"The Praexa delegation is requesting a private meeting," Grix continues, consulting his own notes. "Something about adjusting the terms of their protection arrangement."
My jaw tightens. The golden-winged elite love their euphemisms, wrapping extortion in pretty words like 'protection arrangement' and 'mutual understanding.' They take their cut of Vestige's profits in exchange for ensuring the city guard looks the other way when complaints arise. A necessary evil in a city built on divine hierarchy.
"Schedule it for tomorrow, after closing." I stand, moving to the windows that overlook the main floor. "And make sure theyunderstand the meeting happens here, on my terms. I'm not traveling to their gilded tower to negotiate my own business."
"Understood." Grix's tone suggests he's dealt with Praexa arrogance before. "Anything else?"
I wave him off without turning around. "Just the usual security sweeps. And make sure the new dancers understand the rules about personal clients. Vestige provides the venue and protection, but we don't take kindly to freelance arrangements on our property."
The door closes with a soft click, leaving me alone with the muffled chaos filtering up from below. I press my palms against the cool glass, letting the vibration of music and voices travel through my bones. This is what I've built—a kingdom of sin and shadow that funds my daughter's future while keeping me anchored to something that makes sense.
Profit. Loss. Supply and demand. The elegant mathematics of xaphan nature.
My reflection stares back from the window glass, wings folded tight against my back, face carved from stone and shadow. I look like what I am—a weapon barely sheathed, a predator pretending to be civilized for the sake of those who matter. The red tips of my feathers catch the enchanted light, glowing faintly with the banked heat that always simmers beneath my skin.
Irida calls them my 'angry colors.' She's not wrong.
The thought of my daughter sends warmth through my chest, the only softness left in a life deliberately hardened against disappointment. She'll be asleep now in our home across the city, surrounded by the luxury I've built for her. Safe behind wards that would make the Praexa envious, guarded by magic that responds to my blood alone.
Six years old and already showing signs of the power that runs in our bloodline. Fire magic that dances in her small palms,ice that forms intricate sculptures when she dreams. She has no idea that her father owns the most notorious club in New Solas, thinks I'm simply a businessman who works late hours. Better that way, for now. There will be time enough for her to understand the complexities of our world when she's older.
For now, she can remain innocent while I ensure she never wants for anything.
A commotion on the main floor draws my attention back to the present. Through the glass, I can see bodies pressing closer to one of the performance platforms, wings spreading in aggressive displays as voices rise above the music. Nothing unusual—Vestige attracts the kind of clientele that considers violence a form of entertainment—but worth monitoring.
I trace the source of the disturbance with predator's eyes, cataloging the players involved. Two copper-winged merchants, probably drunk on Amerinth and territorial instincts. A group of silver-touched nobility watching with the detached amusement of those who consider themselves above such displays. The usual mix of wealth and aggression that keeps my coffers full and my reputation intact.
But then movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention, something that doesn't fit the pattern of chaos below.
A figure in burgundy moves through the crowd like water finding cracks in stone. Smooth, purposeful, nearly invisible except to someone who understands predatory behavior. She—definitely female from the way the dress clings to curves—drifts between bodies with the kind of grace that suggests practice, skill, intention.
I watch her approach a male deep in conversation, her movements casual, unthreatening. A stumble that brings her close enough to touch, an apologetic gesture that draws attention while her other hand works with surgical precision. The entire interaction takes perhaps three seconds, and thenshe's melting back into the crowd with something that wasn't hers moments before.
Professional. Elegant. Completely fucking unacceptable in my establishment.
Heat builds beneath my skin, the red tips of my wings beginning to glow with barely contained fire. Theft in Vestige isn't just a crime against my patrons—it's a direct challenge to my authority, a suggestion that my security can be circumvented by anyone clever enough to try. That kind of reputation would destroy the careful balance I've built, the illusion of safety that keeps the wealthy coming back to spend their money in my shadows.
I should signal Grix, have him send guards to handle the situation quietly. Standard procedure for this kind of problem—a brief conversation in one of the back rooms, followed by either compensation or a very unpleasant lesson in respecting other people's property.
But something keeps me watching instead, studying the thief as she continues her work through the crowd. There's art in her movements, a confidence that speaks of years perfecting this particular skill. She doesn't take everything she could, doesn't push her luck with the most obvious targets. Selective, intelligent, disciplined.
Impressive, in a way that makes my blood sing with predatory appreciation.
And completely fucking unacceptable in my establishment.
I move toward the hidden stairs that lead down from my office, my decision crystallizing with each step. This isn't about sending a message through subordinates—this is personal now, a direct challenge that requires a direct response. The thief has skill, but she's operating in my domain, and that makes her my problem to solve.
The stairs wind down through the walls of Vestige, hidden passages that let me move through my own establishment without drawing attention. Most of my patrons know my name but not my face, a deliberate choice that allows me to observe and act without the complications that come with recognition. Tonight, that anonymity serves a different purpose.
I emerge onto the main floor through a concealed door near the bar, immediately swallowed by the press of bodies and the assault of sound. Heat and magic swirl through the air, voices raised in laughter and lust, the crack of power being exchanged for pleasure. My wings fold tight against my back as I push through the crowd, tracking the burgundy dress with single-minded focus.
She's moved on to new targets, working her way toward the bar where well-dressed xaphan cluster three deep. Smart—lots of money, lots of distraction, lots of alcohol to dull reflexes. But also dangerous, because it brings her into the heart of the crowd where escape routes become limited.
I shadow her movements, staying far enough back to avoid detection while close enough to act when the moment comes. The predator in me appreciates her technique—the way she uses the press of bodies to mask contact, the casual confidence that makes her invisible among the chaos. But appreciation doesn't change the fundamental equation.
She's stealing in my territory. That makes her mine to deal with.
The music pounds around us as she approaches her next mark, a male in expensive robes arguing with his companion about vintages of Amerinth. His coin pouch is visible when he gestures, a tempting target for someone with quick fingers and quicker reflexes.
