I try to move. My arms protest—tied. Not tight enough to cut circulation, just enough to remind me who’s in control.
My eyes open to slivers of light filtering through what looks like a ceiling of rusted grates. The smell hits next, the scent cloying, making me gag—damp stone, motor oil, blood gone stale.
The Catacombs. I must be under St. Dunstan’s.
Every Londoner knows the stories—of the club built in the tunnels under the city, where kings without crowns rule in masks. I always thought they were exaggerated. Until now.
I’m lying on a cold slab, my wrists bound in front of me, my shoes gone. The dim lighting reveals faint graffiti on the walls: serpents, crowns, Latin phrases I can’t fully read. The air hums faintly with music, bass vibrating through stone. Somewhere above, people are dancing—no idea they’re standing over a dungeon.
My stomach twists.
Stay calm.
I roll to my side, scan the space. There’s a metal table to my right with a few tools—zip ties, gloves, a syringe. My pulse spikes. If I panic, I lose. If I think, maybe I live.
I flex my fingers, testing the rope. Frayed, soft. They didn’t tie me with steel. Maybe they underestimated me.
I jerk at the sound of footsteps. Low, steady. Getting closer with every single step.
I sit up fast, forcing myself to look alert, not afraid, not like a meek little mouse. The door creaks open, light spilling in. A shadow fills the doorway, and I know before I even see the mask who it is.
Wraith.
He ducks slightly to clear the frame, water dripping from his jacket, the same quiet power rolling off him like heat from a storm.
“You wake fast,” he says, voice still rough, familiar.
“Wouldn’t want to miss the welcome party,” I rasp, throat dry. “Or are you the entertainment?”
A low chuckle rumbles behind the mask. “Neither.”
He steps closer, boots echoing on the concrete. He’s brought no weapon that I can see—but with him, I doubt it matters.
“You’re supposed to stay still,” he says, tone edged in amusement.
“Not really my thing.”
He crouches, his mask level with my face now. I can see my reflection warped in the steel.
“You’re brave,” he murmurs. “Or stupid.”
“Usually both,” I retort, before I think better of it.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then he reaches out and cuts the rope with a knife I never saw him draw.
“Get up.”
I don’t move. “Why? So you can drag me somewhere else?”
“You’re wanted upstairs.”
“By who?” I ask.
He straightens to his full height, the ceiling light catching on the skull half of his mask.
“The King.”
The words land like ice water. My pulse jumps.
