Well, this chapter is probably the most controversial one for me. I know exactly why I included these scenes, but I’m still not entirely sure they’re not too much. I apologize in advance.

  When dusk finally draped the city in its misty veil, Morveyn Lyuteakh pulled up silently near a CTS junction, where Teak-An’s grand ring highway met the wide-lane road leading to the capital’s outskirts.

  Third vehicle in a day, he thought wryly. At this rate, I’ll be a seasoned driver. If they kick me out tomorrow, I might as well become a cabbie.

  He parked near a modest postal station, its lot filled with service vehicles and workers' cars. Many people left their transports here to switch to stagecoaches running along designated lanes toward the city center.

  Morveyn was headed for Teak-An’s historic center. He wasn’t expecting to be followed, but in this city, he was never truly alone. The Crimson Hand’s influence, coupled with his striking appearance, made him impossible to ignore.

  Anyone who had ever seen him remembered his accursed face. If he let his guard down and appeared in public without sufficient concealment, word would spread within minutes: Falconet Lyuteakh dined here, he was seen walking there. Maids would peek from windows, idle aristocrats would find excuses to "accidentally" bump into him, and ambitious men would whisper of favors to be gained.

  Morveyn never understood the fascination. Why would anyone care to watch him eat dinner or sip wine, as if there were nothing more interesting in the world? Social events—those tedious obligations—were more than enough for him.

  Every gathering was an ordeal. His father, Menno, had long decided that Morveyn’s role lay not in the battlefield but in the salons of the capital, where the Protectorium’s influence was spread through carefully cultivated relationships.

  "You have what they need," Menno often said. "Better to show off that face where it’s useful than get in the way of military operations."

  To his father, Morveyn’s appearance was just another weapon—a tool as vital as a blade or a well-crafted strategy. The responsibility of catching an aristocrat’s eye, securing the trust of a merchant, or planting doubt in a rival’s mind often fell squarely on his shoulders.

  Sometimes it was a matter of saying the right words at the right moment. Other times, it was a slow, exhausting game of persuasion, weeks or even months in the making. But no matter the effort, he despised the farce.

  Yes, his face made him invaluable. But it also made him feel like a commodity. His father knew he had other skills—ones just as valuable in the field—but refused to acknowledge them. Desperate to prove himself, Morveyn had taken matters into his own hands.

  Secretly, he hoped to tarnish his reputation so thoroughly that no respectable salon would ever welcome him again. Then, when the gossip faded, when the novelty of his disgrace wore off, he would “atone” by joining the expeditions into the Schism-afflicted wastelands.

  But the less he sought the spotlight, the more intrigue he provoked. His reserved nature and rare public appearances only deepened the mystery. And mysteries, as everyone knew, were irresistible.

  What irritated him most was how none of these people considered the burden of such attention. To them, he was a spectacle—something to gawk at, discuss, dissect. Among the younger aristocrats, many craved such notoriety, but Morveyn found it suffocating.

  Tired of prying eyes, he had devised a masquerade of his own.

  "Something ordinary," he had told his servant. "Clothes that won’t draw attention."

  The result was an off-the-rack outfit: an oversized tunic with a deep hood, wide trousers with large pockets—all in black. A cloth mask, like those worn by carriage riders to keep out dust. A pair of gloves.

  Only his boots remained unchanged—a concession to practicality.

  Dressed like this, he became anonymous. No one recognized him. No one stepped aside reverently at his approach.

  Once or twice, someone even elbowed him aside in a crowded street. Instead of offense, he felt a strange amusement.

  That night, he was certain no one had noticed his departure from the estate. He had planned every step carefully, ensuring complete anonymity.

  Hopping out of a taxi near Teak-An’s historic center, he slipped into the labyrinth of narrow streets. Winding his way through pedestrian-only lanes—past outdoor restaurant tables and luxury shop displays—he ducked under an ivy-covered archway.

  Beyond it lay a small courtyard, its stone walls cloaked in deep shadows. At the far end stood an unmarked door, nondescript and easily overlooked.

  A figure loomed beside it—a bald, broad-shouldered guard in a sharp suit, his face set in a permanent scowl.

  The man gave Morveyn a lazy once-over, his eyes lingering on the shapeless clothing. But when Morveyn lowered his mask just slightly, recognition flickered in the guard’s gaze.

  Without a word, he inclined his head and stepped aside, holding the door open.

  Music mingled with shrill feminine laughter, thick with the scent of burning censers and the heavy sweetness of incense. The air shimmered with warmth, carrying the perfume of bodies pressed too close together, the faint bite of spiced wine. The walls, draped in deep burgundy and rose-colored fabrics, softened the harsh angles of the basement, creating the illusion of windows where there were none.

  The reception desk, a masterpiece of carved wood and mother-of-pearl inlay, gleamed under the dim glow of golden lanterns. It stood at the heart of the waiting area, surrounded by plush red sofas occupied by patrons both waiting and watching.

  A hostess glided toward him, her smile perfectly pitched between warmth and invitation. She was tall, long-legged, wrapped in a sequined dress that shimmered with every movement. The neckline plunged scandalously, revealing the soft swell of her breasts, and yet the elegance of her attire suggested careful selection—an intentional balance of allure and refinement.

  He stood out among the usual clientele, but she was too well-trained to let that show. This was an exclusive club, one that required either an invitation or a trusted recommendation. Here, the line between the permissible and the illicit blurred. But experience had long since taught her not to judge guests by their attire.

  As Morveyn lowered his mask just enough to reveal his face, her expression brightened instantly.

  "Welcome, Mylord," she purred, her voice honeyed with practiced charm. "Allow me to escort you."

  She moved with the effortless grace of a dancer, each step designed to emphasize the sway of her hips. A trained performer, Morveyn noted absently. They always pick the most polished ones for the front of the house.

  She pulled aside a heavy velvet curtain, stepping just close enough that he had to brush past her to enter. But to her disappointment, he moved without hesitation, slipping into the room without so much as a lingering glance.

  The world beyond the curtain was an eruption of sound and color.

  Silk draperies rippled from the movement of unseen fans, their undulating forms casting shifting shadows across the room. Colored lanterns bathed the scene in a dim, sultry glow, their light reflecting in the gleam of polished marble tables and half-emptied glasses. Despite the vibrancy, a lingering darkness clung to the space—something deliberate, something cultivated, a carefully maintained illusion of secrecy.

  Masks were common here. Some were simple half-masks, the kind one might wear to a masquerade. Others were ornate, covering entire faces, decorated with precious metals or delicate filigree. Beneath them, identities blurred.

  Morveyn pulled his mask back into place and kept to the shadows, scanning the crowd as he moved. He needed to be certain of who was here before he ventured deeper.

  The room pulsed with indulgence, every corner brimming with excess. Lust, idleness, gluttony—of all the sins on display, these were the most harmless. Smoke curled in languid spirals from long-stemmed pipes, the scent thick and cloying. At the center of the hall, a card game was in full swing, coins and trinkets exchanged in easy, careless wagers.

  Throughout the space, figures stood not as guests but as living ornaments—silent fixtures carefully positioned to enhance the room’s aesthetic. Their presence blended seamlessly with the decor, adding an air of theatrical elegance that the nobility found both piquant and enchanting.

  Here, a girl in only a crisp white collar and lace-trimmed apron leaned over the gaming table, dealing cards with meticulous precision. There, a young man, statuesque and still, held twin candelabras aloft, his face painted to resemble marble. And in the farthest corner, a plump woman knelt on all fours at the foot of a grand chair, her back arched, serving as a human footstool – her massive breasts hanging down to the floor.

  Morveyn barely reacted to the sight— until he suddenly recognized the owner of the polished boots resting on that soft, rounded back.

  A flicker of tension coiled through him.

  Baron Neerghafen. That’s might be a complication.

  Pushing away the thought, he turned his focus back to his surroundings.

  At the far end of the hall, a stage blazed with colorful spotlights, where a popular singer draped herself over a gilded piano, voice low and sultry. The song was a familiar one— the kind that lingered long after the music stopped. Morveyn didn’t keep up with such things, but even he recognized the annoyingly catchy tune.

  Elegant metal cages flanked the stage, their occupants swaying in hypnotic rhythm. Nearly naked dancers adorned with elaborate feathered headdresses moved within them, their performances deliberately avian, an illusion of captured beauty.

  Beyond the stage, alcoves lined the walls, each enclosed by sheer, gauzy curtains. From within, the sounds of pleasure and pain drifted through the air—moans, breathless laughter, the occasional sharp crack of a hand against bare skin.

  As Morveyn passed one of the booths, a muffled thud met his ears, followed by a low sob.

  His gaze flickered toward the sound.

  Inside, the dim light revealed a figure curled against the cushions, their breath ragged, a sheen of sweat glistening on bruised skin. Morveyn forced himself to move on. The guards standing nearby didn’t so much as glance in the direction of the alcove. Whatever happened within those veiled spaces was no one’s concern.

  This was that kind of place.

  Here, a person could find anything to indulge their fantasies. The city’s finest dancers, private chambers catering to every desire, rare imported stimulants, and a clientele willing to pay any price for excess.

  The latest aristocratic indulgence—Hell’s Powder—drifted in thick, green-tinged smoke from intricately carved burners, filling the air with its intoxicating haze. A crushed saap crystal, refined for smoking, it was rumored to sharpen pleasure to unbearable heights. Even its dangerous traces of Schism did little to deter those seeking its euphoric oblivion.

  At the farthest and most opulent booth, Morveyn finally found the man he was looking for.

  A sudden impact nearly knocked him off his feet.

  Only a few hours ago, he had knocked heads with someone, and now he'd collided with someone else—someone much larger, emerging abruptly from Loran’s alcove just as he was about to enter. What the hell was with today? Was he doomed to get smacked in the face until the gods themselves were satisfied?

  Morveyn barely had time to process the massive presence before him—a tall broad-shouldered man in a sleek, well-tailored coat. The scent of leather and something faintly metallic clung to him, sharper than the usual perfumes and liquor.

  A large, gloved hand caught Morveyn’s by his shoulders, steadying him with an ease.

  The man’s grin was wide—flashing sharp, white teeth beneath the half-mask. It lingered somewhere above Morveyn’s eye level, a gleaming crescent of amusement, as though the stranger found some private joke in their collision. He leaned in slightly, his voice a low, lazy drawl, saturated with that same insufferable mirth.

  "Easy there, love."

  The words slid past Morveyn’s ear like a blade through silk, slow and deliberate, each syllable drawn out with an infuriating lack of urgency. There was no aggression in it, no overt threat—just a casual, unsettling familiarity.

  Morveyn stiffened. Before he could snap back, outraged by such a condescending attitude, the man gently pushed him aside and simply disappeared into the crowd, which, given his height, was not so easy. He exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists before he forced them to relax

  Why did that feel so familiar?

  The sensation clawed at the edges of his mind, something buried deep, something forgotten. A memory just out of reach, coated in déjà vu and unease.

  Morveyn shook it off and slipped past the heavy velvet curtain into Loran’s booth.

  Baronet Loran of Acrass lounged at the center of his private alcove, reclining like a self-satisfied predator surveying his domain. The footman at the entrance bowed slightly before drawing back the sheer curtain, announcing Morveyn’s arrival.

  “Come in, darling,” Loran called, his voice a lazy purr. “I’ve been waiting.”

  The scene before Morveyn was an imitation of an old religious painting—one of those grand, forgotten works where the First Messiah and his apostles dined in divine excess.

  At the head of the gathering, in the role of a self-appointed deity, was Loran. Tall, broad-shouldered, with golden hair spilling over his bare chest, he exuded the effortless confidence of a man who had never known denial. His sun-kissed skin gleamed under the low light, the coarse hair on his torso catching the glow of nearby lanterns.

  Flanking him, like faithful disciples, lounged two near-naked courtesans clad in translucent tunics designed more for suggestion than modesty. Their bodies curved toward him, waiting for his idle attention, though it was clear he had long since grown indifferent to their presence.

  The round table before them held a spread of fine dishes and rich wines, but the true centerpiece was far less conventional. A young boy lay sprawled across the surface, his smooth body adorned with delicate morsels of food—an elaborate platter of flesh and indulgence. Here and there, faint teeth marks marred his tanned skin, a silent testament to the baronet’s idea of entertainment.

  Their arrangement was a matter of convenience. Winning the baronet’s favor had been a calculated effort—a few well-placed words, an occasional compromise, and a willingness to endure company he found neither charming nor amusing. After months of careful maneuvering, Loran had finally deemed him worthy of an invitation to this exclusive, members-only club.

  Since then, Morveyn had come here once or twice a week—whenever duty didn’t pull him away from the capital. Loran, with his bottomless appetite for beauty, power, and carefully curated vice, enjoyed surrounding himself with those who shared his tastes. Or at least pretended to.

  The footman ensured the curtain was securely drawn before retreating.

  Morveyn merely arched a brow, unimpressed. He had seen Loran’s theatrics before.

  Irritation still simmering in his chest. His gaze raked over the baronet’s extravagant display—golden hair spilling over a half-bared chest, a pair of courtesans draped against him like decorative silks—but his mind was still on the giant who had just walked past him.

  "What the hell was that brute outside? Your latest watchdog? He seemed no eager to bite." Morveyn snapped, shaking off the residual unease. "I swear, another one of those, and you won’t have enough space left for actual guests."

  Loran arched a brow, clearly amused by the sudden outburst. He swirled his wine lazily before smirking. "You’re interested? Oh no, darling, you don’t want to play with that one."

  Morveyn narrowed his eyes. "That so?"

  Loran leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Baron Neergaffen brought him in. And now we can’t get rid of him. But take my advice—keep your distance."

  “Neergafen?” Morveyn repeated, his tone casual despite the pulse quickening in his chest. The name was a thread in a labyrinth of dead ends. Too many whispers had led him toward AoDalle—an isolated transport hub where goods from across the Confederation converged. It was the largest cargo junction in the CTS network, a place where shipments could vanish without a trace. But until tonight, the connection between that district and Loran’s affairs had been nothing more than speculation. Now, it was something tangible.

  And Morveyn remembered all too well that AoDalle housed not just the convergence of trade routes but also Neergafen’s sprawling enterprise. Back when Menno had briefly considered securing supply lines through the baron’s company, Morveyn had gleaned more about the man than he’d cared to know. Neergafen’s warehouses dominated the district’s eastern sector—vast steel giants standing like sentinels along the cargo lanes. His main office, a fortress of dark glass and stone, overlooked the river docks where freight barges slipped through the murk at all hours. But beneath the veneer of legitimate commerce lay rot. Even then, whispers of missing shipments and untraceable cargo had clung to the baron’s name like the stink of stagnant water.

  “Don’t tell me you’re curious,” Loran chuckled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. The dim light caught the edge of his smile—sharp, knowing. “A man like him doesn’t play nice, even with friends. But he’s profitable. That’s what matters.”

  Morveyn’s gaze didn’t waver. “Profitable? Lori, I knew you were a bit unhinged, but doing business with that psycho? ”

  Loran exhaled a slow breath, eyes flicking toward the far end of the room as if measuring the distance of unseen ears. “That charming green smoke that brings my club so much profit—you know as well as anyone how highly we value it,” he said at last, the words slipping out like a whispered threat. “Neerghafen’s got connections—imports, distribution. Clubs like mine wouldn’t survive without the supply. It’s not ideal, but…” He shrugged, the motion loose but weighed with meaning. “Better to keep him on your side than risk having him turn the supply against you.”

  “And the other one?” Morveyn pressed.

  A flicker of something darker crossed Loran’s face. He took a slow sip before answering. “The tall one? You don’t want his attention, Mory. The old creep might set the terms, but that man... he decides who gets to play the game at all. We follow the rules or lose more than profit.”

  Morveyn tilted his head slightly. “And if I wanted to play as well? With my position, I could be an interesting business partner. You know, my dear father isn’t exactly generous with my salary, and indulging in entertainment like yours can burn through quite the sum.”

  Loran laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. “Then pray neither of them finds your face too interesting for that. A pretty thing like you... well, let's just say curiosity isn't always rewarded.”

  Morveyn held Loran’s gaze a moment longer before leaning back, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. The air between them settled heavy with unspoken truths, the promise of danger woven through every carefully chosen word. It seemed the game had far more players than he’d anticipated—and not all of them played by the same rules.

  Still, the implications were clear. Loran might host the club, shielding its more illicit dealings from unwanted scrutiny, but Neergafen... Neergafen was the sourse. Drugs, flesh, and whatever else crawled through the underbelly of Te-Aroed’s elite—Neergafen’s hands were in all of it. And that man—the one who’d nearly knocked him down in the hallway minutes before—was more than a simple associate. There was power in his presence, enough that even Loran, with his arrogance and influence, held his tongue. If both Loran and Neergafen yielded to him, then whoever he was, he wasn’t a mere middleman. He was something worse.

  Morveyn tipped his glass to his lips, letting the burn of alcohol ground him as the pieces began to shift into place. If the baron’s shadow fell over AoDalle’s trade district, then infiltrating his circle would be the next logical step. Easier than it should have been—considering that Neergafen had spent the past several months dogging his heels like a bloodhound with a scent. Whatever twisted fascination had taken root in the baron’s mind, it would serve Morveyn well. Let the bastard think the hunt was his.

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  Damned old man. The wiry, sharp-boned old aristocrat had made a habit of lurking wherever Morveyn went, his fixation an unshakable shadow. It had started last year with an ill-advised promise—a moment of calculated flirtation in exchange for certain trade concessions. At the time, Morveyn had thought little of it. But when Senior Lyuteakh ultimately chose a different business partner, the arrangement became meaningless. To everyone but Neerghafen.

  Morveyn clenched his jaw, suppressing the sudden surge of visceral irritation. If he had ever imagined crossing paths with Neergafen, it had only been in the context of razing that hive to the ground. But reality rarely afforded such satisfying resolutions. It seemed he would have to play the game differently—charming his way into the good graces of an old degenerate.

  So be it.

  The glass in Loran’s hand tilted slightly, amber reflecting the low glow of the chandelier as he took a slow sip. Beneath the veneer of amusement, there was something else—a trace of distaste, perhaps even fear. Morveyn didn’t need words to understand: Loran might profit from Neergafen’s operations, but he didn’t trust the man any more than he liked him. And if things went badly, Loran wouldn’t drown alone. No—he would drag down anyone within reach. Morveyn had no illusions about that. He had risked too much, waded too deep into filth to have his name whispered alongside Loran’s should the worst come to pass.

  If Neergafen was the next link in the chain, then Loran had served his purpose. And tonight, perhaps, it was time to sever that thread before it could tighten around his neck.

  Morveyn unfastened his heavy tunic, tossing it over the back of a chair. The room was sweltering, the dense air thick with incense, sweat, and cloying perfume. Loran’s eyes raked over him with open appreciation before he casually smacked one of the courtesans on the thigh. Without hesitation, she shifted, moving toward Morveyn as if summoned.

  “You’re late, by the way” Loran drawled, feigning displeasure as he gestured toward the empty space beside him. “I had to start without you.”

  He intercepted her with a slow shake of his head.

  “Sorry,” he murmured with a smirk, “The old man decided to lecture me today. I had to wait for him to leave before slipping out. You know how he’d react if he found out about our little… escapades.”

  Loran chuckled, reaching for his wine.

  “Mmm. That’s a turn-on,” he mused. “The Crimson Hand scouring the city for traces of Schism, while his darling son drowns himself in it.”

  Morveyn gave a noncommittal hum, sinking into the cushions. From the corner of his eye, movement drew his attention.

  One of the courtesans—barely more than a girl—shifted slightly, her position momentarily revealing what had been obscured by the low candlelight. He saw that between the baronet's widely spaced legs a pretty curly head was already working. A wide leather collar was fastened to her thin neck, and the baronet was clutching the leash tightly in his fist. Every now and then he pulled the leash so hard that she could barely breathe, impaling her to the very base. A steady, rhythmic motion that should have been hidden beneath the table.

  For a brief moment, his gaze locked onto hers.

  She was not present.

  Her pupils, wide and unfocused, swam in a green haze, her lips parted in a dazed, thoughtless smile. When Loran’s fingers tightened on the leash, she gasped—not in pain, not in fear, but in mindless obedience, her body responding without hesitation.

  Hell’s Powder.

  Morveyn knew its effects well. It dulled everything except pleasure, blurring pain into something indistinguishable from euphoria. It made people willing—or at least, incapable of resisting.

  A flicker of irritation curled in his chest, but he forced it down. He had known exactly what kind of place this was.

  And he had not come here to play savior.

  This was the work of the club’s dolls—a carefully maintained illusion of choice. No one forced them to stay. Girls from poor families, daughters of merchants drowning in debt, aspiring actresses desperate for an easier path—they all came willingly. A week or two in blissful, drug-induced oblivion, then they left with purses full of coin. Some paid off their debts and never returned.

  Most, however, did.

  And each time they came back, they sank a little deeper.

  It was a cycle—one encouraged by those who profited from it. The more they enjoyed their time here, the more likely they were to return. The more they returned, the harder it became to leave.

  For now, the girl at Loran’s feet was still valuable. But once she wasn’t—once the bruises stopped fading, once her body lost its youthful softness—she would have to find work elsewhere. Somewhere less selective. Somewhere that paid less and demanded more.

  And if she didn’t leave?

  Morveyn had no illusions about what happened to those whose usefulness ran out.

  Black bags were sometimes carried out the back door in the middle of the night. Occasionally, a name would appear in the newspapers under the Missing notices. But no questions were ever asked.

  The name of Baronet of Acras and several other high-ranking patrons was firmly off the scent of police bloodhounds.

  The official position of the Protectorium was clear—non-interference.

  The Crimson Wolves fought Schism. They patrolled the borders, eradicated twisted creatures, hunted things that clawed their way through reality’s fractures. The fate of the city’s indulgences—of its willing or unwilling participants—was not their concern.

  And Morveyn, as much as he despised it, knew better than to pretend otherwise.

  He exhaled slowly, fingers drumming idly against the armrest.

  Loran was still watching him, waiting for a reaction, his expression alight with mischief.

  “Tell me,” the baronet purred, tilting his head. “Are you going to just sit there looking pensive all night? Or are you finally going to enjoy yourself?”

  Morveyn let his smirk return, slipping easily back into the role expected of him.

  “Patience, Lori,” he murmured. “I only just arrived.”

  And as the baronet laughed, Morveyn reached for the nearest glass of wine—forcing himself to drink deep.

  He let a slow, languid smile curve his lips, tracing the tip of his tongue along them in idle amusement. Across from him, still clutching the leash, Baronet Loran of Acrass moved with a feline ease, closing the space between them and pressing a heated kiss against his mouth.

  He tasted of sweat and alcohol, rich and heady. Morveyn did not pull away. He had long since learned to noticing and calculate such moments. But when a slender hand ghosted toward his belt, he caught the girl’s wrist, halting her with a gentle, deliberate touch.

  “You’re tense,” the baronet murmured. “What’s on your mind?”

  Morveyn let his fingers trail over the rim of a crystal glass, collecting the lingering moisture before pressing it against his lips.

  Morveyn scoffed. "How do you tolerate this kind of filth here? Neergaffen is an old bastard."

  Loran laughed, his rich voice ringing through the alcove. "Oh, Mor, my dear, you’re just not used to an old man trailing after you like a lovesick pup."

  Not used to it? Sure. Morveyn hid his smirk behind his glass. Let Loran think he was just an inexperienced fool. That always worked to his advantage.

  “The old leech looks at me like a prize waiting to be unwrapped.”

  Loran chuckled, low and indulgent.

  “You are the prize.” He ran his fingers along Morveyn’s jaw, tilting his chin just slightly—controlling the angle, claiming the moment. His voice dropped to a murmur. “And you’re mine tonight.”

  Morveyn let the silence stretch between them before offering a slow, amused smile.

  “If you say so.”

  Loran's eyes darkened, pleased with the game, the unspoken challenge.

  Morveyn rolled his eyes, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "I’m never against a good deal, but even I have standards. Some are just too crazy to deal with."

  Loran sighed dramatically, setting his glass down. "Shame. But let’s not ruin the evening with talk of lunatics. You’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Let’s enjoy ourselves."

  Morveyn exhaled, his irritation settling. "I’d love to relax, but I can’t exactly do that with this freak sitting a few meters away, breathing down my neck."

  “Shall we move to the VIP suite?” he offered, his fingers already tracing idle patterns against Morveyn’s collarbone. “I had it prepared while waiting for you.”

  Of course, he had.

  With a flick of his hand, Loran gestured toward the concealed elevator embedded within the booth’s wall—an entrance reserved for the most elite guests.

  Morveyn rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders as he followed the baronet into the lion’s den.

  The VIP room was a world apart.

  Dim lighting cast deep shadows across a lavishly decorated space, designed for indulgence and excess. At its heart loomed an enormous bed, its silken sheets rippling under the soft glow of gold-trimmed sconces.

  The bed dominated the space—vast, draped in deep crimson silk, its headboard carved with intricate motifs of celestial figures entangled in decadent embraces. Even the light fixtures bore delicate embellishments, their filigreed designs casting elaborate shadows along the walls.

  Flowers—fresh, expensive, deliberately chosen—stood in tall vases, their heady perfume blending with the remnants of Hell’s Powder in the air. The room was built for pleasure, yet every opulent touch only heightened the underlying tension, the sense of something both intoxicating and dangerous.

  Despite the establishment’s main floors being buried in the depths of the building—windowless, secluded—the special guest rooms occupied the entire second floor. Here, windows set into the slanted ceiling opened to the night sky, positioned carefully so that curious eyes from the streets below would see nothing.

  But those lying in the bed?

  They could look up and see the stars.

  Morveyn let his gaze drift over the space, taking in every detail with the same cool detachment he had honed over years of navigating places like this.

  The room was thick with the scent of incense and Hell’s Powder, its greenish haze curling through the dim light. The drug’s touch was insidious—pleasure without reason, warmth without source. Morveyn could already feel it threading through his veins, lulling his body into languid ease.

  Loran was utterly at home in his own domain. The baronet was built like a hunting cat—sleek, powerful, exuding a casual dominance that never needed to be declared. He toyed with the leash in his hand, his expression one of idle amusement.

  The collared girl who had followed them was now kneeling, her round buttocks raised in the air. The stately man drove himself into her with powerful thrusts, pulling the leash tied to her neck. Her nipples were equipped with round metal bells. With each push, the elastic breasts twitched and the heavy jewelry made a loud clanking sound, pulling the dark brown peaks. The girl’s thighs were red from his spanks, and in some places brown spots of bruises could be seen on the white skin. He had never learned to temper his strength when dealing with women. On the contrary, the passion seething within him awakened the worst qualities in the baronet.

  Loran never beat them in the Morveyn's presence, perhaps fearing to scare off the sensitive rich boy experiencing his toothless adolescent rebellion. At least, that was how Morveyn appeared to him — a wealthy and naive young man, not yet well-versed in such matters. Loran took particular pleasure in gradually introducing the innocent lamb to increasingly perverse pleasures.

  Morveyn stretched against the pillows, stripping away the last layers of his disguise. He felt Loran’s gaze rake over him—assessing, anticipating.

  "Let him look."

  He had spent months navigating this carefully staged descent, skirting the edge of the baronet’s world without ever fully sinking into it. A little deeper, and Loran would trust him completely. A little deeper, and he might uncover the networks he sought—names, suppliers, markets that existed just out of reach.

  The approaching tribunal, however, forced his hand, leaving him with little choice but to sever ties sooner than planned. It frustrated him—the knowledge that he was on the cusp of extracting so much more, yet now had to pull back before it all unraveled. Still, leaving Loran unsupervised posed its own risks. The baronet, wounded by his sudden absence or any shift in power, could easily offer him up as a sacrificial pawn. One misstep, and everything would collapse.

  And yet, deep down, part of him welcomed the forced pause. The games he played within these shadows had become dangerously alluring. Each maneuver, each deception—there was a thrill to it that he could no longer deny. It terrified him, this creeping realization that the line between duty and desire had begun to blur. How much longer before he could no longer look in the mirror and convince himself he was any different from the Baronet of Acras?

  He exhaled slowly, watching the curls of smoke dissipate into the air. His mind was sharp enough to recognize the shift within himself—the slow unraveling, the dangerous thrill curling in his stomach. The more he played this game, the harder it became to tell where the mask ended and he began.

  He was beginning to enjoy it.

  Satisfied - though not for long - the baronet reclined beside him on the pillows. Loran’s lips brushed his neck, the scrape of teeth deliberate, teasing.

  Morveyn ran a hand through his hair, inhaling deeply. He could already feel the powder working its way through his limbs, dulling resistance, sharpening sensation.

  Loran settled onto the bed, the weight of his presence filling the space effortlessly. His golden hair fell across his shoulders, his lips curled in something between amusement and hunger.

  “I had them send someone for you,” he murmured.

  At his signal, a figure stepped forward—a girl, draped in nothing but a bright scarlet rope, intricately knotted around her body.

  Morveyn's gaze flickered over her, expression unreadable. The bindings dug into her soft skin, pressing deep enough to leave faint indentations. Every detail—the tension in the rope, the way it cinched her elbows, lifted her chest—had been meticulously arranged for effect.

  She lowered herself onto his lap, pressing against him without hesitation.

  "Let me serve you, my lord," she said softly and her beautiful breasts appeared right in front of the young man’s face. "I'll take whatever you give me."

  Morveyn inhaled, slow and steady.

  His fingers traced along the curve of her jaw, tilting her face toward the light.

  She looks like…

  A flicker of memory cut through the haze. The maid, kneeling before him that morning, her hands fumbling with his cloak’s clasps. The warmth of her fingers as she’d lingered just a moment too long. He was wondering if she imagined something similar while she was looking at him sleeping? While she was taking off his clothes, clumsily pretending that the warm touches here and there were an accident?

  He didn’t move.

  The drug pulsed in his veins, the world narrowing, pressing in. The girl’s breath was warm against his throat, her skin soft beneath his fingertips.

  Too easy.

  Too easy to take, too easy to lose himself. He hadn’t planned on doing anything like this tonight, but in the moment, he couldn’t quite explain to himself why not.

  All the tension that had built up over his difficult week pounded in his ears as her warm, pink nipple grazed his lips, and her sweet scent seemed to linger almost tangibly on his tongue.

  His head began to spin, and he himself did not understand at what point he impaled her, squeezing her soft buttocks with his hands. The girl gasped, her pert breasts again smeared his face and he bit into her nipple, fingering the ringing toy with his tongue. Excitement, anger, anxiety - everything mixed inside him and poured out in a furious ride. He crushed the soft body and with each push his mental touch counter was getting more and more confused, until finally switched off completely. The girl, biting her plump lip, continued to rub against him. A feverish blush played on her face, and the red cord, slightly suffocating with each movement, seemed to only intensify the pleasure. Hating himself, he tried to be a little more gentle, keeping her pleasure in mind. The girl screamed and thrashed on him, the heavy bells in her pink nipples rhythmically ringing out almost a melody, and her voluptuous moans echoed like a wave of pleasure in his belly. Bathing in the warmth of her body was so good that he could not remember, no matter how hard he tried, why he had to stop touching her right now.

  He came to his senses only when he caught, out of the corner of his eye, a withered petal falling onto the bedside table. The lavish bouquet, standing at the head of the bed seemed to have begun to wither, losing its fragrant freshness. With a jolt of clarity, he shoved the girl away. She fell onto the pillows, her breath fast and shallow, her eyes clouding over.

  She collapsed onto the pillows, startled, the flush on her cheeks still feverish from the powder.

  The stunned face of the maid, sprawled before him on the carpet earlier that day, flashed through his mind again, and he barely stopped himself from slapping his own face. He should have stopped much earlier, but he had completely lost control for a while. Whether it was the powder or his own rotten nature, he couldn’t say for sure. Heat pulsed in his abdomen, and he felt so energized and keyed up that, for a moment, he was genuinely afraid for her life. He needed to act now, before he completely lost his mind and did something even worse.

  Loran arched a brow, watching him with lazy amusement. “Not in the mood?”

  Morveyn exhaled, running a hand over his face. His thoughts still felt too raw, too sharp, too tangled between pleasure and revulsion.

  Slowly, he reached for a long-stemmed pipe, drawing deep. Smoke coiled from his lips as he leaned closer—not for passion, but for control. The kiss was a transaction, a final piece of the game. Loran never realized he had already lost. When he pulled away, he exhaled the last of the smoke directly into the baronet’s mouth.

  “They seem so lifeless, don’t they?” Morveyn murmured, voice laced with something unreadable. “Mine’s already broken. Let’s send her away and have some real fun.”

  Loran’s pupils dilated—whether from the powder or excitement, it was hard to tell. Baronet licked his lips, staring at young man in admiration: naked - in just a corset - sitting right next to him. His cheeks were flushed - something that almost never happened to him - and his eyes were languid, drunk. This was exactly what the baronet had been patiently waiting for for several weeks now - compared to the boy, all the local dolls seemed simply ugly to him. Making him wriggle under him and cry with pleasure - that was the fantasy that pushed Loran to all these childish games, and he could not believe that little brat himself took the initiative. Maybe Loran had been too cautious with him all this time? He would not only have his sweet body, but also the entire Crimson Branch, and this prospect alone caused him simply uncontrollable delight.

  "Darling," he purred, voice thick, "why didn’t you say earlier that you wanted to play I wouldn't waste a second on those boring bitches if I knew you were in that mood."

  With a sharp motion, he kicked the girl aside. She stumbled onto the floor, blinking in sudden, half-lucid awareness. On all fours, she crawled to the door and quickly jumped out, slamming it behind. Morveyn heard her convey a message to the waiter standing guard at the door, and together they walked away down the corridor.

  Morveyn leaned over the baronet, whose impatient hands had already begun their journey over the young man's body, one hand pressing firmly against Loran’s chest, pushing him back into the silk-drenched sheets.

  The heat of his skin, the tension in his muscles—all of it was power, all of it was leverage.

  “Let’s start with my game,” he said, lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile.

  The ring on his thumb—silver, sharpened like a claw—gleamed in the candlelight.

  Without hesitation, he dragged it across his forearm, a thin red line blooming in its wake. A calculated wound, controlled, deliberate.

  Loran’s breath hitched as Morveyn lifted his arm, slowly running his tongue along the fresh cut, tasting metal and heat.

  Then, he held it out.

  "Care for a taste?"

  Loran’s eyes gleamed.

  This was exactly what he had been waiting for. Loran's surprise was fleeting, swiftly overtaken by an almost animalistic hunger. He seized Morveyn’s arm, pressing his lips to the fresh wound, his breath hot and ragged.

  Morveyn felt fire bloom in his stomach—a searing, twisting heat that coiled deep within him, fed by every lost drop of blood. The sensation was exquisite to the point of pain, pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony.

  A low, helpless moan tore from his throat.

  For a moment, his vision tilted, the world dissolving into a blur of heat and light. His breath hitched as raw, feverish ecstasy overtook him—Hell’s Powder and the stones in his body feeding the tempest within. The force of it nearly shattered him.

  He arched back, a strangled cry escaping his lips, and then…

  Something snapped.

  The heat surged too fast.

  His body jerked involuntarily as the storm inside him collapsed inward, overwhelming him in a single devastating rush. With a sharp gasp, he wrenched his arm away and fell backward onto the pillows, chest rising and falling in erratic, frantic breaths.

  The change happened almost immediately.

  The wound on his arm sealed shut in seconds, leaving behind nothing but a thin, fading scarlet line.

  "Loran blinked, as if refusing to believe. His lips parted, and Morveyn saw blood bubbling deep in his throat. Scarlet foam dribbled down his chin, staining the silk sheets. He still didn’t understand what was happening, and when he tried to speak, his voice drowned in a wet, gurgling rasp."

  "Mor...veyn...?"

  Then came the sound—a wet, bubbling choke.

  Loran barely had time to react before his body went rigid—a jolt of searing heat erupting inside him, spreading like wildfire.

  Hes fingers clawing at his chest as if trying to tear his own skin open, desperate to release whatever fire was burning him from within. His eyes rolled back, his spine arched violently. He convulsed against the pillows like a broken marionette, his throat letting out grotesque, guttural noises.The screaming burn spread through his chest, his veins, his lungs.

  Something ripped free from him—something deeper than breath, deeper than body.

  And then—silence.

  His final exhale left bloody bubbles fading against his lips, his limbs jerking once before going utterly still. His empty eyes rolled back, the remnants of his final expression forever frozen in agony.

  The scent of scorched metal and something wrong lingered in the air.

  Morveyn lay there, motionless, his body still trembling in the aftermath. His pulse was a wild drumbeat in his ears, but the fever in his veins was already fading—the raw, unrelenting energy unraveling into exhaustion.

  For a long time, he simply stared at the stars through the ceiling window above the bed.

  The night sky seemed distant—cold, untouched.

  His mind was clear again, sharper than it had been in months. And yet, somewhere deep within him, a piece of that fiery storm still smoldered.

  Rising unsteadily, he circled the bed, his bare feet soundless against the silk-strewn floor.

  The girl was still there.

  She breathed, though shallowly—her pulse weak, but steady.

  Avoiding direct contact, Morveyn wrapped her in a sheet and placed her beside the corpse. She would wake eventually. She would see.

  Loran of Acrass lay sprawled in a grotesque mockery of peace, his body contorted in its final, failed struggle. His legs had fallen open, a smear of ashes and damp silk left in his wake. His pipe still smoldered on the nightstand, embers dimming against the gold-trimmed glass.

  Morveyn reached for the Hell’s Powder, letting it trickle into the dead man’s slackened mouth. The fine crystal dust clung to his lips, dusting his tongue in a final, ironic indulgence.

  Let them find him like this.

  Let them assume he died choking on his own excess.

  It wouldn’t take much to make it believable.

  He looked at the Baronet’s body for the last time, searching for something—satisfaction, triumph, relief.

  This was it, wasn’t it? The grand finale. The filth was finally washed away. A happy ending.

  But instead of the anticipated victory, another image surfaced—faces twisted in screams, bodies surging toward the frozen maw of the Poterna this morning.

  How many had died because of him today? Hundreds? More?

  His jaw clenched. He forced the thoughts away.

  And then, something else took their place. A scent. Sharp, metallic, laced with something faintly spicy. Familiar. The stranger from earlier in the evening—he finally knew what he had smelled.

  It was here, in this room, lingering in the smoke-laden air.

  Blood and Schism. A bitter chuckle escaped him. So, it doesn’t end here, does it?

  This damn knot could be unraveled forever. But the next thread had already surfaced.

  Baron Neergaffen. At least this bastard wouldn’t need much convincing. Good. So. Good.

  He dressed quickly, working by muscle memory.

  His boots went into his pack.

  His tunic slipped over his shoulders, settling like armor against his cooling skin.

  With practiced ease, he climbed onto the bedframe, reached for the window, and unlatched the hidden lock.

  The glass swung open, letting in the crisp bite of midnight air.

  One last look.

  The room behind him was a stage—its players set, their fates sealed.

  With a final push, he vaulted onto the rooftop, closing the shutter behind him.

  Moving swiftly, he climbed the ridge, his bare feet silent against the slanted tiles. With measured precision, he leapt—three meters of open air, then a controlled roll onto the neighboring flat roof.

  He landed smoothly, adrenaline still coursing through his limbs like wildfire. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have stood a chance, but now.... The excess energy still ached beneath his skin, demanding movement, demanding release.

  Slipping on his boots, he navigated the fire escape, vanishing into the tangled labyrinth of Teak-An’s midnight alleys.

  By the time he reached the estate, the city had settled into silence—the hush before dawn, when even the shadows had grown weary of watching.

  Morveyn moved like a ghost through the empty corridors, his mind numb with exhaustion.

  His limbs felt leaden, his breath slow and heavy. The raw hum of vibrating stones in his core had long since faded, leaving behind only trembling muscles and a lingering sense of depletion.

  As soon as he reached his room, he let himself collapse face-first onto the bed.

  For the first time in months, his body was completely still.

  And yet—despite the madness, the risk, the irreversible act—his mind was uncharacteristically calm.

  A strange sense of finality settled in his chest.

  "Whatever happens now, let it happen."

  Exile, prison, removal from the position of falconet, trials, councils, anything. The mission was complete.

  The important thing is that he managed to complete the task he had been preparing for months—dangerous, shameful, but, in his opinion, absolutely necessary. Without Baronet of Acras, this city and this world would be better off.

  Unlike the hollow diplomatic games played in the name of the Protectorium, this had been real.

  For a long time, Morveyn simply lay there, staring at nothing.

  But soon enough the weight settled back into him.

  The raw, suffocating filth that no amount of silk or power or pleasure could ever wash away.

  He turned his face into the pillow, exhaling shakily.

  There was only one problem. Morveyn felt unbearably dirty again. No matter how many masks he wore or sins he embraced, the weight clung to him like a second skin. But it no longer mattered. One less monster tonight. That would have to be enough.