The tavern healers worked with particular efficiency. They didn’t ask questions, which I respected enormously, because the answers to "how did this happen" and "why are you both naked" would’ve taken longer than the healing itself.
They wrapped, they stitched, they applied things that smelled like boiled regret and worked like miracles, and by the time they finished with my arm the fractures had been coaxed back from the edge they’d been teetering on, leaving behind a deep, bone-level ache that I suspected would stick around as a souvenir for at least a week.
Grisha needed considerably less intervention. Her nose reset with a sound that made three people in the immediate vicinity wince in sympathy, yet she endured the process with the bored patience of a woman who’d had her nose broken enough times to have developed a philosophical relationship with the experience.
Two hours later she was upright, dressed, and walking with the same unhurried menace she’d entered the tavern with, as though the whole evening had been nothing more than a light stretch.
I, comparatively, walked like someone who’d been introduced to physics from the wrong side.
The streets outside had settled into the particular quiet the slums achieved after midnight, which was less "peaceful" and more "everyone currently causing problems has moved indoors."
The blue lamplight painted the wet cobblestones in cold streaks, and our footsteps echoed in the empty corridor of the alley as we turned back toward the theater. My arm was wrapped from wrist to elbow in clean linen, and I kept it tucked against my ribs partly for support and partly because every time I let it hang naturally, it throbbed with the vindictive persistence of an unpaid debt.
"Not bad," Grisha said, from slightly ahead of me, not looking back.
I blinked. "I’m sorry—was that a compliment? From you? Do I need to mark this in a calendar somewhere? Alert a historian?"
"Don’t push it."
"I’m just saying, I want to commemorate the occasion appropriately. A small plaque, maybe. ’Here, on this damp cobblestone, Grisha acknowledged that Loona did a thing competently.’"
The corner of her mouth moved. Not quite a smile—more the structural prerequisite for one. "You broke the sound barrier with a punch," she said. "And then your arm nearly fell off. I said not bad. Keep the scale in mind."
Fair, honestly.
I fell into step beside her, my boots finding the rhythm of hers against the stone, and let a few seconds of genuine quiet pass between us before the question that had been sitting in my chest since the fight finally got tired of waiting.
"That boost in strength," I said. "Back in the ring." I glanced sideways at her. "You were already at your enhancement ceiling. I’d mapped it. You shouldn’t have been able to move faster than that."
Grisha laughed—not the short, sharp sound she usually deployed, but something lower, more genuine, rolled out from somewhere deep in her chest. "Figured you’d catch that."
"I catch everything. Selectively. When it’s convenient." I tilted my head. "So what was it?"
She was quiet for long enough that I thought she might not answer, and then, "Incarnic magic isn’t just enhancements. I’m sure you know this already," She said it simply. "However, most practitioners start there and never leave. Enhancements are reliable. They’re controllable. They don’t eat you alive if you miscalculate." She rolled one massive shoulder. "But the body itself is a system, and enhancements are only one lever."
I let that settle. "Yes, I understand that much."
"The ability I used honed in on my adrenaline," she confirmed. "The body has limiters built in. Governors, like on a machine. They exist for good reason—without them, you’d tear yourself apart every time you reached for maximum output. The body protects itself."
She paused to step over a collapsed section of paving without breaking stride. I navigated it slightly less gracefully. "Override them strategically, channel the adrenaline instead of letting it flood blind, and you get a window of output that sits above your enhancement ceiling entirely."
"And the price," I said, because there was always a price, and I was developing a profound respect for the consistency of that rule.
"The window closes," she said flatly. "Closes hard. What you felt from me after—that weakness, slower than my baseline—that’s the system recollecting what it lent you. And if you push the override too long, or too often without recovery, the limiters stop rebuilding properly." She glanced at me then, just briefly, amber eyes catching the blue lamplight. "You do it too many times in too short a span, and the governors don’t come back the same. You’re faster for a day and fragile for a month."
I nodded slowly, turning it over. The thing that struck me wasn’t the danger—danger was practically the currency I operated in at this point—but the elegance of it. Enhancements were brute force applied with precision.
This was something else. This was the body as an instrument, played by someone who understood every string and exactly how hard you could pluck each one before it snapped.
"I’ll teach you that," Grisha said, the words dropped into the air with the casual weight of someone making an obvious observation. "And the others. The cascade you used tonight is one of a many trump card moves." She paused, then added, without looking at me, "And they all have their respective prices."
I didn’t miss the wicked quality that entered her expression on that last sentence. Subtle—barely there—but present and pointed, the look of someone who’d already thought through exactly what these "lessons" would entail and was finding the prospect privately entertaining.
I knew what she was thinking. The knowledge settled over me the same way the evening’s ache settled into my bones—not surprising, just present.
I thought of what Willow had told me back then. How she’d explained it in the direct, unsentimental way she explained most things that for creatures like them—succubi, incubi, beings built from the intersection of desire and chaos—physical intimacy wasn’t separate from power.
It was power. The lifeblood of what they were, the mechanism by which they grew. Rejecting it out of discomfort or pride wasn’t restraint—it was self-imposed limitation dressed up as virtue.
I looked at Grisha’s profile in the lamplight—the brutal architecture of her face, the scars she wore like a ledger of everything she’d survived, the easy power in every step she took—and I felt the last resistance in my chest quietly dissolve. Not dramatically. Not with fanfare. Just—gone, the way tension leaves a muscle after it’s been worked past its holding point.
Fine. All right. If this was what growth cost, then it was what it cost.
I’d let her use me however she pleased, I’d learn everything she had to teach, and I would become something that made the version of me standing in that fighting ring tonight look like a rough draft in comparison.
The following days moved the way pain moves—faster than you’d like and slower than you need, each one leaving marks you can already tell will stick.
After a few more sessions with Grisha, I’d already come to learn a whole new world of skills.
The adrenaline override, the first time I attempted it under her instruction, produced a thirty-second window of output that felt like touching a live wire and ended with me flat on the floor of the theater’s back space in a state that Nara described as "sort of vibrating."
The second attempt was marginally more controlled. The third left me unable to lift my own arms for four hours, which Grisha noted with clinical interest as useful data.
By the fifth day I could execute it cleanly, hold the window for a measured count, and exit it without collapsing. By the seventh I could stack it with a standard enhancement chain and produce something that even Grisha watched without immediately pointing out the seventeen things wrong with it.
Progress, in the Grisha curriculum, was measured in how long it took before you hit the floor rather than whether you hit the floor at all. Eventually I stopped hitting the floor before noon.
That felt like a milestone worth noting.
I learned other things too—a technique for redistributing the damage of forceful impacts, flooding the surrounding muscle groups with a special type of enhancement used to essentially share the damage across a wider surface area, a static enhancement applied simultaneously to every major joint in the body, bracing them against dislocation or hyperextension and designed specifically for being grabbed, thrown, or wrenched—alongside many others.
Each one came with a price tag I now read before purchasing.
I was developing a very clear-eyed relationship with cost-benefit analysis.
What struck me though, in the quiet moments between getting demolished and being healed and getting demolished again, was how fast I was progressing. Weeks ago I’d been running an obstacle course and celebrating clearing a gap.
Now I was stacking techniques that the average Velvet would need years of disciplined training to discover. The cascade punch alone—the one that had shaken a building and cracked bones in my own arm—was something that, if deployed correctly with full control, could sit in the same power neighborhood as a trained operative’s best work.
Not exceed it. Not yet. But reach it, on a good day, with the timing right and the conditions favorable.
The thought of what I’d look like in another month made something warm and dangerous curl in my chest. That satisfaction was still sitting pleasantly in my bones on the morning Madame Seraphine’s invitation arrived.
I was on the theater’s upper floor when Julius brought it up—a sealed envelope of deep emerald silk, the wax pressed with a seal that depicted two intertwined figures in an emblem that managed to be both elegant and deeply unambiguous about what sort of establishment she ran.
I turned it over in my hands, feeling the weight of what it represented, and allowed myself the small, private smile that the thing had earned.
This was it. The plan I’d been building, piece by careful piece, since the moment I’d understood who Madame Seraphine truly was.
The investigation into the Ivory Gambit’s secrets, the route to Lord Aldric’s offer, the empty seat in the Pantheon that would reshape everything if we could reach it—all of it ran through the woman on the other side of this envelope.
I broke the seal.
The letter was brief, which I respected. People who wrote long letters to schedule meetings were advertising that they liked the sound of their own voice more than they valued your time, and whatever Madame Seraphine was, she wasn’t inefficient.
The invitation was for the evening, her establishment—she was flexible, she said, on the matter of company, though the word flexible carried the particular weight of someone who’d chosen it deliberately. The smile on my face grew wider then.
It was time for my plan to come to fruition.