Yvain stared at him, dumbfounded. "Mars… what in all hells—?"
"I can explain," Mars interrupted quickly, gesturing vaguely with the severed head, which, to his credit, he now seemed unsure what to do with. "I mean, not well, mind you, but I can."
Celeste stepped forward slowly, lowering her hood, eyes narrowing. "You killed him."
"Yes," Mars said with a sheepish shrug. "Yes, I did. Quite thoroughly, I might add."
There was a long pause.
Yvain's gaze shifted between the bard, the corpse, the sword, and the glint in Mars's eye that was almost familiar. "Where did you get that blade?"
Mars looked at it, as though noticing it for the first time. "Oh, this? Borrowed it. Found it, really."
"You're a knight?" She asked, noticing his Breath for the first time.
Mars hesitated. The grin faltered for a second. "An Errant."
Yvain furrowed his brow. The fact that Mars had managed to keep his Breath hidden from them was a testament of his skill. "Why did you kill him?"
"Asked him about the woman and he said she deserved it." He tossed the head aside. It landed with a wet thud, and rolled once before settling, mouth agape. "So I figured," Mars added, sheathing the sword with surprising grace, "if he was so eager to send souls to the heavens, I'd give his a head start."
Yvain rubbed his temples. "You've just executed a priest. In his own chapel. Do you have any idea what that means?"
"Yes," Mars said, tilting his head. "It means we leave. Now."
A pause.
Then Celeste smiled, just faintly. "You may be more useful than I thought."
"High praise," Mars replied. "Coming from someone who threatened to disembowel me for snoring."
"I don't think the townspeople will appreciate his… use," Yvain said as they stepped into the chill of the night. "They'd be more inclined to burn us next."
"Let them try," Celeste replied.
Yvain followed with a weary glance over his shoulder. Mars trailed after, still adjusting his belt where the borrowed sword now hung. The chapel door creaked shut behind them.
The village was quiet. The stake in the square still smoldered faintly, casting a dull red glow against the misted cobblestones. Thankfully, the villagers had all retired, bellies full of righteousness and ale.
Their cart stood where they'd left it, untouched and waiting.
As Yvain climbed aboard, Mars plopped down next to him and stretched his legs, sighing dramatically. "So," he said, with the tone of someone trying to revive a party after a stabbing, "you two are mages."
Yvain didn't answer. Celeste didn't even look at him.
"I should've guessed," Mars went on cheerfully, undeterred. "You've got that look. You know—high cheekbones, a haunted stare, dressed like you robbed a noble's closet. Very exotic sorcery chic."
"We should head for Canthia," Celeste said, cutting him off.
"That takes us further from the Towers," Yvain replied, gripping the reins.
Celeste scoffed, throwing him a glare. "I don't give a damn about your Towers, Yvain. Canthia's the nearest city with a roof and a bathhouse. I'm tired of sleeping like a bandit in some field full of goats."
"She has a point," Mars added, cheerfully ignoring the frost in the air. "Canthia's not bad this time of year. There's a place there—the Menagerie."
Celeste raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like a brothel."
Mars placed a hand on his heart, mock-wounded. "Madam, it is a brothel, but one of rare quality. The owner's an enchanter, retired from what I hear. And the girls are a dream. I spent a fortnight there once. Lost all my money and a bit of my soul, but I'd do it again."
"Sounds idiotic," Yvain muttered.
Mars beamed. "You're just jealous you don't know how to sin properly."
Celeste smirked. "To Canthia, cousin. Your scholarly pursuits can wait. I could use a warm bed. And be rid your sour company."
Yvain groaned under his breath and flicked the reins.
The cart creaked into motion, wheels turning slowly as they left behind the village, the chapel, and the stench of ash and judgment.
It took longer than expected to reach Canthia. The roads were winding, riddled with ruts, and the horses moved like they resented every hoofbeat. By the time the city finally crested the horizon, dawn had already begun to break, grey-blue light leaking across the rooftops like spilt milk.
Mars snored through it all, sprawled in the back of the cart, limbs akimbo, his lute wedged awkwardly beneath him. He made a sound somewhere between a dying goat and a badly tuned pipe organ, and didn't stir even as the cart rattled over cobblestones.
Yvain, bleary-eyed but alert, guided them through the outer gates, where a bored-looking guardsman demanded a toll.
"Three marks," the man grunted.
Yvain reached for the pouch on his belt, opened it, and found nearly nothing.
He sighed, paid with what little coin remained, and flicked the reins. As the gate creaked open and the cart rolled forward, he muttered, "We've got a problem."
"I saw the empty pouch," Celeste replied, still watching the awakening city from beneath her hood. "But we're inside. That's what matters."
"And how do you suppose we pay for an inn? Or food?"
Without a word, she turned and jabbed a heel into Mars's ribs.
The bard awoke with a choking snort, flailing for a moment like a man drowning in feathers. "Whuh—what? Is it morning? Are we dead? Is this the afterlife?"
"Point the way to the Menagerie," Celeste ordered.
That seemed to snap him back to life. His eyes lit up like a pyromancer's altar. "Oh, gladly."
Within minutes, he led them through Canthia's early streets, lanes still bathed in the haze of morning fog and lantern smoke. The city was just beginning to stir. Vendors prepared their stalls, drunks staggered home, and the night's mischief gave way to the day's commerce.
Lavender Street was exactly what the name suggested: a riot of perfume and perfume-soaked vice. Every other building was a brothel, a gambling den, or something that tried—and failed—to pretend it wasn't either.
They stopped before a tall, three-story manor in the gothic style. The Menagerie.
It looked old, whitewashed, and vaguely aristocratic, if aristocrats routinely hosted orgies and bathed in rose-scented absinthe. Black ironwork curled over the windows like lace, and faint music pulsed from within, slow and sultry. A gilded sign hung above the entrance, carved into the shape of a lioness reclining on a chaise.
Even before Celeste pushed open the door, Yvain caught a whiff of what lay inside, perfume thick as fog, mingled with enchanted oils.
Inside, the Menagerie was dimly lit and decadent, every corner draped in velvet and shadow. Silk hung from the rafters. The air shimmered faintly with illusion, just enough to make everything feel slightly unreal. The enchantments weren't strong, but they were deliberate, a spell to lower the senses, slow the pulse, loosen restraint.
The women, and a few men, lounged like cats in various stages of undress, their eyes half-lidded, smiles painted with promise. Yvain could tell they were mortal, but not untouched. Their employer had clearly invested in charms, subtle as perfume, that made them alluring beyond nature. Glamours clung to their skin like silk.
But it was the look in their eyes that unsettled him.
They were thralls, or close to it, bound by enchantment just tight enough to keep them pliant, just loose enough to maintain the illusion of consent.
All around, the acts of pleasure played out like an elaborate performance. A moan from one room. A laugh from another. Somewhere, someone was playing a harp, slowly and sensually. It was like walking into a dream.
Yvain barely had time to orient himself before a pair of women slipped up to him, pressing close, their fingers tracing meaningless patterns on his arm.
Mars, meanwhile, let out something between a cheer and a sigh. "Ah, home."
And with that, he let himself be swept away by three courtesans who giggled like they already knew his favorite sin.
Celeste watched him disappear into the haze with a bemused expression.
Yvain muttered, "What your play?"
She smiled faintly. "It's a roof, isn't it?"
"Still need to pay."
"We don't."
Celeste mounted the staircase, her boots silent against the velvet-lined steps. The hallway above pulsed with enchantment woven thick into the very wood. As she ascended each floor, the air grew heavier, perfumed with magic and memory.
A guard stepped forward at the landing, tall and armored in silks, sword half-drawn. "You're not allowed—"
Celeste didn't slow. With a flick of her fingers and a whispered phrase, she laced her will into his mind.
"Take me to your mistress," she said, her voice velvet and steel.
His eyes glassed over. "This way," he murmured, turning on his heel.
Yvain followed without comment. The guard led them up another flight, to a hallway lined in crimson and gold, where a great double door stood closed at the far end.
He knocked once, then pushed it open without waiting for a reply.
The room beyond was no office. It was a sanctum.
A high-vaulted chamber bathed in amber light from floating orbs that pulsed like distant suns. The floor was obsidian tile, veined with gold, and incense curled from long-stemmed burners shaped like doves. At the far end, reclined across a wide chair fashioned more like a bed, pillowed and draped in silk, was a woman.
She wasn't young. But her age was regal, deliberate, something worn like a crown. Her desert-hued skin shimmered faintly with the Breath, her eyes dark and dry as forgotten scrolls. Her body was coiled like a dancer's at rest, wrapped in violet lace that was sheer enough to reveal sorcery tattooed like scripture across her collarbone.
She did not rise.
But the pressure of her attention fell on them like a shift in weather. A change in altitude. It was the way power introduced itself.
"Who are you," she asked softly, "and how did you get past my guard?"
"We came with Mars," Yvain said carefully. He remained standing while Celeste took the seat before her, entirely too comfortable.
The woman's eyes narrowed.
"You came with the bard," she echoed, her tone flat.
"Yes," Yvain said. "He said you'd be… welcoming."
She exhaled through her nose, not quite a laugh. "He also once claimed he'd won a poetry contest judged by the Raven Queen herself. And that he bedded a stormcaller who drowned her lovers."
She glanced out the stained-glass window, then back to them. "He lies easily. But he pays well. I tolerate both."
She rose, slow and fluid, like something serpentine uncurling in candlelight.
"I am Zelhara. Mistress of the Menagerie. Enchantress of the Fifth Circle. And, for the moment, hostess to two trespassers bold enough to wander into my sanctum without invitation." Her voice cooled. "Tell me, what am I to do with you?"
Celeste leaned forward, chin resting on her hand. "Wait—Zelhara? The grandmistress told me about you."
Zelhara stiffened. Her pupils sharpened. The Breath gathered around her like a curtain being drawn.
"You're her spy," Celeste said, smiling like she was in on something intimate.
That struck. Zelhara's façade slipped. Her magic stirred visibly, rippling like heat off stone. "How do you know the Grandmistress?"
Celeste shrugged, as if bored. "My original plan was to enthrall you and rob this place blind."
Yvain groaned. "Celeste…"
"But this," she went on, ignoring him, "this changes things."
Zelhara's expression twisted into something cold and sharp. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice crackling now with layered invocation. Her shawl rose as if in water, and runes flickered along her arms.
Yvain stepped forward quickly. "Yvain and Celeste," he said, as if that should be enough.
There was silence.
Then the spell in Zelhara's eyes faltered.
Her Breath sank, quieted, as if retreating back beneath her skin. "The heirs," she said slowly. "That can't be. You should be in the Far-Ends."
"Well," Yvain said dryly, "we're not."
Zelhara stood still for a long moment, her eyes fixed on Yvain as if trying to read something in his face.
Then, without a word, she sank to one knee.
There was no ceremony, no trumpet of magic or spell-marked fanfare, just the slow, deliberate motion of a woman who had once wielded power in the shadows, now lowering herself before a name too heavy to deny.
"I have seen the Prince of Necropolis," she said, her voice quiet but ringing with weight. "Heir to the Throne of Thrones."
She bowed her head, one fist clenched against her chest in an oath that belonged to a world that had long since crumbled into ash.
"I am yours to command, my liege."
The room was suddenly breathless.
The air around her shimmered with the faint residue of old oaths and ancient magic, like the ghosts of banners flapping in the halls of a forgotten empire.
Yvain said nothing.
He only stared down at her, unsure whether to speak or to flee, whether to lift her or to run from what she called him.
He wasn't any of those things.
But beside him, Celeste smiled.
She looked at her cousin with something between pride and hunger, a look that all but said, 'this is how it should be.'