I tilted my head slightly, letting a smirk curl across my lips. Saints above, it’s my default defense mechanism, smirking at men who could snap me like kindling.
"Oh? Waiting, were you? How flattering. Most men just stumble across me by accident and leave with fewer coins than they started with. You, however, seem like the patient sort."
Victor chuckled low, the sound vibrating through the stone floor like the purr of a caged beast. "Patience," he mused, running a tattooed hand through his ragged hair. "Patience is what keeps a man alive in this place. Impatience, on the other hand, is what buries him in the walls." His eyes gleamed, pinning me in place. "So tell me... which kind are you?"
I placed a delicate hand over my chest, feigning shock. "Why, darling, must we really start with such morbid options? I’d prefer to think of myself as a third category: the sort who digs up the walls, sells the bricks, and then charges rent to the worms who thought they’d buried me."
The men around me shifted, some snorting, others muttering under their breath. Victor himself let out a bark of laughter, quick and sharp, before his grin settled back into place like it had never left.
"Bold," he said. "I like bold. But bold men usually hide their fear behind their courage. Tell me—what do you hide behind that smirk of yours?"
"Usually hunger," I quipped, "though sometimes boredom. Right now? A bit of both."
Victor wheezed out a chuckle, the sort of laugh that sounded like someone had wrung the last drop of air from a bagpipe and then stepped on it for good measure.
His chest rattled, his lips curled, and I could practically smell the satisfaction rolling off him. He raised one tattooed arm and motioned for Mia to join his side with all the lazy authority of a man summoning his favorite pet.
Poor Mia whimpered under her breath—yes, whimpered, because saints above, she couldn’t help herself—but on the outside she somehow kept that fragile little mask of composure glued on. She stepped forward, cloak brushing against her shins, her freckles glowing faintly in the torchlight like stars dragged down into a sewer.
Victor wasted no time. He slung one muscled arm around her shoulders and let his hand dip beneath her cloak, pawing at her with greedy fingers.
I heard the squeak leave her throat, high-pitched and panicked, and that tiny desperate sound was all it took to fuel his amusement further.
His smile widened as he kneaded her like dough, and gods help me, I wanted to slice his tattooed hand right off at the wrist and feed it back to him for supper. The sound she made hit me square in the chest, and for one dizzying instant I actually forgot to smirk.
But then, of course, the bastard had to open his mouth again.
"Well then," Victor crooned, his teeth flashing beneath the wavering torchlight, "time to get down to business."
"Business?" I purred, tilting my head, letting my grin bleed back into place like a mask re-glued after a tumble. "Darling, if this is how you conduct business—fondling terrified little girls in public—I can only imagine what your accounting department looks like. Do you all grope the ledgers too?"
He chuckled again, low and rumbling, but this time there was no mirth in it. "Cut the bullshit," he muttered, squeezing Mia hard enough to make her squeal again. "I’ve come to make a deal."
"Oh, did you now?" I teased, rolling my shoulders, stretching my arms like a bored cat preparing for a nap. "Because from where I’m standing, this is starting to look suspiciously like an ambush. You know, the oldest trick in the book. Invite the pretty succubus to a late-night date, bring along a few of your ugliest friends, hope he trips and falls into the pit you dug. Classic."
That did it. He burst out laughing, a jagged sound that scraped the stones and made the torches flicker as though even the fire disapproved. He tilted his head, grin sharpening like a butcher’s knife, and looked down at Mia.
And then—saints above—it happened.
One fluid motion, faster than thought. His hand darted behind him, drew out a dagger, and plunged it straight into Mia’s side.
I swear the world froze.
Her eyes went wide, lantern-bright, her mouth opened in a silent scream. The steel slid in with a sound I’ll hear in my nightmares, and he yanked it free just as easily, crimson spraying across the stone in a shimmering arc.
"Noisy whore," Victor spat, before shoving her to the floor with one boot. She crumpled, convulsing, her fingers clawing at the wound, her freckles drowned beneath a tide of blood.
And him? Oh, he turned back to me with the softest smile I’d ever seen, like we’d just shared a joke between old friends.
"Now then," he said.
I blinked. Once. Twice. My smirk was there, but it was stretched tight, brittle, paper-thin. My hands itched for her, my chest twisted with something hot and ugly, but saints help me, I didn’t let it show. Not to him. Not to this grinning bastard with his serpent tattoos and his whore-stabbing tendencies.
"You really know how to make a first impression," I said, forcing the words out smooth as silk. "Most men just buy me a drink before they start stabbing the women I bring along. You, however, you go straight for the heart. Efficient. Practical. Sociopathic. I almost admire it."
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he whistled, low and sharp.
And that’s when they came.
From the corners of the chamber, shadows peeled themselves loose and grew legs. One, two, three—no, nine men stepped forward, each stranger than the last.
A brute with scars carved like rivers down his face. A thin man with eyes so sunken I wondered if he’d pawned his sockets for coin. A red-haired bastard with a grin wide enough to split the heavens. And each of those nine had their own entourage—lesser men, rough, ragged, but deadly enough.
They fanned out around me, boots scuffing the stone, weapons glinting. A circle. A wide, suffocating circle. I counted, quick as lightning. Forty. No—fifty. Fifty against one, plus Victor, Mia still bleeding out at his feet.
Oh, saints. My stomach dipped, but I forced a breath into my lungs, forced my lips to twitch back into that ever-present grin. If they smelled fear, I was finished. If they saw hesitation, I was meat already roasting on the spit.
So I clapped my hands together, slow and deliberate, the sound echoing through the chamber like mock applause. "Well," I said brightly, "this is flattering. Fifty men, all for me? Victor, darling, you shouldn’t have. Really, one would’ve been enough. Two if you wanted to make it special."
They sneered. They laughed. They cursed under their breath. Not a single one of them took me seriously, and gods above, it boiled my blood like wine left too long on the fire.
Victor tilted his head. "You think you can walk out of here alive?"
"Oh, sweetheart," I cooed, tilting my head to mirror his, "I don’t just think it. I guarantee it. The only question is how many of your friends here will still have their teeth by the time I’m done."
The laughter rose higher then, loud and ugly, and I smiled wider, feeding on it, twisting it into my shield. Because gods know, if I didn’t laugh, I might scream.
And then, of course, the first blade came from behind.
"Shit!" I cursed under my breath.
I ducked under it, my body folding like a dancer’s ribbon, and felt the steel whisper past the hairs of my head. My smirk didn’t falter, though saints above, my heart was pounding loud enough to serve as a war drum.
The man who swung at me had the face of a pickled hog, scar tissue crisscrossing his cheeks like someone had tried to play tic-tac-toe on his skin with a set of knives.
He snarled, whipping around and bringing his arm back for another strike, but I was already gone—sliding between his legs in a blur of motion, my boot snapping up to crack him square in the groin as I passed. His squeal rose an octave I hadn’t known human voices could reach.
And thus, the music began.
Blades, fists, and curses rained down from every angle. I ducked, twisted, spun, vanishing in bursts of shadow and reappearing behind them just to pluck a dagger or club from their grasp.
Oh, the looks on their faces when their shiny toys suddenly disappeared into thin air, reappearing in my hands only to be shoved right back into their kidneys—it was almost worth the bruises I was collecting like autographs.
My body moved on instinct, every twist and turn a performance, every strike punctuated by the cruel humor of survival.
I slammed one thug’s head against the stone wall hard enough to paint the bricks crimson, then rolled aside as another came down on me with a battle-axe. The blade buried itself in his comrade’s chest, the poor bastard howling in confusion before collapsing like a sack of spoiled grain.
I tutted, shaking my head. "Really, gentlemen, you should learn to coordinate your attacks. You’re starting to look like amateurs."
They hated that. Oh, saints, the rage in their eyes could have melted iron.
Just then, a short, wiry one leapt at me with twin daggers, stabbing in furious little rabbit jabs. I caught his wrists mid-thrust and twisted until his arms folded like broken hinges, using his previous momentum to fling him into a hulking brute who’d been charging from behind.
They went down in a heap as I drove an elbow into a new assailant’s forearm—his cry cut off as the joint gave way with a hard, sickening snap
I snatched the fallen blade out of the air, tasted the metal on my tongue for a beat, then spun, blade singing, to catch the first two in the neck before either of them could scramble back upright. Efficient, bloody, and oh so satisfying.
Of course, efficiency only lasts so long when fifty men are trying to carve you into soup.
Without warning, a mace caught me across the ribs with the kind of force that made the world flash white. Pain exploded through my side, sharp and raw, and my breath hitched like I’d swallowed fire.
I staggered, smirk slipping just a little, and only just managed to roll before the follow-up strike turned my skull into porridge.
"Still smiling?" Victor’s voice drifted over the chaos, smooth as silk soaked in venom. I didn’t dare look at him—not yet—but gods above, I could feel his grin crawling across my skin like worms.
I answered with a manic laugh, twirling my stolen sword before hurling it straight into the throat of a man charging me with a spear. He gurgled, staggered, collapsed, and I spread my arms wide as if expecting applause. "Always!"
More of them surged in. Clubs cracked against my arms, blades tore shallow lines into my skin, fists pummeled me from every direction. My body became a patchwork of agony, every nerve screaming, every muscle pushed beyond sense.
But gods help me, the smirk stayed. If I stopped grinning now, if I let them see the terror clawing at my spine, I was finished.
So I turned the pain into performance.
I vaulted over one man, twisting mid-air to snap his neck with a sharp crack, then used his corpse as a springboard to flip over another’s swing. My boots landed square on his shoulders, and before he could react, I dug my thumbs into his eyes.
He shrieked, flailing, and I rode him down like a collapsing horse before leaping free, vanishing into shadow as more blades clattered into the ground where I’d been.
Oh, the chorus of confusion was divine. "Where’d he go?" one shouted. "Behind you!" another screamed. And then they’d whirl around, weapons trembling, only for me to appear elsewhere, snatching another knife, another sword, another toy to play with before sending it whistling into someone’s chest.
The floor became slick with blood. Bodies piled at my feet, broken and twitching. And still they came, a tide of fury and desperation, fifty melting to forty, to thirty, to—saints above, how many was it now? I lost count somewhere between stabbing a man in the throat with his own arrow and smashing another’s skull with my boot.
And then there was him. Ah yes, The Warden’s pet.
Every clash, every drop of blood drove him wilder. He thrashed against his chains, eyes blazing, teeth gnashing as he roared loud enough to rattle the stones. His hunger filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of gore until the chamber stank of violence incarnate.
And gods help me, I wanted him loose.
Step by step, cut by cut, I forced my way closer to the cage. Each movement cost me more than I’d like to admit. My disappearing trick flickered, weaker now, but still enough to push through. My body screamed for rest, but I refused. Saints above, I refused.
And that was when he made his move.
Victor. The king rat himself. He stepped in front of the cage with all the calm of a man strolling through a garden. His grin was still there, sharp and bright, but his eyes—oh, those eyes—burned with the kind of madness that made lesser men step aside. In his hand gleamed the dagger still wet with Mia’s blood.
"Not one step closer, pretty boy."
I froze, half because of the blade and half because—well—when a man calls me pretty boy in that tone, I tend to blush. "Oh please," I cooed, "you’ll have to do better than flattery if you want to stop me."
And then he lunged.
Gods above, he was fast. Faster than any of the brutes I’d cut down so far. His dagger sliced the air toward my throat, a silver flash that caught the torchlight.
I bent backward, spine arching until the blade skimmed the tip of my chin, the world a blur above me. Instinct took the reins, and I kicked upward as I fell, my boot slamming into his wrist. The dagger spun free, clattering against the stone.
"Oops," I chirped, rolling back to my feet. "Dropped your toy."
Victor didn’t miss a beat. He swung a fist the size of a ham straight at my jaw. I ducked, only for his knee to slam into my ribs. Fire erupted through my chest, my breath exploding in a strangled gasp. Saints, it felt like being kissed by a boulder.
I staggered back, clutching my ribs, but he pressed forward, relentless. His fists rained down like hellfire—jab, hook, elbow, knee—each blow a punctuation mark in the sermon of my impending death.
I dodged most, blocked some, but enough got through to paint me in agony. Still, I held my wicked composure. "Is this your version of foreplay? Because if so, I hope you know I’ve had rougher pillow talk with men who didn’t know which end of a belt buckle was which. At least buy me a drink first, or a nice steak—something romantic before you start rearranging my ribs like furniture."
His brow furrowed, fury sparking behind his eyes. "You talk too much."
"Only when I’m alive," I shot back, twisting just enough to catch his next punch and drag his momentum forward. His own weight betrayed him—his body crashing into mine—and I used that closeness to drive my forehead into his nose.
The crunch was exquisite.
Victor reeled, blood spraying from his shattered nose, and I followed up with a flurry of strikes—elbow to the temple, knee to the gut, heel to the thigh. He staggered but didn’t fall. Saints above, the bastard was a wall of muscle and spite.
Then he laughed. Laughed. Blood poured down his face, his grin split wide, and he whispered, "Finally. A fight worth winning."
And gods help me, I laughed too. Because he was right.
The next minutes—or hours, who can tell when death is dancing?—were a blur of violence more intricate than any duel I’d ever fought.
He moved like a storm, heavy and unyielding, while I was the shadow twisting between raindrops. His fists cracked stone when I dodged, his kicks whistled through the air like whips, and each time I slipped aside, I answered with a slash, a stab, a kick, a headbutt, whatever filthy trick I could conjure.
But he wouldn’t break.
We tore through the chamber, scattering corpses and tripping over the dying. My body bled from a dozen new wounds, and his face was a ruin of blood and bruises. Still, he blocked me at every turn, guarding the cage like a lion with its cub.
I needed something else. Something bigger.
So I let him hit me.
Yes, yes, I know—madness. But when his fist slammed into my chest, I clutched it, twisted, and let the force spin us both. My foot hooked behind his knee, my elbow slammed into his throat, and for one precious moment—one heartbeat of fortune—he stumbled.
He stumbled, and I shoved with every ounce of rage and desperation left in me.
Victor flew. His massive body slammed into the stone wall with a crack that echoed like thunder. Dust rained down, his tattoos writhed like dying snakes, and he slid to the ground in a heap. Not dead, no, but dazed. Immobilized.
My chest heaved, my body shaking, but gods above, I’d done it.
I whipped around to face my primary objective. The cage loomed before me, iron bars slick with the spit and fury of the beast within. His eyes met mine, blazing with an intelligence that sent a shiver crawling down my spine. He wanted out. He wanted blood. And saints help me, I was about to give him exactly that.
In a heartbeat I made my way to the massive gate of the cage. I fumbled at my boot, fingers slick with blood, trembling as I pulled the keys free. A circle of blades closed in around me from the men who had been watching our fight in silence, sneering as they prepared the final strike.
The first key slipped and chipped itself against the metal. Wrong size.
The second jammed in the lock, refusing to turn as sweat and blood dripped into my eyes. I cursed, teeth bared, forcing it out.
The circle tightened. Steel glinted. My breath came faster, broken, and for the first time that night, the smirk cracked into something desperate.
One key left. Just one.
I shoved it into the lock, twisted and then—saints above, it caught, it turned—
And the gate swung open with a slow, creaking groan.
What followed was silence. Absolute silence.
Every blade froze mid-swing, every breath caught. The men around me went pale, their hearts freezing in their chests as the realization hit them like a hammer. Even Victor faltered on the floor, his poisonous grin stuttering into something cold.
The beast stepped forward as I grinned, bloodied teeth flashing in the torchlight.
"Hey big guy, long time no see."