Chapter 5: Ballroom of Beasts

The walk back through the prison corridors toward the venue of the arena was not what I expected in the slightest.

It began backstage—with a costume change and a brisk jaunt through the guts of the prison. Julius all but kicked open the wardrobe, filled with discarded tunics and a hook nailed into the wall where a limp wig hung like a haunted scrotum. He shoved a bundle of fabric into my chest with the urgency of a man preparing his date for prom while drunk and aroused.

“Change. Now. We need you looking like raw potential, not like a cum-drenched debutante. No offense.”

“None taken.”

I looked down at the clothes.

It was less “outfit” and more “historical artifact.” A tunic that may once have been beige, now faded into the kind of color you’d find at the bottom of an old ashtray. It was ripped near the hem, cinched at the waist with what might’ve once been a belt but was now just a glorified shoelace, and crusted with something that smelled faintly of disappointment and blood pudding. But I put it on anyway, because if there was one thing I knew how to do—it was dress the part. Even if that part was “scandalized gladiator seconds before becoming someone’s favorite kink.”

The fabric barely covered my ass, clung to my stomach like a confession, and left half of my chest deliciously bare. I adjusted it with a few strategic tugs.

Julius looked me over and gave a low, reverent whistle. “You look like you’ve just been defiled by a poet and robbed by a nymph. Perfect.”

“Thanks. I was going for tragic fuckmeat with a destiny.”

He blew me a kiss. “Nailed it.”

From there, we slipped through a hallway that didn’t exist. I mean it. One moment, we were in the bowels of the upper prison—stone walls, torch sconces, the usual aesthetic of despair—and the next, we passed through what I thought was a solid wall. I reached for it. My hand passed right through. An illusion. Slick magic layered so thick it made my skin tingle.

Beyond the veil was a different world.

The guards at the other end—two broad-shouldered figures in polished masks that gave them the unsettling aura of angels with hangovers—stepped aside as Julius raised his hand in a flourish, like he was parting the Red Sea using nothing but ego and glitter.

“After you, my blushing weapon,” he purred.

I strutted forward with the kind of confidence reserved for people about to make a deeply regrettable choice for excellent money and questionable fame.

Then I saw it.

The room.

And gods, what a room.

It was enormous, echoing with opulence and decay in equal measure. A ballroom—or what used to be one. Tall, arched ceilings frescoed with half-faded erotic myths. Chipped gold leaf catching the candlelight like dying stars. Velvet drapes clung to the walls in desperate, moth-eaten flutters. The chandelier hung slightly crooked, like a drunk noble trying to remember if they’d already insulted your mother. The floors were polished marble, but cracked in several places, and the air had that faint, expensive mildew smell, like an antique’s orgasm.

Two levels framed the space—the lower ring lined with round tables draped in brocade cloths, the upper ring a full balcony wrapped around all four sides, with plush seats and noble asses planted firmly atop them. And speaking of nobles, they were everywhere. Masked. Gilded. Painted in gold and sin. A masquerade of excess. Faces covered in animal visages—foxes, hounds, peacocks, serpents—all sipping wine and chuckling in that hollow, effete way only the extremely rich and deeply repressed can manage.

They tried to look poised.

Tried to look powerful.

But I smelled the cracks.

The scent of stress beneath the powder. The fear beneath the perfume. Musk tangled with desperation. The noble nearest to me reeked of lavender and bankruptcy. The one next to him? Peppermint and sex regret. Even Julius, normally the scent of sugar and stolen silk, had a strange nervous spice curling under his skin. Not fear exactly. But awe. Maybe reverence.

“This,” he whispered, both hands gripping my shoulders like I was about to perform brain surgery, “is the show before the show. And you—” his eyes sparkled, “—are the mystery meat everyone’s dying to taste.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Romantic.”

He spun me like a dancer, stopping only when I was nearly nose-to-nipple with a passing noble in a vulture mask.

“The match won’t begin for a little while,” he said as if casually discussing dinner plans and not my potential slaughter. “This is your moment to… connect with the audience. Sell the fantasy. Get those bets stacked high in your favor. Entice them. Tease them. Make them want

to see you win.”

“And if I lose?”

He shrugged. “At least you’ll die memorable.”

He patted my cheek, then vanished toward the staircase, ascending like some velvet ghost drunk on dreams. I watched his robe swirl around him like a dying star and then turned back toward the crowd with a sigh that tasted like regret and aphrodisiac.

Alright, Loona. Showtime.

I slipped into the lower ring with all the grace of a predator wearing stripper heels. My feet were still bare—dirty, bruised, silent—and every step I took made someone look. I felt their eyes. Hungry. Curious. Starved for novelty. They’d seen violence. They’d seen sex. But they hadn’t seen me—a half-dressed, half-demonic slip of a boy carved from sin and survival, sashaying through the ballroom like temptation wearing a kill count.

My scent trailed behind me. Still slick. Still a little fresh. The tunic shifted with each step, offering tantalizing flashes of hipbone and thigh, and the deeper I moved into the crowd, the louder the whispers became.

“Is that the Guttermeat slut?”

“I heard he made the Warden’s pet howl.”

“Gods, look at those legs—”

I smirked.

They could talk all they wanted.

I wanted their money.

I drifted from table to table, brushing hands, letting my fingers ghost across masked cheeks. I leaned in to whisper sweet filth in pointed ears, letting my breath fan over lips that hadn’t kissed honesty in years. One noble—a crow-masked figure with trembling hands—reached out and grabbed my waist. I turned, slow, deliberate, and gasped into their mouth before pulling away with a wink that made them whimper.

Another one behind me—horned like a stag—pressed close and groped my ass with both hands like it owed him money. I moaned, just a little, just enough to keep the game going. Just enough to keep the bets climbing.

I could smell it.

Their arousal. Their heat. The way the room itself started to pulse with need.

And I—?

I was a fucking maestro.

My stomach growled.

Loudly.

Because of course, I was seducing a small kingdom’s worth of sex criminals and starving.

I turned my head toward the far end of the room, where an actual banquet had been laid out. Roasted meats. Glazed vegetables. Breads so fluffy they looked illegal. My mouth flooded. My knees buckled.

Food.

Real fucking food.

I bolted toward it like a drunk squirrel in heels.

The chef guarding the table was an enormous man with a face like a thumb and a mustache that screamed “I hit orphans for sport.” He took one look at me—my exposed chest, the glistening thighs, the faint wet spot spreading beneath my tunic—and sneered.

“Back of the line, filth.”

My fists curled.

I was so close. I could smell the garlic glaze. I could taste the sauce on my tongue.

“I will suck your soul out through your dick if you don’t give me food.”

He didn’t flinch.

Then—a voice.

Smooth. Deep. Sharp as polished teeth.

“Is this how you treat my guest?”

I turned. Behind me stood a figure in a fox mask—tall, lean, dressed in velvet so dark it drank the light. His voice was honey poured over razors, and the chef turned white.

“M-my lord—of course not, I—”

“Feed him,” the fox said. “Or feed me.”

The chef blanched, stepped aside, and let me pass.

I gave the fox-masked noble a slow smile as I reached for the nearest plate and devoured it. Meat, sauce, fruit—everything vanished into my mouth with the kind of hunger that made two nobles nearby gasp like they were watching a lewd performance. I moaned around a piece of roasted pear, tongue dragging over my lips as juices spilled down my chin.

I collapsed into a nearby seat without asking, cheeks stuffed, belly warming with each swallow. The fox sat beside me. The others watched in silence.

I licked my fingers, still chewing.

“Thanks,” I said, mouth full, lips slick. “I was about to start sucking toes.”

The fox laughed, low and approving.

And the others…watched.

I wasn’t a fighter yet. Not in their eyes.

But I was a spectacle.

I had just finished licking the last trace of gravy off my fingers when the fox-masked man beside me stood up with a liquid kind of grace that should’ve been illegal in formal wear. His silhouette loomed, elegant and dangerous, and before I could swallow the last chunk of pear, he extended his hand to me with the theatrical flair of someone used to saying, “Dance with me,” and getting a standing ovation for it.

“Would you honor me with a spin around the floor?” he asked, voice dipped in velvet and heat, loud enough for the nobles nearby to raise their eyebrows but not enough to be uncouth.

I blinked, brain still mush from starch and lust, and for a moment, all I could do was blush—actually blush—like some fresh virgin being asked to prom by the hottest boy in the capital.

But opportunity knocked, and when opportunity was tall, masked, and dressed like a high-class sin merchant, you fucking answered. I slipped my hand into his, dainty and demure as a lady in a tragedy, and let him guide me toward the center of the ballroom. The dance pit—an open space of worn marble and tired gold—cleared like magic, nobles parting with idle curiosity as the two of us took our place.

The music shifted without instruction, a low, seductive rhythm like a waltz composed by someone who once had sex in a thunderstorm. He led. Of course he led. I stumbled after him at first, nearly tripping over my own tunic, but I giggled through it, letting the sound bubble up like champagne in a stolen flute. He steadied me with a firm hand on my waist, and just like that, the rhythm took root.

“There’s an air about you,” he said as we turned, slow and deliberate, like the world revolved around our little orbit. “Something…volatile. Unrefined. Dangerous.”

I fluttered my lashes. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He chuckled, the sound rich with amusement and something darker. “It’s not. It’s intoxicating. You smell of potential.”

And other things, I thought dryly, remembering the trail I’d left behind me like some pheromone-crazed snail. But I only smiled and leaned in closer, letting my breath tease the edge of his mask. “Careful. Potential’s just failure with a good PR team.”

He spun me, pulled me back, dipped me slightly. My tunic rode up, and a nearby noble actually fanned herself.

“Then let me be the team,” he murmured, straightening me again. “Let me sponsor you in the coming fight.”

I paused. Blinked. Smiled.

Gotcha.

“Why, darling,” I whispered. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The music faded as the dance ended. I curtsied low, tugging the tunic just enough to tease the imagination, and he bowed like a prince on the edge of scandal. The crowd clapped—polite, intrigued, hungry. I could feel their attention on me now, heavier than the fabric sticking to my thighs. And like blood in shark-infested waters, it drew more.

A woman in a swan mask extended her hand. I danced with her. Then a man in a bear mask. Then a pair—twins maybe—each grabbing one of my arms as I twirled between them like a naughty secret. It became a game. A theater. A striptease in motion without ever removing a stitch more than what I’d already surrendered. My popularity bloomed like a rash in a whorehouse—fast, colorful, and absolutely contagious.

Then he arrived.

Big. Hulking. Unmasked. A man whose presence scraped the music to a halt. I turned with a flirtatious smirk, already extending my hand.

“If you’re here to dance, I’ll warn you—I lead.”

But he didn’t laugh.

“The match begins soon,” he said, voice deep and gravelled like someone who gargled stones. “You come with me. Now.”

I swallowed.

The fantasy cracked. The moment froze. I nodded once, slow and solemn, and let him guide me away. The ballroom watched me go. Some curious. Some concerned. Some so turned on I could smell their preemptive mourning. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. My legs were already shaking.

He took me through a side door into a smaller chamber, dimly lit and sparsely furnished, a broken mirror leaning against the far wall like it had lost a fight with someone’s self-esteem. I approached it slowly, eyes locked on my reflection.

I looked like temptation lost in a warzone. My tunic clung to me with exhausted arrogance. My lips were still stained with wine and spice. My hair was a mess of curls and sweat-slick strands, haloing a face that had danced with death, flirted with wealth, and now stared down the bloody teeth of survival.

I adjusted the hem. Straightened my posture.

“Alright, Loona,” I whispered. “Time to fight.”

A knock.

It was time.

I stepped out into a ballroom transformed. The lights had dimmed to a hush. The crowd had returned to their seats like birds before a storm. The pit was empty, save for me, and every step I took echoed like a challenge. I was the first to arrive. No fanfare. No announcer. Just the anticipation.

My heart thudded against my ribs.

Then the door on the far side creaked open.

Another boy emerged.

Same age. Maybe younger. Slightly smaller than me. A tunic as ragged as mine, hanging from his waist like ceremonial shame. His hair was like gold spun from chaos, wild and long, trailing nearly to his knees. His eyes—gods, his eyes—were pools of dark silence, brimming with fear and something worse. The kind of look a man wears when he’s already survived something worse than death.

“Ah yes,” I muttered. “Skill-based matchmaking. How generous.”

He didn’t move. Neither did I.

But I felt it. That heat. That presence. That sharp, animal pressure of another predator sizing you up not for flirtation, but for blood.

The audience leaned in. I scanned their faces. I saw Julius first, perched at the railing like a child watching fireworks. His eyes sparkled, wide and hungry, lips parted in giddy anticipation.

Then I saw him.

Yolmear, the Sectional Warden.

His scowl was deep. Arms folded. Jaw clenched. He looked like he was already plotting which limb he’d mount over his fireplace when this was done.

A man on the upper balcony stood slowly, raising a single hand.

The room fell into dead silence.

“The rules,” he said, voice low and formal, “are simple. The match ends when one fighter yields… or is no longer able to continue.”

A pause.

“Even if that means death.”

My breath hitched. Then I smirked. Of course it did.

There was no bell. No signal. No fanfare or blaring trumpet. No grand declaration to honor the clash of two gladiators fighting for glory and crumbs.

Just a single, solitary whisper.

“Begin.”

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