Chapter 47: Gaining Traction

Brutus lumbered beside me, the stolen cloak turned ragged sack stretching over his broad shoulders, slung across his back so heavy it made even him stoop a little.

Every clink of the coins inside was a reminder of how precarious this stroll was. And yet, not a single guard so much as blinked at us.

They didn’t ask, didn’t question, didn’t care. Too tired, too overworked, or maybe too eager to pretend they hadn’t noticed the sudden rise of lust-driven chaos sweeping through the prison like a fire through dry brush. Ignorance was their last defense, and saints, was I grateful for it.

I smirked as we entered the heart of the courtyard. My chest was galloping like a stallion with a bad coke habit and I swear I was beginning to see black spots in the corners of my vision, but I smirked regardless.

Because even when your legs are jelly and your lungs are screaming, you fake it until the lie starts to look like truth.

We passed the central stalls. Hollow-eyed prisoners hawked their pathetic wares: rusty spoons, cracked bowls, string necklaces, hunks of bread that looked like they could chip teeth.

Nobody laughed, nobody whispered. It was quiet this time. Thick, choking quiet. I could sense it, they were scared, every last one of them. Scared of what they’d seen last night—the High Warden, the guard’s decapitated head, the blazing chaos I’d set free in a daze.

I couldn’t blame them, not really.

Instead my grin only grew wider because I knew, deep in my heart, that I was going to change that very soon.

By the time we reached Brutus’s hideout, my smirk had grown into a full-blown performance. I kicked the crooked door open with a flourish, swinging my arms wide like a prodigal son returning from war.

“I’m home~!” I declared in a sing-song chirp, saccharine cheer layered so thick it could’ve clogged arteries.

The reaction was immediate.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Atticus jump like a startled cat from the far side of the room, his skeletal frame nearly knocking over the tower of books he’d stacked against the wall.

His glasses flashed in the lamplight as his eyes darted between me and Brutus in shock.

My gaze slid lazily across the rest of the room. There, at the ragged excuse for a table, sat Freya and Dregan, hunched over a set of battered playing cards.

Freya’s eyes snapped up at once, narrowing with suspicion even as her lips twitched toward a smile. Dregan, on the other hand, let out a bellow of laughter so wild it rattled the table. He tossed his cards aside with all the force of a drunkard smashing a wine glass and lurched toward me.

“My boy!” he roared, arms wide, beard already glistening with drool and spittle. Before I could sidestep, he crashed into me like a bear trying to hug a candle. My ribs cracked in protest as he squeezed, his meaty arms shaking me like a ragdoll. “Alive! The little bastard’s alive!”

“Barely,” I wheezed, patting his back with all the tenderness of someone slapping dough. “Careful, Dregan. You’ll squeeze the sin out of me.”

He barked laughter, pulling back with a grin. Freya rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “idiots.”

Atticus, ever the cautious one, finally straightened his prison wear and shuffled toward the table, already stacking the cards into neat little piles as though tidying could save his sanity.

“Quickly” he said curtly. “Bring the sacks.”

At once, Dregan lumbered toward the corner, grinning like a child sneaking sweets, while Freya rose with a sigh. Together, they dragged two bulging sacks out of the shadows.

Brutus heaved his own sack down onto the table with a grunt. Freya and Dregan followed suit. Three sacks in total. Heavy. Swollen. Bulging with promise. The wood groaned beneath their weight.

Then—oh, saints—the moment came.

They opened.

Coins spilled forth in a glittering flood, cascading across the scarred wood in a shining tide. Bronze clinked, silver gleamed, the dim lantern light catching on every edge and curve until it was as if the gods themselves had poured their blessings into that filthy little room.

My jaw dropped, drool threatening to dribble onto the table. I could feel my pupils dilating, my heart pounding louder than the coins clattering into heaps.

“Oh…” I whispered, my voice thick with reverence. “Oh, she’s beautiful. She’s perfect. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“By the gods,” Brutus muttered, crossing his arms, “you sound like you’re about to marry it.”

“I would,” I said instantly, clutching one fistful of silver to my chest like a bouquet. “I would walk her down the aisle, I would vow to honor and cherish her, and I would consummate our love on our honeymoon with a passion you people could never understand.”

Dregan snorted through his nose, nearly choking on his own breath. Freya smacked the back of his head. Atticus sighed.

After that, we spent what felt like hours counting, stacking, and dividing. My fingers shook with glee, tracing every glint, every edge, like a lover mapping their partner’s body.

Brutus kept tally with his grim precision. Freya watched with the detached scorn of someone trying not to admit she was impressed. And Dregan… well, Dregan tried to balance stacks on his head until Freya smacked him again.

Eventually, though, the conversation turned—as it always does in dens of thieves—from winnings to debts.

“What about Malrick?” Freya asked suddenly, her voice coming sharper now. Her eyes flicked toward me, unblinking. “He’s still tied up in the hidden room. Him and those guards.”

I paused, coins spilling from my fingers. “Still alive, you mean?”

She nodded. “For now.”

“Has he been fed?” Brutus rumbled.

“Not yet,” Freya replied, her lips curving into something cruel. “Didn’t think he deserved it.”

“Everyone deserves food,” Brutus said firmly, already rising from the table. “I’ll whip something up.”

I raised a brow, smirking. “Porridge for prisoners. Gods, Brutus, you’re a saint. Can I be your altar boy?”

“Shut up,” he grunted, already moving to the corner where a battered pot and a sack of grain waited. He began gathering water, muttering low as he worked. The sight of that mountain of a man fussing over porridge nearly made me giggle myself to death.

The table cleared once more as steam began curling toward the ceiling like a homely little miracle. It was almost domestic. Almost enough to trick you into thinking we weren’t plotting a miniature empire in the bowels of hell.

Atticus adjusted his glasses, leaning forward as Brutus stirred. “We need to discuss our next moves,” he said, his voice thin but urgent. “Malrick’s men are already waiting for us at the warehouse.” Atticus continued.

“Perfect,” I replied.

But before I could say another word, Brutus rumbled from the table, his voice steady as stone.

“Food’s ready,” He remarked. I smirked as the sweet scent of porridge filled the room.

Brutus was getting ready to turn toward the hidden room when I bolted, snatching the ladle from his calloused hand before anyone could protest.

“Thank you, darling,” I chirped, balancing the bowl in my other hand like it was a precious chalice, “but this is a job for professionals.”

Brutus blinked, opened his mouth to grumble, and then wisely shut it again, though his glare told me I’d pay for this later. The others barely had time to register my theft before I spun on my heel, skirt swishing, and skipped toward the back wall where the hidden door sat behind its shabby shelf.

If anyone was going to serve dinner tonight, it would be me—because I never pass up an opportunity for theater.

The shelf screeched against the floor as I shoved it aside with a flourish, scattering dust and old bottles across. The hidden door loomed, crooked and stubborn, but I slammed it open with enough force to rattle its hinges.

And there they were.

Malrick, our once-fearsome rival, slumped in his chair with ropes cutting deep into his wrists. Around him, the three captured guards squirmed like bound fish, their muffled protests rising the moment they saw me appear with a steaming bowl of Brutus’s culinary tragedy.

“Oh, hush,” I said, flapping one hand at them as though they were squabbling children. “You’ll get your turn.”

I waltzed into the room, hips swaying, and planted myself directly across Malrick’s lap, straddling him like an old lover returned from war.

The ropes dug into his thighs beneath me, his body stiffening in shock as I leaned in close, spoon in hand, and cooed, “Darling, you look positively starved. Let me fix that.”

His eyes burned but before he could spit his venom I shoved a spoonful of porridge between his lips. He gagged. Oh, he gagged like a man choking on pride, thrashing against the ropes, but I cupped his jaw tenderly, rocking my hips just enough to keep him off-balance, and whispered sweet nothings into his ear.

“That’s it, love. Swallow for me. You remember how, don’t you?”

The guards squirmed harder, muffled shouts straining against their gags, but one sharp glare from me shut them down.

I took my time with Malrick, spoon after spoon, each one dripping messily down his chin, my tongue flicking to catch a stray drop just to watch him squirm harder. He hated it. Which, of course, made me love it.

By the time the bowl was half empty, his lips were trembling, porridge smeared across his stubble like some obscene mask, and I patted his cheek with the ladle as though rewarding a dog.

“Aww, who’s a good boy?” I purred.

I turned to the guards then, skipping over with my bowl, and fed them in turn. Not quite as theatrically—they weren’t worth the full performance—but enough to make sure they swallowed Brutus’s slop and lived another day.

Their eyes darted between me and Malrick, confusion and humiliation dancing in equal measure, and I made sure to wink at each one as I spooned their mouths full.

After all, if you’re going to enslave a group of men, you might as well make them blush about it.

When I finally emerged from the hidden room, bowl licked clean, the others were waiting. Brutus just shook his head, muttering something about “gutter-rat nonsense” while Freya’s faced twisted into a smile, proud to see her specialty habits on full display.

And just like that, as if nothing had ever happened, we dragged Malrick out the room, headed for the warehouse.

Another piece of rope was tied tight around his wrists, the strip trailing in my hand like a leash as I tugged him along the street with exaggerated care. His steps were shaky, ragged, his shoulders slumped with defeat, and gods, how the prisoners around us stared.

We didn’t slow. We didn’t hesitate. We barged straight into the warehouse.

The door crashed open beneath Brutus’s shove, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. We made our way to the heart and there they were. Malrick’s men. A ragged cluster of prisoners standing in the main chamber, their faces shadowed, their eyes sharp with suspicion.

Some clutched makeshift weapons, others stood with arms crossed, but all of them froze the moment they saw their boss stumble in behind us, rope dragging from his wrists.

A hush swept the room, heavy and choking. Their gazes flickered from him to me, from the leash in my hand to the smirk on my lips, and I saw the storm brewing in their eyes.

But then something shifted. I sensed resolve, yes. Rage, maybe. But beneath it—excitement. A flicker of hunger. They’d seen the collapse of their king, and in its place, perhaps, the rise of something more. Something greater.

Then there were the supplies—oh saints, the supplies. They were still there, stacked across the room, untouched, waiting for us like loyal dogs, enough to flood the prison ten times over if we played it right.

Brutus was the first to move.

He stepped forward, his voice deep and commanding. “Listen well,” he said, and the chamber fell silent. “The time has come to unleash our full expansion. No more scraps. No more half measures. From this day forward, each of you will be sorted into groups. You will be taught how to craft Erosin. You will learn the process, the mixtures, the discipline required. And together, we will flood this pit with something the guards can’t control.”

The men murmured. Low, uncertain, but not hostile. I could see it in their eyes—the flicker of hope, of ambition, of desire for a sense of power they’d never had before.

I stepped up beside Brutus, tugging the leash so Malrick stumbled into view again, his head bowed, his breath ragged. “Your old boss is finished,” I said sweetly, my voice carrying like silk over steel. “But don’t despair. You’ve got new management now. And trust me, darlings—you’ve never had it this good.”

They shifted, muttering, weighing the scales. Some looked ready to kneel, others ready to bolt, but the current had changed, the tide was rolling now.

Brutus raised his hand, silencing them. His eyes gleamed, sharp and certain. And then he spoke the words that sealed it.

“Well then,” he rumbled, lips curling into something close to a smile. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

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