With the exchange complete and Elvina now positioned exactly where we needed her, I returned to the theater with Brutus and Julius flanking me in comfortable silence, each of us processing what had just transpired in our own ways.
The moment we crossed the threshold into our lobby, I felt restless energy flood through my system like electricity seeking ground. I couldn’t stay still, couldn’t settle into any one position or thought, so I began pacing the length of the room with measured steps that grew increasingly agitated with each circuit.
Everything was going smoothly, objectively speaking. The theater was profitable beyond our initial projections, Tora’s performances were drawing crowds that gave us both revenue and reputation, the investigation into the Ivory Gambit was progressing according to plan, and we’d just successfully planted our spy inside Madame Seraphine’s operation.
By any reasonable metric we were succeeding, building something real and sustainable in a city that destroyed most people who tried.
But something bothered me, nagging at the back of my mind with the persistence of a splinter I couldn’t quite extract.
It had started as vague unease and crystallized into horrifying clarity the moment I’d watched Mavus drop those severed heads on the library floor—the casual ease with which he’d dispatched two seasoned Velvets, professional killers trained in combat and survival, beheaded them like it was no more difficult than preparing vegetables for dinner.
I was too weak. Catastrophically, dangerously weak.
The realization hit me like cold water because I’d been so focused on schemes, strategies, and positioning that I’d neglected the fundamental reality of this city—power respected strength, and without personal capability to back up my plans, I was just another clever person waiting to be crushed by someone stronger when circumstances turned against me.
I was about to enter into direct conflict with some of the highest powers operating in the Pantheon, people who commanded resources and violence I could barely comprehend, and I couldn’t even hold my own against a single Velvet in honest combat.
The gap between my current capabilities and what I would need to survive the coming conflicts was vast enough to be almost comical, except there was nothing funny about recognizing your own inadequacy when the consequences of that inadequacy included death or worse.
I needed more strength and I needed it fast, needed to advance my combat capabilities to levels that would make me genuinely dangerous rather than just clever and lucky.
Mavus teaching me was obviously out of the question—the man had made it abundantly clear that his instruction came with strings attached I couldn’t see yet, and besides, asking him for additional training after he’d literally beheaded my spies felt like terrible judgment even by my already questionable standards.
Which left Willow as the first person who came to mind, the obvious choice for advancing my magical education since she’d already been teaching me the basics of excarnic magic and had demonstrated both competence and patience during those lessons.
I could learn more from her, push deeper into the techniques she’d introduced, master the spells and manipulations that would give me offensive and defensive options beyond just physical combat enhanced by my incarnic abilities.
But even as the thought formed I recognized its limitations, felt frustration building because Willow could only teach me excarnic magic—the manipulation of external energy, the shaping of chaos into spells that affected the world around me.
That was useful, absolutely, gave me tools I desperately needed. But it meant I wouldn’t be fully utilizing my potential as a concarnic mage, wouldn’t be developing the incarnic side of the equation that focused on internal enhancement and physical augmentation.
True mastery required balance between both disciplines, between affecting the world and affecting myself, and limiting my growth to only one half of that equation felt like deliberately handicapping myself when I could least afford weakness.
I needed to advance my incarnic magic as well, needed to push my enhancement techniques beyond the basic limitation I was currently working with, and for that there was only one person in our theater who possessed the knowledge I required.
My heart dropped, a sinking feeling overtaking me as that person’s identity come to light with unwelcome clarity in my mind. Grisha. The violent orc woman who’d made it abundantly clear through word and action that she was dangerous, unpredictable, and operating according to rules I didn’t fully understand.
She was also taught directly by Mavus himself in advanced enhancement techniques, which meant she possessed exactly the knowledge I needed if I wanted to survive what was coming.
I steadied my resolve with conscious effort, forcing my spine straight and my breathing even as I made the decision. This was the best path forward, possibly the only path that led somewhere other than my eventual defeat.
The discomfort of working closely with Grisha, of putting myself under her instruction and whatever that might entail, was insignificant compared to the alternative of remaining weak while the city’s power players circled closer.
Without allowing myself time for second thoughts that might undermine my determination, I headed upstairs to search for Grisha, taking the steps two at a time with enhanced leg strength that made the climb effortless.
But the moment I reached the top landing and turned toward the hallway where her quarters were located, I stopped dead because she was already there, standing in the middle of the corridor with her hands planted on her hips in a stance that radiated challenge and confidence in equal measure.
She was completely naked as usual, the lamplight catching her green skin and making it seem to glow from within, highlighting every contour and curve of her impossibly muscular frame in ways that made my mouth go dry despite my best efforts at maintaining professional composure.
Her body was a masterwork of controlled violence rendered in flesh—broad shoulders that could probably support small buildings, arms corded with muscle that flexed with each slight movement, abs so defined they created shadows between each individual muscle group.
Her breasts sat high and firm despite their substantial size, defying gravity through sheer muscular support, and her thighs were thick enough that I could see the power contained in them even when she was standing still.
Her scars crisscrossed every visible surface, pale lines against green canvas that told stories of battles won and pain endured, each one a testament to survival and strength.
The dark patch of hair between her legs was visible without shame or attempt at concealment, and lower still her calves showed the kind of definition that came from years of explosive movement and heavy lifting.
Behind her massive frame—and I mean this literally, she was using her own body as a shield—stood Willow surprisingly, the succubus actually hiding from me with a frightened expression that looked completely out of character on her usually confident features.
Her emerald eyes were wide, her normally perfect posture hunched slightly as she tried to make herself smaller behind Grisha’s bulk, and I caught the tail end of what might have been a whimper before she clamped her mouth shut.
Just then, I knew that something was up.
The confident, sexually aggressive succubus who’d taught me excarnic magic with casual dominance was hiding behind someone else like a frightened child, which meant either Grisha had done something to terrify her or Willow had betrayed some secret she desperately didn’t want me knowing about.