Zerbst lounged comfortably on a cushion in an eastern-styled chamber, a long-stemmed glass of wine nestled between his fingers. Incense billowed through the air, mingling with the aroma of imported alcohol.
Soft blue light from mana crystal lamps bathed the room in a sultry glow, glinting off polished wood and the bangles of the female servers who moved gracefully around the space with platters in hand.
Four men sat together, Zerbst at the head, his posture relaxed, his expression smug.
"Wise of you, Lord Zerbst," one of the men said, swirling his cup. "Reserving this whole wing of the brothel. This is certainly much safer than your usual place."
Another man nodded. "That old venue may've already been compromised. It's likely the dark guild has laid traps there."
"Aye," said the third. "Between the anonymous reservation and those mana-cloaking runes, we should be well off the radar tonight."
Zerbst took a slow sip from his glass, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile. "Even with all these precautions… only the three of you accepted my invite."
One of the men, his cheeks flushed from drink, chuckled as he slipped his hand into the robe of the woman straddling his lap. She giggled softly, allowing him to caress her.
"Their loss," he murmured with a lecherous smile.
The other two men were similarly entertained. The women on their laps fed them fruit and hors d'oeuvres between kisses and caresses. Zerbst, never one for moderation, had two women nestled at his sides, one pouring wine, the other massaging his shoulders.
He looked at his companions with a smirk and said, "With half the court presumed dead or missing, many seats are suddenly available. Stay loyal to me, and I'll see to it you're each given a throne—and the luxuries that come with it."
The men lit up like children promised sweetbread. They praised Zerbst with drunken fervor, clinking cups in his honor. The women, sensing opportunity, upped their efforts—pressing in closer, laughing louder, hoping to curry favor.
Then, without warning, one of the drunk men gave a sharp slap to a server's rear as she passed, gesturing with his cup for more wine.
The woman froze mid-step.
She turned slowly, the sheer veil over her face doing little to hide the fury in her eyes. Without a word, her hand shot down to her thigh and drew a small blade. In one swift movement, she grabbed a fistful of the man's hair and—
Shhhrripp!
—Shaved a wide, bald strip down the center of his scalp.
"Aaahh! What the hell?!" the man shrieked, stumbling off his cushion and clawing at his head. The woman who had been on his lap screamed and scrambled backward.
The room exploded into chaos. The other two men jerked to their feet, but in a flash, the two other veiled servers had drawn hidden blades and pressed them to the men's throats.
"Don't move," one said coldly.
The women in the room cried out and huddled into a corner, sobered in an instant.
Zerbst's expression turned furious. "Guards!" He bellowed. "Get in here, now!"
But there was no answer. Not a footstep, or even a voice.
He rose halfway, ready to lunge for the door, but a low growl filled the room as a wolf pup leapt onto his lap, planting both front paws firmly on his chest. Its fangs glistened mere inches from his face, breath hot and menacing.
Zerbst froze, hands raised slowly in surrender as the growling deepened. "W-Who are you people?"
The assailants didn't answer.
"Wh-What happened to all the guards?" another man uttered, his Adam's Apple bobbing dangerously close to the blade at his throat.
"They're taking a long and well-deserved nap," came the dry response.
"Do you honestly believe a group of pathetic bandits like yourselves will get away with this?" Scoffed another noble. "Do you even know who you're dealing with?"
The figures concealed behind their silken garbs and veils didn't even flinch, and that made Zerbst's heart skip a beat. "Th-The dark guild…"
The utterance made the color drain from the other men's faces, and the question that followed confirmed their fears.
"We know the Mhaledictus has infiltrated the palace," Sohpia—Daisuke—said in a dark monotone. "Who's the one calling the shots? I want names. Now."
***
Several girls wrapped in revealing garments stood in a neat, silent line, their expressions measured. The brothel owner loomed nearby, watching carefully. Before them stood Stynx, an all-too-familiar patron with a perpetual scowl on his face.
He was irritated that half the brothel had been sealed off tonight, booked for some private affair. Still, at least they didn't whisk away all the good-looking women.
His eyes drifted down the row, cold and calculating. But even as he assessed their forms, their features, their carefully maintained allure, he knew—none of them were her.
None of them would ever be Lumielle.
He hated that. Hated how no one could match the rush he'd once felt in her presence. That warmth. That radiance. That maddening, unattainable grace.
His gaze eventually settled on a girl with soft eyes, flowing black hair, and lovely curves. Her beauty was undeniable, though dulled in comparison. When he pointed at her, she stepped forward and offered a practiced smile. The others averted their gaze, a flicker of sympathy in their eyes.
***
Flushed cheeks. Subtle curves. Parted lips.
Toned muscles. Taut lines. Furrowed brows.
Manalight kissed bare skin. In the hush of a private room, the girl sat on the bed, cradling Stynx's head in her lap. Her fingers gently threaded through his Prussian blue hair, soothing him as though he were a wounded child.
Her expression was calm and nurturing. Coral pink hair framed her delicate face and cascaded down her back, and the once soft brown of her eyes now shimmered jade green.
It wasn't her. But it was close.
Unknowingly, Stynx and Hynes shared more in common than they knew—they shared an obsession. A twisted reverence for a woman who had never belonged to either of them. Perhaps that was why Stynx loathed the man so deeply. Not because of rivalry, but because Hynes dared love Lumielle, too. And that… that was unforgivable.
His eyes searched the girl's face again.
The jade was gone. Her eyes had shifted back to their original brown.
She noticed his change in mood instantly and rushed to explain. Her voice was small, almost trembling. "I-I'm sorry. I ran out of mana. If you give me a moment, I can—"
He cut her off.
Not with words. But with a storm that had been building beneath the surface. His grip tightened, not on her arms, but around her neck. Then he rose, his jaw clenched, frustration churning into cruelty. He did not want her. He wanted her. Lumielle—the woman with the angelic voice, the woman with the maternal charm, the goddess who validated his lowly existence.
This girl, a prostitute, had merely borrowed a fragment of that glow, and even that was now gone.
What followed wasn't passion. It wasn't desire. It was punishment for being a reminder of everything he had lost.
For not being enough.
And the girl…
She liked it.
The other prostitutes didn't avert their gazes in pity for the girl, but for the lonesome man who would never find what he sought.
The girl didn't run out of mana.
It was all a ploy, just to be roughly pleasured while she relished the anger, frustration, and heartbroken expression on his face.
It was all for her own satisfaction.