Chapter 100: The Velvet Chambers

The elevator continued on like a dying beast, its gears grinding and whining as though each rotation were a confession of guilt.

The cage shuddered every few seconds, jarring loose little avalanches of rust from the ceiling that drifted down like sullied snow. Nobody spoke at first; there was only the hum of machinery and the echo of our own breathing—uneven, mortal, a choir of exhaustion.

I sighed, watching the molten glow fade below us until it was swallowed completely by the blackness.

Somewhere beneath all that stone and steam, Atticus and Dregan were probably already arguing over strategy—Atticus insisting on efficiency, Dregan insisting on ale.

Saints, I could almost hear them bickering, the mere thought leaving a hollow ache in my chest. They were right, of course. As much as I hated to admit it, staying behind had been the smart move. Someone had to control the chaos we left below, rebuild our network, watch the rot from within. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

It’s a strange thing, missing people who are technically still alive. You start wondering if they’ll remember you the same way you remember them. Or if you’ll ever cross paths again, or if the world will just quietly erase the version of you that mattered to them.

I caught Brutus staring blankly at the floor, his good hand dangling uselessly over his knee.

The man had bled oceans for us, and now he just stood there, pale and distant, like a statue carved from regret. His bandaged stump twitched every so often, an unconscious phantom reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there.

“You okay, big guy?” I asked, trying to sound casual, though my voice came out softer than I intended.

He grunted, not even bothering to look up. “It feels wrong leaving them down there, like breaking formation mid-fight.”

“Yeah,” I admitted, watching the cables rattle overhead, “But hey, at least they’re not dead…yet…”

He chuckled, low and rough. “Fair point.”

We fell quiet for a moment, the silence heavy, hanging between us like a truce—one made of shared exhaustion and a kind of bruised affection neither of us would dare say aloud. I tilted my head back, staring into the shaft’s glowing runes as they flickered past, each one painting a quick slash of white across our faces before disappearing again.

“Wonder what they’ll build down there,” I murmured. “Atticus with his mad science, Dregan with his drunken ambitions. Probably a revolution fueled by moonshine and bad ideas.”

Brutus snorted. “Ain’t that what every revolution’s built on?”

“True,” I said, grinning faintly. “But theirs will be louder.”

The conversation drifted then, as most conversations do when you’re too tired to think straight. The silence pressed in again, thicker now, and my mind turned inevitably toward what lay ahead.

“The Velvet Chambers,” I said, half to myself. The words tasted strange. Luxurious. Dangerous. Like licking the rim of a poisoned wine glass. “You ever been there?”

Brutus shook his head. “No one I know’s made it that far. Not alive, anyway. Heard it’s where the nobles keep their playthings. Perfume and polished bones. Cage’s painted in blood.”

“That’s one version,” I said, tapping my lip thoughtfully. “Another rumor says it’s where they train elite servants—the kind that know how to kill a man with a smile and a curtsey.”

Brutus grunted. “Sounds about right. Rich folk do love turning pain into art.”

Before I could respond, a sharp snort cut through the air. I turned, eyebrows arched. Iskanda stood near the elevator’s control panel, one hand resting on the lever, the other lazily toying with the golden pin on her silken collar.

There was that little curve of amusement playing on her lips again—the kind that made you feel like she’d already heard your thoughts and found them charmingly stupid.

“You two really shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” she said, her voice a low hum, warm and rich as melted honey. “The Velvet Chambers aren’t half as romantic as you’re imagining them to be.”

“Oh no?” I asked, leaning against the railing, playing along. “So what are they then, oh wise and terrifying guide?”

She smiled, though not kindly. “You’ll just have to wait and see, sweetheart.”

That tone—half flirtation, half threat—sent a shiver crawling up my spine. I wasn’t sure whether to bow or run.

Brutus rolled his eyes. “I don’t like surprises.”

“Then you’re going to hate the next few hours,” Iskanda replied cheerfully.

I glanced at the rest of the crew to gauge their reactions. Freya was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrow and fixed on Iskanda like a cat watching their rival sharpen its claws. The remaining drug lords—bless their greedy, trembling souls—were huddled together, muttering in hushed tones about profit margins and the likelihood of death.

And then there was Mia.

Poor, sweet, anxious Mia, curled up in the corner with Dunny—yes, Dunny, that Dunny—fast asleep on her shoulder. The kid’s hair was matted with soot, his face slack with the kind of deep exhaustion only innocence or trauma can buy.

I felt a strange pang then, something between pride and protectiveness, watching him snore softly like the world hadn’t just been turned inside out.

“He’s earned that nap,” I said in a hushed tone.

Mia smiled weakly, brushing a lock of hair from Dunny’s forehead. She chuckled softly before turning away. Her laughter always came with a twinge of sorrow now, as if it had to fight its way through all the ruin first.

My gaze drifted to the far corner then, where Malrick—greasy-haired, glassy-eyed Malrick—sat slumped against the wall, his hand trembling as he tried to coax one of the others into sharing a dose of their dwindling supply.

The man was a ruin wrapped in human skin, a walking cautionary tale about ambition and bad powder. I sighed, soaking up the sight with a quiet smirk.

A few minutes passed like that, riddled with the kind of silence that grows heavier with every heartbeat. The elevator rattled, before beginning to slow. Iskanda straightened, her voice cutting clean through the hum of machinery.

“Everyone up,” she said. “We’re here.”

The elevator came to a halt with a groan that sounded suspiciously like relief. Just then, the metal doors rattled open with a reluctant clang, spilling dim light into the cage. I squinted, trying to make out what waited beyond the threshold.

Smoke. Dust. And shadows taller than gods.

We stepped out cautiously, boots clanging on the grated floor. The air here was colder, drier—a stark contrast to the molten heat below. My eyes adjusted slowly, revealing the cavernous space before us: a factory, vast and ancient, its machinery looming like the skeletons of dead giants.

Rusted pistons jutted from the floor like iron roots, and conveyor belts hung in tatters, draped in cobwebs and silence. The walls were lined with forgotten scaffolding, layers upon layers of decay reaching upward into darkness.

Iskanda’s voice floated behind us, smooth as silk over steel. “One of the abandoned factories from before the lower tunnels were sealed; served as a base for escapees back in the day. Cozy, isn’t it?”

“How ironic,” I murmured, running a hand along one of the rusted gears. For a moment, the factory seemed almost peaceful—silent, still, like a cathedral built for ghosts.

Then I heard it—a faint, muffled cacophony seeping through the factory walls, music, laughter, the clatter of footsteps. My pulse skipped like a stone on water; whatever waited beyond those doors was alive, and I was starving for it.

Iskanda raised a finger, all maternal authority. “Follow close and stay quiet.”

But the second she turned away, I bolted—because of course I did—my boots slamming the concrete as I sprinted for the massive double doors at the far end.

“For fuck’s sake—Loona!” Freya yelled, but I was already there, palms smacking the metal, shoving with all my weight until the doors burst open like the gates of a fever dream.

Sound and color slammed into me like a velvet avalanche.I staggered back a step, eyes wide, mouth hanging open like a village idiot at his first fireworks show.

Saints above, it was glorious.

Before me sprawled what could only be described as a miniature city compressed into a cavern so vast it mocked the concept of ceilings—layers upon layers of buildings forged from bronze and steel, compacted so tight they leaned into each other like drunken friends after last call.

Pipes twisted between them like metallic vines, cogs the size of wagon wheels spun lazily overhead, and steam plumed from every crevice in thick, fragrant clouds that smelled of jasmine and engine grease.

Balcony walkways crisscrossed the air like spider silk. High-arching bridges swayed gently under the weight of passersby, connecting the chaos into one majestic, incoherent mesh.

None of the buildings were decorated the same; one dripped with plush gardens, cascading ivy, and glowing flowers, another was swathed in velvet drapes the color of midnight, a third trailed lazy curls of purple haze that shimmered with embedded runes.

Massive signs glowed with fluorescent magic, hanging heavy above doorways—The Gilded Lily, Club Venus, Siren’s Rest—brothels, every last one, promising sins so refined they came with a wine list.

Oil lamps lined the streets, casting warm amber pools that reflected off polished cobblestones. The streets teemed with life—dozens, maybe hundreds of figures strolling, laughing, haggling.

Noblemen in coats of peacock feathers and gem-encrusted canes strutted beside women whose gowns defied gravity and common sense, trains of silk trailing behind them like liquid starlight.

They scattered across walkways, ducked into doorways, leaned over balconies to blow kisses or toss coins that glittered like falling stars. The entire city bathed in a deep orange glow, the air so thick it felt like walking through a dream someone had spiced with cinnamon.

And towering above it all—above the steam, the buildings, the everything—was a single spire of industrial might, undecorated steel and bronze climbing straight to the cavern’s ceiling.

My heart filled with fire, a wild, reckless blaze that roared through my veins and brought a smirk across my blood-matted face.

In that very instant I knew, absolutely knew, that this place—this ridiculous, decadent, steam-soaked playground—was meant for me. I spread my arms wide, boots planted on the threshold, my voice cracking with joy.

“Lights, laughter, lust, and lies—oh, saints, it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.” I took in a deep breath, soaking up the sweet scent of the city. “Someone cue the orchestra… the real show’s about to begin.”

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