Chapter 68: Spilling Secrets

Moments later, we were all back in the main room. The others were already waiting—my merry little cabal of degenerates and misfits—as Victor slumped himself into his chair at the far end of the table.

His skin was still slick with sweat, his breath a wet, uneven thing, and every once in a while he’d glance at me like he couldn’t decide whether to beg or bite.

I perched on the edge of the table, legs crossed, chin resting in my hand, staring him down like a cat waiting for a mouse to start explaining why it thought nibbling the cheese was a good idea.

Around us, the others lingered in varying degrees of curiosity and impatience—Brutus towering beside me, Freya still bristling like an angry cat near the far wall, Dregan puffing on his cigar as if the entire room were his personal smokehouse, and Atticus scribbling notes like a man documenting the end of the world for posterity.

“Alright then,” I said sweetly, tilting my head just so, “speak.”

Victor swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a trapped fish. “It’s… a map,” he began, his voice trembling, “hidden in the courtyard.”

A murmur rippled through the room. I tilted my head, smiling as if he’d just told me where he buried treasure under a rainbow. “How romantic,” I said. “Be a dear and specify where in the courtyard? Because last I checked, it’s rather large, and I’m not in the mood for a scavenger hunt unless there’s champagne involved.”

He licked his cracked lips, trying to steady himself. “There’s an old drainage tunnel beneath the statue of the Warden. It’s been sealed for years, but inside, there’s a compartment. That’s where I hid it.”

I raised a brow, pretending to inspect my nails. “Ah yes, nothing screams trustworthy like a treasure map buried under a giant statue of the man who built our cage.” I looked up at him, a sharp grin curling at my lips. “Tell me, what kind of map are we talking about here? Because if it’s just a drawing of your ego, we can skip the field trip.”

He hesitated, eyes darting to the others. “It’s a layout,” he said finally. “A layout of the mining caverns. The ones that stretch deep within the pits—where duskmetal is processed and shipped to the upper layers of the city.”

That got everyone’s attention. Even Freya’s glare softened into wary intrigue.

Victor continued, words tumbling faster now that he sensed he wasn’t about to be torn in half. “There’s an entire network down there—chambers, tunnels, old lifts. However, some of the passageways were sealed off years ago. The High Warden ordered them shut by his personal command. Only a handful of maps were ever made that show the full routes, and most of them were destroyed.”

I blinked slowly, tapping a finger against my cheek. “Sealed tunnels,” I mused aloud, my curiosity curling like smoke. “And tell me, darling, why exactly were they sealed? Spiders? Ghosts? Unspeakable horrors from the depths? I do so love a bit of flair in my backstory.”

Victor hesitated again, his tongue darting the air. “I don’t know the full story,” he admitted, eyes flicking nervously toward the floor. “But I’ve heard… rumors from the men stationed near the old barricades. Whispers about noises down there. Machines that still run even though no one’s touched them in years. And shadows that move against the light.”

Oh, saints above, I thought, suppressing a shiver. Of course there’d be haunted tunnels. This prison had everything else—why not a little industrial nightmare chic?

I straightened, drumming my fingers on the table. “Fascinating. Terrifying. Possibly fatal. I love it.”

“But,” I continued, voice turning sly, “I fail to see how this helps us. Unless the plan is to get ourselves killed by haunted machinery, in which case I’m fully on board. But otherwise, why should we care about some old tunnels?”

Victor looked up, his expression sharpening into something that almost resembled cunning. “Because the main elevators to the upper levels are impossible to reach,” he said. “They’re guarded by the Velvets.”

That got me leaning forward, curiosity pricking like a blade. “The Velvets?” I echoed. “I’ve never seen one. The city’s special pets, aren’t they? Slaves on contract, all pretty faces and silken collars?”

Atticus nodded, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Specially trained enforcers,” he murmured. “The best of the best. They don’t bleed like normal men.”

I smirked. “Don’t bleed, hmm? How terribly inconvenient.”

Victor nodded grimly. “Exactly. Getting past them would be suicide. But the sealed tunnels—” He paused, glancing around the room, letting the tension build like a magician before the reveal. “—they might still have a few service elevators. Ones the guards have forgotten.”

The room hummed with interest then. I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “So your grand plan was to find these old tunnels, break through the seal, and joyride an elevator straight to freedom?”

Victor’s lips twitched. “Something like that.”

“Adorable,” I said. “But there’s just one teeny little problem, darling. How exactly do you plan to break through into the tunnels? I bet those seals aren’t just made of paper mâché and good intentions.”

Brutus grunted, nodding to himself. “He’s right. I’ve seen those barriers before. Reinforced stone, layered wards, iron lattices thicker than your arm. You’d need an army—or a miracle—to crack them. Not even Loona’s little pet could smash through.”

At the mention of my beastman, who was currently lounging against the far wall picking his teeth with a piece of metal, I arched a brow.

Victor smiled—a strange, dangerous little smile. “That’s why I needed allies,” he said quietly. “And why I needed this.”

He turned his gaze toward the Boss, who had been slumped in his chair with an expression that screamed both boredom and contempt.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any duskmetal on you, would you?”

The Boss raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, but after a pause, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small chunk of charcoal-black ore. It shimmered faintly in the lanternlight, catching hints of red beneath its cracked surface like an ember buried in ash.

He turned it in his hand once, twice, then tossed it casually to Victor. “Don’t waste it,” he said. “That piece’s worth more than your hide.”

Victor caught it with a wince, his bruised hands trembling. He held it up to the light, eyes gleaming. “Perfect,” he whispered.

I leaned forward, chin propped on my palm. “Alright, sweetheart, I’ll bite. What exactly are you planning to do with a rock? Because unless it doubles as a very sharp insult, I’m not seeing the magic.”

Victor ignored me, scanning the room. “Anyone have a lighter?”

Dregan, bless his smoky little soul, flicked his cigar ash onto the floor and grinned. “You’re in luck.” He tossed his lighter through the air, and Victor caught it deftly.

“Now,” Victor said, holding both the lighter and the ore in his hands, “duskmetal isn’t like regular ore. It’s reactive—alive, in a way. The miners say it feeds on heat and pressure. The deeper you go, the hotter it gets, the more volatile it becomes. They used to temper it down below, but if you expose a raw piece to flame…”

He trailed off dramatically, letting the tension rise. I swear he was doing it on purpose, the little show-off.

“Don’t you dare blow up my warehouse,” I said, pointing a finger. “If you burn off my eyebrows, I’ll haunt you myself.”

Victor didn’t even blink. He lit the lighter and held the flame beneath the duskmetal.

At first, nothing happened. The ore just sat there, dull and lifeless, and I opened my mouth to make a cutting remark—probably something about premature ignition—when the stone began to glow.

It started faint, a pulse of red flickering beneath the black surface, then brighter, stronger, until it looked like a coal plucked from the heart of a forge. The glow deepened to molten orange, then white-hot.

“Careful,” Brutus muttered, his voice low. “That’s unstable.”

Victor smiled, eyes glinting. “Exactly.”

And then he tossed it into the air.

The explosion was instantaneous.

A deafening boom ripped through the room, followed by a shockwave that rattled the walls and sent dust raining from the ceiling. The light flared bright enough to blind, then vanished, leaving behind a haze of smoke and the ringing echo of destruction.

I blinked spots from my vision, coughed through the haze, and slowly turned my gaze toward Victor. He sat there grinning, soot-streaked and wild-eyed, the faintly smoking lighter still clutched in his hand.

“Well,” I said after a long, stunned pause, “that was… dramatic.”

Atticus adjusted his spectacles, his face alight with scientific glee. “Magnificent,” he breathed. “Pure combustion from but a few grams. The potential applications—”

“—are for blowing things up,” Freya cut in, shaking dust from her hair. “So your grand plan is to gather enough of this shit to blast straight through the barrier?”

Victor nodded, that smug little grin still plastered on his face. “Exactly.”

I glanced around at the others. Freya looked skeptical but intrigued. Dregan was grinning like a lunatic, probably thinking about all the potential fires he could start. Atticus was already muttering equations under his breath. The Boss looked unimpressed yet calculating as ever.

As for me? Oh, I was delighted. Positively thrilled. Because chaos, my darling, is just another word for opportunity.

I slid off the table and clapped my hands together. “Well then,” I said brightly, “what are we waiting for? Let’s go dig up that map and set this glorious shitshow in motion.”

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