I gazed at the figure above with great intensity, my eyes narrowing as I processed the details my enhanced vision provided even across the distance separating us.
It was Silas, standing there in all his mangled glory like some kind of beautiful disaster someone had carefully reconstructed after an explosion, his face still matted with scars that carved through his skin in patterns suggesting violence both deliberate and chaotic.
That artificial eye of his still glowed with that same sickly orange light, pulsing faintly with each heartbeat in a way that was deeply unsettling but also kind of mesmerizing if you stared at it long enough, which I absolutely was doing because my brain had apparently decided processing trauma through fixation was the strategy we were going with tonight.
And yet, somehow, despite the disfigurement and the half-missing hair that left patches of scarred scalp visible where follicles had given up trying to grow, the man looked almost radiant standing there bathed in the artificial moonlight.
There was a certain air about him now—confidence maybe, or just the comfortable authority of someone who knew exactly how dangerous they were and enjoyed that knowledge immensely—that transformed what could’ve been pitiable into something approaching intimidating elegance.
His white and red tuxedo was pristine as ever, clearly tailored with the kind of attention to detail that cost more than most people earned in months.
In his hand he held that fat cigar I remembered from our previous encounter, unlit for the moment but positioned with the casual readiness of someone who smoked frequently enough that having one accessible was just part of their baseline existence.
I smirked seeing him—the expression pulling at my lips automatically—before my eyes darted around the theater with sudden paranoid urgency, scanning every shadow and corner to confirm we were completely alone.
Having us be seen conversing in public would be catastrophic on multiple levels I didn’t want to contemplate, because Silas worked for one of the Pantheon’s major factions and I was theoretically neutral.
Being caught in private meetings with faction representatives would signal alliances I absolutely couldn’t afford to claim yet, not when my position was still so fragile and dependent on maintaining the appearance of independence.
"Relax," Silas called down, his voice carrying across the empty theater. He produced a lighter from somewhere in his jacket and lit his cigar with slow, deliberate movements.
The flame illuminated his scarred face in orange flickers before he snapped the lighter closed and continued speaking around the smoke now curling from his lips. "I stationed my two bodyguards near the entrance before coming in. No one’s getting in or out for now. We have privacy."
I breathed a sigh of relief so pronounced it made my shoulders drop, tension I hadn’t fully registered carrying suddenly releasing all at once.
"Thank the gods," I said, loud enough for him to hear but not so loud I was shouting. "What are you doing here, Silas? Not that I’m not thrilled to see you—truly, you’re a vision in scar tissue and expensive tailoring—but it seems rather odd of you to show up at a time like this."
Silas took a long drag from his cigar, held it for a moment, then released the smoke in a stream that drifted upward into the artificial moonlight and dissipated like ghosts learning to fly.
"I’m here on my boss’s orders," he explained in a casual tone. "Checking up on your progress so far. Making sure our... arrangement is proceeding according to expectations." He paused, his orange eye pulsing slightly brighter. "I’ve already heard about the incident with Oberen, of course. Word travels fast when someone takes down a gambling lord and liberates his entire operation. You and your crew are practically rich now by slum standards. Congratulations on that, by the way. Very impressive work."
I laughed—sharp and bright, the sound echoing across the empty theater and bouncing back to me in fragmented echoes. "I already suspect what you’re going to say next," I said with a grin that was probably too smug for someone in my position but felt absolutely justified given recent victories.
Silas opened his mouth to continue but I cut him off with a raised hand, palm forward in the universal gesture for "hold that thought because I’m about to be insufferable."
"Llyod’s debt will be paid in full by the end of tonight," I announced. "We pulled in more than enough from tonight’s performance alone, and that’s not even counting the casino profits or the various other revenue streams we’ve been cultivating. Two hundred thousand crowns? Consider it handled. Llyod is officially clear, and you can report back to your boss that we’ve exceeded expectations on timeline and delivery."
Silas raised his brow—the one above his normal eye, since the artificial one didn’t really have an eyebrow to work with—and his scarred lips pulled into a smirk that suggested genuine satisfaction mixed with something approaching respect.
"Well done," he said, and the praise hit harder than I expected, warming something in my chest that I immediately tried to suppress because getting emotional over approval from a debt collector was not the vibe I wanted to project. "You continue to impress. Most people in your position would still be scrambling for funds, making excuses, begging for extensions. But you? You just handle it. I appreciate that efficiency."
I felt heat creep into my cheeks—an actual blush, saints help me, because apparently compliments from scary men with glowing eyes were my weakness now—and I had to look away briefly to compose myself before responding.
But then my expression shifted, my playfulness draining away and being replaced by something more serious as my brain caught up to the implications of this visit.
"The debt wasn’t the only reason you came, though," I said slowly, my voice dropping into something quieter, more calculated. "Otherwise you wouldn’t have risked an in-person meeting like this. You could’ve sent a subordinate, or just waited for our scheduled check-in, or literally done anything less conspicuous than showing up at our theater in the middle of the night. So..." I crossed my arms, tilting my head. "What’s the real reason you’re here?"
Silas nodded once, acknowledging my deduction with the kind of small gesture that suggested he’d expected me to figure it out and would’ve been disappointed if I hadn’t. He took another drag from his cigar, released the smoke, then spoke with careful precision.
"Someone is here to see you."
Before I could ask who—before the question could even fully form in my mind—the doors on the upper floor behind Silas burst open with dramatic violence, swinging on their hinges hard enough to slam against the walls with twin bangs that made me jump despite myself.
A deep, hearty laugh erupted throughout the entire theater, rolling across the space like thunder contained in human vocal cords. The sound pressed into the bones of the room, into the seats, the rafters, the very air itself, rich and booming with a weight that demanded attention whether it was welcome or not.
My breath caught, actually physically caught in my throat like someone had reached in and squeezed, as I watched the figure descending the stairs with measured, deliberate steps that somehow managed to be both casual and impossibly commanding.
The man was tall. Not just tall in the normal human variance way, but impossibly, almost comically tall—easily eight feet, maybe more, with a frame so broad it seemed to fill the entire staircase despite the generous width. Wild red hair crowned his head like flames frozen mid-dance—thick, vibrant, and catching the moonlight in shades of copper, crimson, and orange that made it look almost alive.
His jaw was square—aggressively so, cut with such sharp, uncompromising angles it looked less like natural bone structure and more like a deliberate design choice taken far too seriously.
It had that carved, almost excessive definition, as if whoever shaped his face had an unwavering devotion to the idea of "masculine" and pursued it with borderline obsessive enthusiasm, sanding away anything remotely soft until only stark geometry remained.
A full beard covered his lower face, meticulously groomed despite its impressive volume, and his crimson eyes shone with an almost dazzling light that made Silas’s orange glow look dim by comparison—bright, intense, and focused directly on me with the weight of absolute attention.
But it was his outfit that truly stole my breath and made my brain temporarily forget how to process visual information in any kind of organized way.
He wore robes—not the simple kind you’d find in a brothel or theater, but garments fit for actual royalty, the kind of clothing that belonged in paintings of ancient kings receiving tribute from conquered nations.
The base was white, almost glowing in the moonlight, made from fabric so fine it probably cost more per yard than our entire theater’s monthly operating budget.
Red accents traced along the edges in intricate patterns while long sleeves swept down to his wrists where they terminated in golden cuffs. The robe itself fell to his ankles in dramatic sweeps of fabric that somehow managed to move with liquid grace despite their obvious weight. Golden tassels hung from the shoulders and waist in cascading arrangements that jingled softly with each step, creating a subtle musical accompaniment to his descent.
Around his waist was a belt—wide, leather, dyed deep crimson and studded with more gold—from which hung what looked like a ceremonial sword in an ornate scabbard, though whether it was purely decorative or actually functional I couldn’t tell from this distance.
Over his shoulders was draped a cape, because of course there was a cape, flowing behind him like liquid night rendered in white and red, the interior lined with scarlet silk that flashed with each movement.
And crowning the entire ensemble was a collar—high, stiff, embroidered with golden thread in patterns that detailed both flames and thorns—that framed his face and made him look even more imposing than his natural height already accomplished.
I instantly recognized him, my brain supplying the information with the kind of automatic recall that came from having studied the city’s power structures obsessively during my time with Iskanda.
Lord Aldric. Head of the Crimson Court, one of the most powerful brothels in the entire city, leader of one of the two major factions currently vying for dominance in the city’s highest echelons of power and influence.
The man was a legend—spoken about in the same breath as Director Thalen and Mavus Grey, someone whose decisions shaped the city’s criminal landscape, whose favor could elevate entire operations and whose displeasure could destroy them just as easily.
And he was here. In our theater. Looking at me with those impossibly bright crimson eyes and that smile that suggested he knew exactly how intimidating this entrance was and was enjoying every second of my reaction.
My mind raced through implications, possibilities, and potential disasters, calculating angles and trying to figure out what this visit meant, why someone of his status would risk coming here personally rather than sending his representatives, what he wanted from me that was important enough to warrant this kind of attention.
Because people like Lord Aldric didn’t make social calls.
They made offers.
And in my experience, offers from powerful people always came with prices that weren’t immediately visible but became devastatingly clear later on.
This was either the best opportunity I’d ever receive or the beginning of complications that would make everything I’d survived so far look like a pleasant warmup.