my hand dismissively. "Just change your clothes. We’ve all seen worse."
Hodor huffed—an actual indignant huff that would’ve been adorable if it wasn’t coming from a man who’d just murdered someone—but began stripping off his blood-soaked costume with jerky, aggressive movements that suggested he was imagining doing violence, or worst, to me with each removed garment.
Moments later he stood before us in the new suit, which was indeed too tight for his massive body, the fabric straining across his shoulders and thighs in ways that threatened its seam’s integrity.
The theater mask sat on his ruined face, covering the destroyed eye and missing ear, transforming him from "gore-covered killer" into "vaguely unsettling formal greeter with mysterious backstory."
I giggled, actually giggled like a delighted child receiving a present, taking pride in my newest acquisition because Hodor looked perfect—intimidating enough to discourage trouble but theatrical enough to fit our aesthetic.
"Magnificent! You’ll report to Nara first thing in the morning for further directions on security protocols, acceptable levels of violence when dealing with difficult customers, and probably some paperwork that I’m going to pretend exists to make this operation seem more legitimate than it actually is."
With that settled, I turned on my heel and left the backstage area, my dress swishing around my legs as I emerged back into the main theater.
The space was completely empty now, every seat vacant, the stage still bearing wet patches where blood had been imperfectly cleaned, shadows stretching long and dramatic in the artificial moonlight that continued streaming through those impossible windows. The silence felt weighted, significant, like the theater itself was holding its breath.
And yet something was off. Some instinct prickled at the base of my skull, that particular awareness that came from spending too long in dangerous situations where threats could materialize from anywhere at any time.
Then I heard it—slow, deliberate clapping echoing from somewhere above me, the sound bouncing off the walls in measured rhythm.
I glanced up sharply, my eyes scanning the second tier balcony that ringed the theater’s upper level, and there—standing at the edge with one hand resting casually on the railing—was a figure backlit by moonlight in a way that made details difficult to discern but posture impossible to misread.
I gasped, recognition slamming into me with physical force as I processed who was standing there watching me.
My heart did something complicated in my chest, and I couldn’t quite tell if it was excitement, dread, or some combination that didn’t have a convenient name.
"Well," I muttered under my breath, loud enough for the figure to hear across the distance. "This evening just got significantly more interesting."