Morning arrived in the prison the way a drunkard stumbles into a tavern: too loud, too fast, and smelling faintly of piss.
Brutus trudged beside me, shoulders hunched like a mule resigned to his lot, while the Warden’s pet loomed behind us, his heavy steps shaking the stairwell as we descended into the mining caverns.
Normally I’d drag myself through our shift like a martyr on parade, coughing theatrically every few minutes just to remind the world how tragic my existence was. But today was different. Today, I had a secret weapon. Or rather, a very large, very hairy one.
The Warden’s pet turned out to be a godsend for productivity, if a bit of a hazard to anyone who valued their limbs. Where it normally took ten men half a day to chip through a single slab of rock, he reduced boulders to gravel with a few lazy swings of his fists.
Stone cracked like glass, dust plumed like smoke, and the other prisoners just stood there gawking while I leaned casually against a wall, buffing my nails on my skirt like a foreman overseeing his greatest piece of machinery.
It was, to be frank, quite delightful.
Even the correctional officer stopped shouting, eyes glued to the hulking figure before him as the whispers began spreading between the prisoners like parishioners at mass.
I, of course, used this golden opportunity to do something far more important: slink my way to the Boss.
Catching him wasn’t hard now. He’d been lingering near the far side of the cavern, bald lackey glued to his hip as always, his expression somewhere between suspicion and irritation.
The second his eyes landed on me, I knew I had him. He tried to look away, pretended I wasn’t worth his attention, but curiosity, the one addiction no man in this pit could ever quit, took the reins. I strolled over, grin plastered on, and murmured, "Courtyard. Tonight. Don’t keep me waiting."
For a moment, he played reluctant. He furrowed his brow, pursed his lips, the whole "I’m far too busy and important for gutter trash" routine. And yet his eyes betrayed him.
That spark of intrigue, that hunger for something beyond the daily monotony of running his miserable little pit. He’d come. I knew he would.
The rest of the shift blurred by in a haze of rock dust and whispers, and before I knew it, we were herded up from the mines, past the dripping stairwells and into the courtyard. It wasn’t long before I found myself standing at the doors to the warehouse.
My stage. My kingdom in waiting.
Naturally, I made my entrance with a jaunty whistle. Nothing says "I own this room" like walking into a den of cutthroats as if you’re about to sell them a new brand of wine. The warehouse doors creaked open and I waltzed in with the beastman trailing at my back like an executioner on retainer.
The second I crossed the threshold, all eyes snapped to me. The rest of my crew was already there—Atticus, Freya, Dregan, and the others—clustered around the room like mismatched furniture someone had dumped at a yard sale. A collection of sharp edges, cracked paint, and questionable stains, but still functional if you squinted hard enough.
Just then, the sight of the beast behind me sent a ripple of shock through the air so thick I could nearly taste it. Jaws slackened. Eyes bulged. Somewhere in the corner I swear someone crossed themselves. Saints above, the dramatics.
"Guess what?" I cooed, spreading my arms like a saint unveiling a miracle. "I brought a new friend."
Freya found her voice first. She leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, and sneered. "That’s not a friend. That’s a fucking monster."
"Oh, don’t be so rude," I purred, patting the beastman’s arm like he was a prized hound. "He’s very sensitive about that word. Aren’t you, darling?" The beast growled low in his throat, which only made Freya’s eyes bulge wider. Delicious.
Atticus leaned forward, his brow furrowed so deep I thought it might devour his nose. "What happened last night? And don’t you dare give me one of your riddles. I want the truth."
I gave him my sweetest grin, the kind that promised answers while concealing half a dozen lies. "Well," I began, pacing theatrically across the floor, "Victor and his merry band of psychopaths tried to kill me. Naturally, I didn’t let them. There was some stabbing, some screaming, some delightful choreography of blood and guts. And then, because I’m nothing if not resourceful, I decided to liberate our dear Warden’s pet here from his little cage. Voilà. Instant muscle."
The silence was exquisite. Atticus gaped like I’d just recited scripture backward. Freya muttered beneath her breath, something between "lunatic" and "genius," though I wasn’t about to split hairs.
Dregan, bless his charred little soul, finally broke the tension by whistling low, puffing on a cigar he definitely hadn’t paid for, and muttering, "Saints above, remind me never to let you redecorate my house. You’d probably burn it down and call it a masterpiece."
I clapped my hands. "Oh, don’t all thank me at once."
Atticus snapped himself free from his stupor. "Loona, do you even hear yourself?! You went against this entire prison’s throng of drug lords, unleashed the Warden’s beast, and—"
"—and lived to tell the tale," I cut in, smirking. "Really, you should be impressed."
Before he could sputter further, I snapped my fingers. Brutus brushed past me with a grunt and began shoving the room into order at my silent command.
Tables screeched, instruments toppled, crates clattered aside. In minutes, the warehouse floor was stripped bare save for a single metal table—the kind we used for cooking up our little chemical delicacies.
The beastman lumbered into the back and returned moments later, a dozen chairs tucked under each arm like oversized dolls. He set them neatly around the table, then took his place behind me as I settled at the far end, claiming my throne like a king surveying a court of squabbling nobles—chin high, legs crossed just so, one finger lazily drumming the table.
I let my gaze sweep the room, savoring the tension, the uncertainty, the flickers of awe. Then I leaned forward, fingers steepled. "First things first."
Then I spoke the words Yolmear had muttered, tasting their weight like bitter wine.
One by one, the collars around my crew’s throats flickered, sparked, then went dull. That faint shimmer of binding magic, that subtle leash tugging at our very souls—it died like a candle snuffed in a storm, leaving behind nothing but cold iron and the ghost of a chokehold we’d all worn for far too long.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then laughter. My laughter, bubbling and sharp, spilling out like champagne uncorked. Gods above, their faces. Relief and disbelief twisted together, eyes wide, fingers clawing at dead collars as though they refused to believe freedom could feel this simple.
"Loona, you maniac," Freya said, though this time her voice carried a dangerous edge of admiration. "You actually did it."
"Of course I did," I said sweetly, lounging back in my chair.
They praised me then, their voices tumbling over each other. Some of the other men around the room bowed, some clutched at my hands, others just stared as though I’d sprouted wings. Gods, the power of it was intoxicating.
Just then, the warehouse doors creaked open, and in slunk the first of the drug lords I’d summoned—the hollow-faced wretch I’d sent scurrying with Mia.
He froze at the threshold like a rat caught under torchlight, twitching faintly, eyes darting anywhere but me. His fear stank, sharp and sour, clinging to him like rot. But I barely spared him a glance, because what he carried mattered far more.
Mia.
She clung weakly to his back, her breath shallow, her skin pale, but alive. Saints preserve us, she was alive. The sight punched through my chest like a blade, stealing the breath straight from my lungs.
Atticus saw her too. He bolted upright, his composure shattering. "Put her down," he barked. The hollow man squeaked like a rat and nearly dropped her in his haste to obey.
Atticus caught her, his hands flying across her body with the practiced precision of a craftsman. "Crude work," he muttered. "Sloppy stitches. But she’ll hold. She’s stable for now." He glanced back up at the man. "Take her to the back," he ordered. "Now."
The man bowed so hard I thought his spine would snap, scuttling off with Mia. I couldn’t help but snicker. Saints, watching men quake at Atticus was better than sipping fine wine.
The other lords trickled in shortly after, curiosity or greed tugging them to their seats. They glared sidelong at one another, suspicion thick as fog. I watched it all with the patience of a conductor before his orchestra.
And then, at last, he arrived.
The Boss.
He stepped into the warehouse with his bald croonie in tow, presence commanding without effort. The room hushed, every eye turning. My grin sharpened.
But before I could welcome him, a chair screeched. Freya sprang to her feet, fury blazing, her finger stabbing through the air. "What the fuck is he
The Boss arched a brow, lips curling in a sly smirk. "What does it look like? I’m attending the party. Or do you think revolution comes with guest lists?"
Freya’s fury only deepened. Her fists clenched, her whole body trembling. "You’ve got no right to be here!"
Brutus, ever the peacemaker, lumbered forward and laid a massive hand on her shoulder. She slapped it away, snarling, "Don’t touch me, you dumb ox!"
She turned back to the Boss then. "You’ve got some fucking gall showing your face here," she spat. "After what you did that night, after what you did to Brutus, after what you did to me—" She jabbed her finger through the air with every word, each gesture sharp enough to the point where I thought she might take his eye out by sheer indignation alone.
Now, me being me, I should’ve been focused on the strategy at hand—power, unity, revolution. But saints, watching her lash out with every ounce of venom she had stored up was... well, how to put it delicately?
Let’s just say I blushed. Brightly. There was something intoxicating about righteous rage when worn with that kind of conviction. Forget poetry, forget music, if I ever needed inspiration I’d just replay this moment in my head on a loop.
The Boss, of course, did what men like him always do—he leaned on arrogance like it was a crutch. He lifted his chin, smirked in that oily way of his, and said, "I go where I please. I’ve earned that right a hundred times over."
His tone was of cold, smug authority. Gods help me, I almost respected him for keeping his pet names holstered.
Brutus’s hand hovered like he wanted to steady Freya’s shoulder again but thought better of it. I could sense it. There was a bad history between their bond, one which I couldn’t quite place.
I opened my mouth, about to slip in some witty comment to cut the tension—something about family therapy and how it’s always better with knives involved—when the universe provided a distraction of its own.
Echoing down the hall, growing louder by the second, was shouting.
Everybody’s attention became diverted to that sound as three figures stumbled into the room, dragging chaos in their wake. Two of the men were familiar—the remaining drug lords. But between them, hauled by his arms like a sack of rotten potatoes, was Victor.
Oh, Victor. His face was a painting in three movements: pallid sweat, clenched jaw, and a spark of fury so hot I almost applauded the effort.
One of the men shoved him forward and barked, "Caught the bastard trying to run."
Victor thrashed, his voice shrill with indignation. "Lies! I wasn’t running, I—"
And that was my cue to giggle. Just a soft, lilting sound, but it hit him like a blade. He froze mid-protest, eyes wide, spine rigid, as though my laughter were a curse.
The men deposited him in a chair at the far end of the table, opposite me, as though seating him for a dinner he absolutely did not want to attend.
He tried to spit more protests, but that’s when my darling beastman moved. He lumbered forward with a predator’s grace, stepping up behind Victor like a shadow with claws. The beast’s scowl was a wicked thing, teeth bared, eyes glowing, and it was aimed straight down at him.
The effect was instantaneous. Victor’s words died in his throat, leaving only a strangled croak. Silence at last.
I folded my hands atop the table, let the moment linger, then leaned in to speak. "Alright then, now that everyone’s here, let’s begin."
The words slipped from me smooth as silk, and all eyes turned my way. Time to play conductor to this little orchestra of cutthroats and killers.
"First of all," I said, leaning back like a king on his throne. "From this day forward, my empire and yours are no longer separate. No more squabbling. No more posturing. No more wasting resources clawing at each other like starving dogs. We are one. Unified and absolute."
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by Atticus’s pen stilling on the page of his notebook. His eyes rose, wide, slack-jawed, like a scholar watching someone set fire to the library of Alexandria while juggling torches.
"Unity means profit," I continued, tapping the table. "But profit means structure. So here’s what we’ll do: shares. Every operation, every shipment, every ounce of product—we split it. Percentages by contribution, overseen by collective vote, but executed under one banner. Mine."
Atticus’s mouth opened but no words came out. Just a faint squeak, the sound of a man whose mathematical brain had just imploded.
"A share system?" Freya scoffed. "What is this, a fucking marketplace?"
"Yes!" I beamed, clapping my hands. "Exactly that. But instead of vegetables and pigs, we’re trading in narcotics, weapons, and raw terror. It’s capitalism with knives."
A few chuckles slipped through the tension. Even Brutus grunted, which for him was the equivalent of roaring laughter.
I leaned on the table, voice dropping lower, silkier. "But the most important share isn’t silver, spice, or stone. It’s freedom. And that—" I gestured broadly, sweeping the room with my arm, "—is our ultimate prize. A way out."
That landed. Hard. In an instant, the murmuring began, soft at first, then growing louder as the lords glanced at each other with wide eyes.
My gaze slid down the table and landed on the most pitiful of the bunch, a man so decrepit he looked like he’d been assembled from spare parts scavenged out of a scrapyard.
Dirty blond hair clung to his skull in greasy strands, and bolted—or was it welded?—to his face were a pair of industrial goggles, lenses so thick they magnified his beady eyes until he looked like a startled toad. Gods above, the man reeked of coal dust and bad decisions.
I pointed at him with the casual grace of an emperor singling out a criminal for execution. "You. Yes, you, Goggles McShivers. Stop mumbling and start spilling the beans," I leaned forward with a grin sharp enough to draw blood. "I’m partial to kidney beans, but really, any legume will do."
The poor bastard froze mid-fidget. His fingers clutched the edge of the table so tight his knuckles whitened, and behind those ridiculous lenses his eyes darted left, right, anywhere but directly at me. He swallowed once, twice, then croaked out in a voice as thin as parchment:
"V-Victor never told us his full plan. He merely dangled it in front of us. Just enough to keep us interested. He said... he said if we stayed loyal, if we did what he asked, we’d get a share of the prize. But he never... never gave us the whole picture."
The air in the room shifted. I felt it—like the collective inhale of an audience before the climax of a play. Every single head turned, slow as the swing of an executioner’s axe, toward the far end of the table. Toward Victor.
He sat there with his face swollen from old bruises, nose still leaking from earlier, and for a moment, I thought he might fold under the collective weight of our stares. But no. Against all odds, the bastard started laughing.
Not a chuckle, not a nervous titter. No, this was a full-bodied, belly-shaking laugh, the kind that makes you want to slap someone just to shut them up. He threw his head back and cackled, blood spraying from his lips, his chest heaving as though this were the funniest damn thing he’d ever heard.
"You idiots!" he roared, slamming his hands against the table. "Don’t you see? Don’t you fucking see?! I’ve got leverage now! I’ve got the one thing none of you have—knowledge! And you’ll never get it out of me. Never. I’ll take it to my grave before I hand it over to the likes of you."
His words tumbled into a rant, his voice rising higher with each declaration. He went on about how we were all pawns, how he was the only one who had the key, how we’d dance to his tune or rot in the dirt without him. His spittle flew across the table, his face gleamed with sweat, and for all his fury, there was a strange light in his eyes—desperation, yes, but also triumph. He believed this. He truly thought he had me cornered.
I let him talk. Gods, it was almost entertaining, like watching a drunken noble try to explain philosophy to a tavern whore. I leaned my chin into my hand, fluttered my lashes, and nodded along as if his every word were poetry.
Finally, when he paused to suck in another desperate breath, I sighed and rolled my eyes. "That’s cute," I drawled. "Really. Very dramatic. Ten out of ten for volume, eight out of ten for spit production, but darling—you’ve misunderstood something vital."
Victor’s grin faltered. Just a little. Enough to make my own sharpen.
"If you won’t give us the truth willingly, we’ll just have to pull it out of you by force."
Gasps fluttered through the room then. The lords stiffened. Even the Boss arched a brow. I didn’t care. I turned to Atticus, who was already straightening in his seat, his jaw set like a soldier ready to march.
"Atticus," I purred, "take our dear Victor to that room."
His eyes flickered, understanding dawning. He bowed his head once, rising slowly. Before he could take another step, the beastman moved first. His hands closed around Victor’s shoulders, lifting him as though he were a child’s doll. Victor’s eyes bulged, his bravado cracking into sheer panic.
"Wait—wait! What room?! What are you doing?! You can’t—" His demands dissolved into babbling fear as the beastman began dragging him toward the stairs, his legs kicking uselessly against the stone.
The room watched in silence. Victor’s cries echoed down the corridor, growing fainter, thinner, until at last they vanished into the depths of the warehouse.
And then, silence.
The kind of silence that hums. The kind of silence that makes your skin prickle and your stomach flutter, because you know, deep in your heart, that something delicious was about to happen.