The crime of escaping a Sinless.
I clench my fingers into fists, anchoring myself to some physical sensation that isn’t my racing heart, and suck in a steadying breath. Then, forcing words from my lips that just might seal my doom, I tell my story again.
I fumble my performance. And the next. And the next. My threads get tangled in the second round, and my heart refuses to stitch correctly together. By the start of the third, I don’t even bother with my props. And not once do I reveal my scar again.
It doesn’t matter that the Shadowbane only stayed for half my story and I haven’t seen him since. He shook my confidence, and it’s probably for the best. A talentless storyteller like me couldn’t be of interest to him, right?
By my fifth and final performance, my nerves settle to a dull hum. I finish my ending line and curtsy, though my audience is so deep in their cups they hardly notice. It’s always like this at the Wretched Lair, since it’s one of the few places such upstanding citizens as these can imbibe so unrestrained. Gluttony may be a sin, and would normally attract Shades, but in walled cities like Nalheim, the monsters aren’t a threat. Such acts simply need to be kept from the public eye. Otherwise, the common citizens who keep pious lives would know their utopian city is a sham.
Mr. Rockefeller returns to the center of the room to thank his guests and conclude the evening’s festivities. While a handful of patrons linger to finish their drinks, many others clear out at once, hungry for their next forbidden fare at the brothels and gambling dens. Such an honorable lot, the gentry. At least they know better than to seek further—and more private—entertainment from us, thanks to the rules of Rockefeller’s club. We are not to be touched or spoken to. We are only to be looked at as we wait upon our stages until the last guest leaves. Only then, when no one is left to witness our exit, can we lower our guard and return to the barracks we call home.
Now that sleep is in sight, an entire week of fatigue catches up to me. Rockefeller’s performers do more than entertain at the Wretched Lair. Some work in pleasure houses, while others, like me, serve as cleaning maids at various establishments Rockefeller owns. I let my gaze wander to my colleagues, who seem to share my exhaustion. The Bard’s thick shoulders droop, his mandolin dwarfed by his enormous frame, his wolflike mask partly askew. The Lover’s fingers flinch at his sides, and I wonder if he’s yearning to rub his aching feet like I am. After spending the evening dancing, spinning an invisible partner upon his stage, I wouldn’t blame him. The Blade flips one of her knives, always in motion, while the Harlot—
“Seamstress, is it?” The voice is male and chillingly soft.
My spine stiffens as a man saunters toward me through the sparse crowd. A man with no shadow. A man with golden hair and the harpist’s blood still staining his lips.
I blink at him, hoping the Sinless lord might be a hallucination of my fatigue, but I should know by now the futility of hope.
He stops before my stage, expression empty as he stares up at me. “Step down,” he says, his voice a honeyed drawl. The tips of his sharp canines peek from behind his lips when he speaks. “I don’t like to crane my neck.”
Fuck. This can’t be happening. What did I do to draw his attention? I may have disregarded him as a threat after my close call with the Shadowbane, but my botched performances should have made melessinteresting. My pulse beats a staccato rhythm. Where is Rockefeller?
A quick glance around the room shows no sign of my master, butwhat could he even do? The rules of the Wretched Lair don’t apply to the Sinless. This man can touch, talk, and take all he wants, and no one can stop him. Not me, not my master, and not my companions, who now watch in frozen terror. Is this what happened on the last night the harpist played here? If so, I wasn’t there to witness it. Nor am I close enough to the other performers to have been included in such gossip. The remaining guests stop to watch too, but it’s only out of amusement, not pity or worry.
The Sinless’s eyes narrow. “I won’t repeat myself, sinner.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, reminding myself of the command he gave me. On trembling legs, I descend from my marble block. He’s tall, but so am I, bringing us eye to eye. I’d give anything to shrink down, to fold in on myself, though maybe it would be worse if he towered over me.
“How…can I be of service…my lord?” My words are stilted, jagged.
“Are you afraid of me?” The first hint of emotion crosses his face, a dash of cruel mirth. “Fear is only a virtue if it is reserved for that which is evil. To fear the Sinless is to be greatly wicked.”
I purse my lips, for I have no answer that would please him. The truth is I’ve never feared evil things like the Shades and darkness as much as I’ve feared the Sinless. Shades never tried to cut open my chest.
“Here I thought you would be expecting me,” he says. “I saw the way you were looking at me before the performances began. Were you envious of your friend?” He waves a hand toward the edge of the room, and I glance to where he’s gesturing—the wingback chair he spent the evening in. Slumped on the ground before it is the motionless body of the harpist, eyes open and unblinking, skin a sickly blue.
Very fucking dead, then.
“Envy is a sin, you know,” he says, drawing my attention back to him.
Hatred sparks in my chest, burning into rage. Wrath may be another grave sin, but I’ve always been helpless against its pull.
His lips curl as he speaks again. “I heard your performance was a vulgar one. You bared your breasts, I’m told. What kind of art do youcall that? It sounds like fare unsuitable for a social club that serves the purehearted. Wouldn’t you be more at home in a brothel?”
It takes all my restraint to keep my retort at bay, but as he arches a haughty brow, I realize his words weren’t meant to taunt. He’s serious.
“Answer me,” he barks, making me jump.
“I had props under my robe, my lord,” I rush to say. “I undid my robe to retrieve them, not to bare myself.”
His eyes flick to my chest. “Show me.”
My breath catches. “My lord?”
“Show me what you flaunted to everyone else, sinner.”
I bring a hand to my chest, but not to obey. All I want is to hide all evidence of what I so stupidly revealed. Before now, it felt thematic to show my scar while reciting my tale, a hint of truth, a minuscule act of rebellion. It’s not like anyone would know what it’s from, especially not the average aristocrat who’s spent their entire life behind these walls, ignorant of what happens in the unprotected villages, to criminals, to those who are sacrificed to the Sinless. No one would recognize the cause of such a scar. Not unless they’ve been on either end of the blade. Only the dukes and princes know what it takes to light their Holy Braziers.
