By the time we dragged ourselves out of that steaming shower chamber, I swear the world had tilted a little.
Atticus, of all people, walked like a man who had finally remembered he owned a spine. No longer the rigged, soft-spoken academic fumbling behind his glasses—he actually stood straight.
Not too straight, mind you, he still had that faint stoop of someone carrying the weight of too many books and too many anxieties, but there was a newness to him, a confidence that clung to his every step.
His voice came steady when he spoke and his hands didn’t twitch like startled rabbits when he gestured. Saints preserve me, the bastard even smiled like he’d remembered he had teeth.
As for me? Oh, saints help me, I felt sharp. Not just my usual brand of witty-daggers-and-sarcasm sharp, no, this was something else. My mind hummed, a thousand thoughts firing all at once, each one a crispy note in a symphony only I could hear.
It was as though Atticus’s big shiny brain had spilled a little into mine, like a scholar dropping ink on a beggar’s palm, and now I was seeing the world with twice the clarity.
Equations I’d never cared for clicked into place. Little patterns of behavior in the people we passed leapt at me like dancers showing off their choreography.
The angles of the stones in the walls, the way the water dripped from the ceiling, even the shuffle of footsteps from the men around me—all of it painted itself across my skull in perfect, irritating clarity. And I knew. Oh, I knew this would be useful.
Useful for what exactly? I hadn’t decided yet. Possibly for running an empire. Possibly for seducing someone by quoting obscure philosophers. Or possibly just for inventing a drinking game that guaranteed I never lost again.
The future was wide open, and for once, I had the brain cells to appreciate it.
We stepped into the main room of the warehouse again, all fresh-faced and damp, only to be met with chaos. Not the fun kind of chaos, either.
This wasn’t drunken orgies, spilled ale, or a fight breaking out because someone insulted someone else’s mother’s tits. No, this was grim, sharp, urgent chaos. The kind that smelled of sweat and desperation.
Men scrambled in every direction, some hauling crates, others stuffing knives into their belts, others still tripping over each other like frightened deer who’d just been told venison was on the menu. A low murmur buzzed through the air, punctuated by sharp curses and the scrape of metal on stone.
And there, like a lighthouse in a storm, stood Brutus. Our Brutus. The mountain. The immovable object. He stood in the very center, shouting orders with the force of an earthquake.
His voice roared across the air, each word sharp enough to slice the panic out of the room. Men obeyed instantly, lining up, grabbing their makeshift weapons and marching around the room with deadly precision.
I blinked at the sight, a knot of confusion twisting in my stomach. Something was wrong. Very wrong. And for once, not even my shiny new brain could puzzle it out just from looking.
So I did what I do best: I strolled up to Brutus with all the pomp of a spoiled brat tugging at her father’s sleeve. I even yanked lightly at his trouser leg for emphasis, just to watch him scowl down at me like a giant irritated by a sparrow.
"What’s happening?" I asked, batting my lashes innocently. "Oh gods, don’t tell me...are we throwing a surprise party?"
Brutus’s scowl deepened, though not at me. Never fully at me. His eyes narrowed on the chaos before him, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and heavy.
"One of our men was captured."
I froze. Just like that, my heart gave one traitorous leap. Captured. The word rang in my ears like a bell tolling for a funeral.
My mind darted immediately to the obvious answer. "A guard?" I whispered, praying to every drunken saint I didn’t actually believe in.
He shook his head. And that was when my stomach dropped, cold and heavy as lead. If it wasn’t the guards... if it wasn’t some random mutt caught in the crossfire... then it was worse. It had to be one of them.
"One of the other gangs then?"
I didn’t even need Brutus to confirm it, though he did so with the faintest of nods. At last, the others were moving now. The sleeping giants of this prison had finally stirred, and they were looking straight at us.
My chest tightened with equal parts fear and exhilaration. Fear, because saints above, we were just children playing at war compared to the entrenched beasts who ran these walls. Exhilaration, because... well. Wasn’t this exactly the sort of thing I’d been waiting for? The moment the play turned serious, when the masks slipped and the blood started to matter.
Brutus didn’t waste time. He gestured sharply, nodding to Freya and Atticus. Freya crossed her arms while Atticus—our new Atticus, our Atticus reborn—adjusted his spectacles with a cool composure I swear he hadn’t possessed just five minutes ago. Both nodded back, falling into their roles without a flicker of doubt.
And just like that, we moved.
The courtyard swallowed us, lanterns swaying in the stale air, the press of bodies closing around us in a loose formation. We weren’t a mob anymore—we were a pack. A tight, lean, and dangerous pack.
Brutus led at the front, his stride unshakable with Freya at his side, radiating danger. Atticus lay somewhere between, his mind no doubt racing in clever little circles. I sauntered alongside them, humming to myself, the smile on my lips hiding the storm brewing within my chest.
We made our way through the twists and turns until the familiar stink of stale smoke reached my nose. A bar. That bar, in fact. The very same place where we’d first scooped up our dear Atticus. Ah, memories. How time flies when you’re building an empire.
I pushed the door open without hesitation, the hinges squealing like an overdramatic herald. And there it was. The scene laid out like the first act of a tragedy.
A figure cloaked in dark robes stood at the center of the room, their hand locked around the throat of another. A shortsword gleamed in their grip, its edge pressed tight against the captive’s neck. The captive stood stock-still, sweat slicking his red hair to his forehead, his eyes dark and sharp.
It was Renly.
Our fiery-haired thug, our little wild card with fists like hammers and a temper like dry tinder. He looked almost bored by the whole ordeal, as though a blade kissing his jugular was no more alarming than a fly buzzing near his ear.
The cloaked figure, however, was another story entirely. Their body trembled visibly, the sword quivering with every breath. And when they spoke, the words cracked out in a high-pitched voice so thin it barely held together.
"Stay back!"
I froze. I knew that sound. It was a woman’s voice. Shaky, desperate, drowning in nerves. My lips curled into a smirk before I could stop them. Saints above, this was almost too easy.
Brutus, bless him, tried his calm approach. His voice dropped low, soothing, the kind of voice you use when coaxing a skittish animal away from a cliff. "Put the sword down," he rumbled, each word slow and steady. "No need for this."
The cloaked woman shook her head violently, pressing the blade closer to Renly’s skin. His pulse beat against the steel, but Renly himself... saints, he actually smiled.
Freya groaned, rolling her eyes. She crossed her arms and snapped, "Then what the fuck do you want?"
The woman’s head tilted down. Slowly, deliberately, her hood shifted until her eyes locked on me.
Her voice cracked, but the words came out sharp. "My boss demands you step down. Cease production. Hand over your men. Or else..."
The sword pressed deeper into Renly’s neck. A bead of crimson welled up, trailing down his throat.
And then, because fate loves me and has a wicked sense of humor, Renly snickered. A tiny, sharp little laugh at first. Then another. And another. Until he threw his head back and howled
Laughter, wild and raw, splitting the tension like shattered glass.
The rest of the tavern followed suit as though some divine joke had landed that I alone had missed the punchline of. Even Atticus, delicate flower that he is, let a strangled giggle slip through, his shoulders shaking behind his notebook like he was ashamed of himself but simply couldn’t resist.
Saints help me, I broke then. Tears blurred my vision as I pressed a hand to my mouth, laughter spilling through my fingers in bubbling waves. The sound of it all—the wheezing, the roaring, the slapping of tables—filled the bar until it was less a hostage standoff and more a comedy troupe performing for free.
Finally, wiping tears from my eyes, I looked at her—the poor thing trembling in her cloak, sword quivering against Renly’s throat, wide eyes darting about the room as though everyone else had gone mad.
"Oh, darling," I crooned, my voice still thick with amusement, "you poor, poor thing. If your boss really wanted me to step down, do you think they’d send you? No, they’d send their best. Their monsters. Their nightmares. Not a poor little songbird who can barely hold her sword the right way round. Saints above, no offense, but if this is their grand strategy I’ll be sleeping very sound tonight."
Her breath caught in her throat, a whimper slipping past her lips, but I wasn’t done. I let it out in a sigh and shook my head as though this were all too pitiful to be believed. "This isn’t an execution," I added, tone softening with a cruel sympathy. "This is a test. They’re probing, poking to see what rattles us. And you, my dear, are the bait at the end of the line."
"Shut up!" she barked suddenly, her voice cracking high and shrill. Her body shuddered as she adjusted her grip on the blade, pressing harder as though that would smother the laughter still echoing around her.
By then I was already counting up the phantom beat.
It came earlier than expected. Not the tenth beat this time but the ninth, sharp and sudden like the wild strike of a drum. My breath hitched, my vision blurred, and in the space of a blink the tavern melted into shadows.
The laughter faded, muffled into echoes as though I had been plunged underwater. Shapes bled into smoke, wavering like ink spilled into water.
The girl’s figure of mist twitched violently, her head snapping around in startled confusion. She was afraid now, truly afraid, her form flickering with every shallow breath.
And there it was: the sword. Still gleaming, still solid in this false realm, a single point of reality amid the haze. My lips curled. Excellent. This was the perfect opportunity to test my newfound skills.
I moved without hesitation, the mist parting around me like cloth as I slid closer. I reached out carefully—oh so carefully—my fingers grazing only the hilt of the sword, avoiding the dark fog of her hand’s form.
And then, with the sweetest ease, the weapon slid free. The moment my fingers brushed it, the blade flickered, slipped into the shadows, and fell into my grasp like it had always belonged there.
I spun around her, delight bubbling in my chest before snapping back.
Reality crashed around me in a rush of sound and heat, the tavern bleeding into clarity. The laughter still rang, the men still howled, Renly still grinned. Only now I stood behind his captor, blade in hand.
In one fluid motion, I slashed.
Steel whispered across the back of her thigh, shallow but sharp. She yelped, a raw, startled sound before collapsing to the floor in a heap. Renly stumbled free, brushing himself off with infuriating calm, as though nearly being carved like a roast was merely an inconvenience to him.
I pounced before she could even think of fleeing. One knee pinned her chest, my stolen sword pressed firm against her throat. The hood slipped from her head in the struggle, fabric falling away to reveal her face beneath the surrounding light.
I froze, blade trembling just above her skin, the whole tavern leaning in as if the world itself had paused to see who dared challenge us.