Lord Aldric came to a halt at the railing with all the subtlety of a collapsing cathedral, his massive frame casting a shadow so disproportionately large it felt like it had ambitions of expansion.
Moonlight streamed valiantly around him, doing its best to remain relevant, but ultimately conceding defeat as his silhouette swallowed half the balcony and most of the available dignity in the immediate vicinity.
Silas stepped aside immediately—smooth, effortless, almost elegant in its precision. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion, just the instinctive deference of someone who understood exactly when to yield space and to whom.
When Lord Aldric spoke, his voice erupted across the theater like a physical force—booming, resonant, and carrying the kind of natural projection that suggested he’d never needed to raise his voice to be heard because the universe itself bent to ensure his words reached their intended targets.
"Loona!" he bellowed, and the sound didn’t travel so much as detonate, my name striking the air like a siege weapon, splitting the quiet clean down the middle and sending the syllables ricocheting through the theater in overlapping waves. "The architect of tonight’s magnificent spectacle! The rising star whose light burns so bright it threatens to outshine even the established luminaries of our fair city!"
He threw his arms wide—magnificently, extravagantly, as though he were embracing not just me, but the stage, the theater, the street outside, possibly the entire district beyond.
"I’ve heard tales of your exploits, witnessed the ripples your actions send through the political waters we all swim in, and I simply had to meet you in person! To lay eyes upon the creature who dares to play the game with such audacious creativity!"
The effect his voice brought was immense—I felt it vibrate in my chest, rattling my ribs and making my heart beat in synchronization with his cadence, like his words carried their own gravitational pull that tried to align everything within range to his rhythm.
It was the voice of someone who’d spent their entire life being listened to, obeyed, celebrated, someone who’d never encountered a situation where speaking louder and more confidently didn’t solve whatever problem had arisen.
The sheer ego radiating from him was palpable, thick and heady, like overripe wine left too long in the barrel. I could practically taste it at the back of my throat—rich, cloying, and utterly inescapable. By all rights, it should’ve been unbearable. It should have driven nails into my skull and set my teeth on edge.
But it didn’t.
Because there is something almost admirable about excess when it reaches its purest form. His arrogance was not posturing, not fragile or defensive—it was complete. Total. A self-contained ecosystem of self-assurance so vast it ceased to feel like arrogance at all and instead became... something cleaner. Something almost divine in its audacity.
I executed a bow—proper, formal, the kind you’d give to a king because that’s clearly how this man saw himself—letting my torso bend forward while one arm swept out to the side in a polished arc, the movement smooth as silk and just theatrical enough to flirt with irreverence without ever quite crossing into it.
"Lord Aldric," I said, pitching my voice to carry across the distance, letting amusement color my tone. "Your reputation precedes you, though I must say the reality is somehow even more extra
Lord Aldric threw his head back and laughed—truly laughed, the sort of rich, unrestrained sound that didn’t so much echo as take up residence in the room. It wasn’t polite laughter, nor noble restraint—no, this was joy with teeth, the kind that arrived uninvited, kicked its boots off, and demanded a drink.
"Ha! I like you already!" he declared, voice still buoyed on the aftershocks of his mirth. "Such wit! Such audacity! Speaking to me with familiarity rather than cowering in appropriate terror!"
His grin widened further, which I hadn’t previously believed possible without structural consequences. One great hand came down upon the railing, gripping it with such enthusiasm that the wood issued a small, distressed complaint—less a creak, more the sound of a craftsman somewhere feeling a sudden, spiritual disappointment.
And then—because of course a man like this would consider gravity a suggestion rather than a rule—he jumped.
No stairs. No measured descent. No faint nod toward self-preservation. He simply launched himself from the second-tier balcony with the confidence of a man who had never once been told "no" by either physics nor common sense.
For a breathtaking moment, he hung there, robes unfurling behind him like a dramatic afterthought, golden tassels chiming merrily as though they too were delighted by the poor decision.
Then down he came.
He fell with all the grace of an elegant boulder before striking the ground floor with a thunderous boom that reverberated through the entire theater.
Dust leapt up in a startled cloud, floorboards groaned in what I can only describe as existential protest, and I found myself briefly, sincerely concerned that I was about to witness the tragic collapse of his body’s architectural career.
But no.
He rose from the impact as though he had merely stepped off a curb. Not a limp, not a wince—just a casual straightening of posture, followed by a few absent swipes at his immaculate robes, brushing away dust with the mild annoyance of a man inconvenienced by atmosphere. Whatever pact he had made with his joints, I wanted the terms in writing.
Then, as if this entire spectacle had been nothing more than a slightly theatrical greeting, he extended one massive hand toward me—calm, confident, and utterly expectant, like a king offering favor... or a storm offering to shake your hand before it rearranged your life.
"Come now! Let us greet each other properly, as equals in this grand theater of politics and power!"
I hesitated for half a heartbeat—because taking the hand of someone this powerful felt like signing a contract I hadn’t fully read—before reaching out and clasping his offered palm with my significantly smaller one.
The grip that closed around my hand was immediate, powerful without being crushing, warm and absolutely overwhelming in a way that made me acutely aware of the sheer physical strength this man possessed.
"We have much to discuss, you and I," he said, his crimson eyes boring into mine with focused intensity.
I glanced up past his shoulder toward the balcony where Silas stood clutching the railing with both hands, his expression tight with concern that bordered on panic.
His orange eye pulsed rapidly, his entire posture screaming please don’t do anything stupid that will get you killed with the desperate energy of someone whose job security depended on their boss not dying during informal meetings.
I couldn’t help it—a giggle escaped before I could suppress it, high and slightly unhinged, because the image of this imposing debt collector reduced to anxious hovering was far too perfect for me not to appreciate.
Lord Aldric suddenly released my hand and swept past me in a dramatic swirl of fabric, striding down the center aisle with long steps that ate up distance, his head turning side to side as he took in the theater’s architecture with obvious appreciation.
"Beautiful!" he declared, gesturing expansively at the rafters overhead. "Truly magnificent! The artificial moonlight, the attention to aesthetic detail, the way you’ve transformed this crumbling wreck into something approaching palatial!" He spun in place, his cape flaring out around him. "I can see the vision here, the ambition! You’re not content with mere survival—you’re building an empire from the ground up, one carefully orchestrated spectacle at a time!"
He continued his rant as he approached the stage, his voice never losing volume or energy, words tumbling out in an endless stream of praise, observation, and philosophical tangents that somehow all connected back to how impressive he found everything.
"Most establishments in the slums settle for adequate, for functional, for ’good enough to not collapse immediately.’ But you? You reached for grandeur! For beauty! For the kind of excellence that makes people forget they’re standing in the city’s worst district because they’re too busy being transported by the experience!"
Then he stepped onto the stage—vaulted up onto it in one smooth motion that probably violated several laws about how fabric should behave—and turned to face us, spreading his arms wide like he was about to deliver a sermon to devoted followers.
"This!" he shouted, and the theater answered him like a loyal accomplice. The acoustics caught his voice, polished it, magnified it, until it rolled across the space with such force it felt less like sound and more like architecture—like the walls themselves had decided to speak up and agree with him. "This is what separates visionaries from mere survivors! The willingness to create beauty even in the face of impossible odds! The audacity to believe that art and spectacle matter even when basic survival should be your only concern!"
He looked magnificent standing there on our stage, bathed in the stage light that made his red hair glow like actual flames, those crimson eyes blazing with passion and absolute conviction.
If someone had commissioned a master painter to capture the concept of "Confidence" and handed them an unlimited budget, a reckless imagination, and a questionable selection of stimulants, I imagine the result would’ve looked suspiciously like the man before me.
I gave a fond sigh—the sound helplessly escaping me as I processed this absolute force of personality that had just crashed into my evening—and decided to stop fighting the current and just see where this conversation took us.
"You certainly know how to make an entrance," I called out, making my way down the aisle toward the stage. "Though I have to ask—is the dramatic flair a conscious choice or just your natural state of being? Because if it’s natural, I’m genuinely curious how you handle mundane activities like eating breakfast or getting dressed without turning them into full theatrical productions."
Lord Aldric laughed again, the sound warming the entire space. "Why separate the mundane from the magnificent?" he countered, gesturing expansively. "Every moment is an opportunity for greatness, every action a chance to remind the world that you exist with purpose rather than merely surviving out of habit!"
I hopped up onto the stage and circled him slowly, letting my boots click against the wooden boards in measured rhythm, poking at his shoulder with one finger as I passed, prodding at the elaborate embroidery on his sleeve, testing to see if I could get a reaction beyond constant enthusiasm.
"I’m curious what brings someone of your status to our humble establishment," I said with playful teasing. "Surely you have better things to do than visit theaters in the slums at midnight, even if said theater did just host a death match that’s probably going to be the talk of the city for weeks."
He watched me circle with obvious amusement, his gaze tracking every step like I was either about to unveil a masterpiece or trip over my own feet. Then, with a fluidity that felt frankly unfair for a man built like a siege engine, he stepped aside and folded himself down onto the stage.
Not dropped—no, that would’ve been far too vulgar. He folded, all quiet grace and deliberate ease, settling cross-legged like some overgrown monk who’d misplaced his temple and found himself in a den of criminals instead. One massive hand came down to pat the space before him, a soft, inviting gesture that somehow managed to feel both casual and commanding.
Naturally, I took the offer.
I sank down across from him, mirroring the position with all the poise I could scrape together, though I suspected my version leaned more "elegant disaster" than "disciplined serenity." Still, I made it work. I always do.
He rested his chin in his palm, elbow braced lazily against his knee, and for a moment—just a moment—the theatrics peeled back. Beneath the grand gestures and booming presence, something sharper gleamed. Not just intelligence, no. Calculation. The sort that didn’t shout, didn’t posture, but watched, waited, and filed everything away for later use.
"I’ve heard about your meeting with the Ivory Gambit," he said, his tone shifting into something more serious without losing its underlying warmth. "How you boldly turned down Lord Erwin and his delightfully unhinged daughter. I’m curious—why refuse an alliance with one of the Pantheon’s most established factions? Most people in your position would leap at the opportunity to align themselves with such power."
I leaned back slightly, weighing how much truth to share versus how much to obscure, and decided that someone this perceptive would see through half-truths anyway so I might as well be direct.
"My main goal is getting our brothel into the Pantheon," I explained, letting the words come out measured and clear. "Everything I do, every scheme I orchestrate, every risk I take—it all serves that singular purpose. And joining the Ivory Gambit’s faction wouldn’t bring me any closer to that goal."
I ticked off points on my fingers. "Their faction has a hierarchical structure that’s rigid and deeply entrenched. New members start at the bottom and work their way up through years—sometimes decades—of dedicated service, proving loyalty and capability before being granted any real influence or opportunity. Getting even a chance at a Pantheon position through their system would take time I simply don’t have."
Lord Aldric straightened, his expression shifting into something more contemplative, then nodded slowly. "Years you don’t have," he repeated. "Interesting phrasing. That suggests urgency beyond simple ambition. A deadline, perhaps? Or just the impatience of youth unwilling to play the long game?"
I smiled but didn’t elaborate, letting him draw his own conclusions.
He continued after a moment, his voice taking on the quality of someone working through complex calculations aloud. "You and your crew have already become the focal point of the city’s politics, you know. People are watching you, tracking your movements, placing bets on whether you’ll succeed spectacularly or fail catastrophically."
He leaned forward, crimson eyes growing even more intense. "We haven’t seen anyone move this aggressively in years. Most newcomers spend months establishing themselves cautiously, building slowly, avoiding attention until they’re strong enough to survive scrutiny. But you? You announced yourself with Elvina’s destruction, followed it with the casino takeover, and now this." He gestured at the theater around us. "You’re not building in secret—you’re building in full view of everyone, daring them to try and stop you."
He paused for a moment before continuing.
"The Ivory Gambit was right to try recruiting you," Lord Aldric said, "Having you in their faction would bring them considerable political power, shift the balance between our two groups, give them a weapon they could deploy against my interests." His smile widened. "Which is why I’m very fortunate that you turned them down. It gives me this opportunity to make my own move, to extend my own offer before they could regroup and try again with better incentives."
I leaned forward now, matching his posture, my expression sharpening. "The only way I’d join your faction is if you provide a foolproof method to get my crew into the Pantheon. Not ’eventually,’ not ’if you prove yourself worthy over many years,’ but a clear, direct path that guarantees results. Otherwise we’re just having a pleasant conversation that leads nowhere productive."
Lord Aldric chuckled—lower, richer, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Foolproof? Oh no, I won’t promise that. What I’m about to propose is dangerous, potentially catastrophic if you fail, and will make enemies of people who could crush you without effort." He paused for dramatic effect. "But it will definitely guarantee you and your crew a position in the Pantheon if you succeed."
My interest spiked so violently I nearly vibrated with it, leaning even closer until our faces were perhaps a foot apart.
"I’m listening," I breathed. "What exactly did you have in mind?"