I let out a light, tinkling laugh—so artificial it scraped the back of my throat. But they didn’t notice. They were too enamored with each other, drifting together toward the sofa like a pair of doves.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Balthazar entered with the grace of a predator, carrying a silver tray. Four tall flutes of pale golden champagne shimmered under the chandelier. The bottle stood in the center like a trophy, chilled and dripping with elegance. His eyes gleamed with promise.
“Our finest Veuve Clicquot,” he said in flawless French.
“Bien, bien. Nous sommes honorés,” Malik replied smoothly, his accent just as polished.
Balthazar extended the tray to them with a practiced flourish. They took the flutes nearest their seats—exactly as he’d intended.
“My love,” Balthazar said, turning to me with a devilish glint, “this one’s for you.”
“Merci, mon amour,” I purred, accepting the glass with a coy smile.
Balthazar took the final glass, set the tray aside, and raised his champagne.
“To a true course,” he declared, “as we seek the Sun and Moon Daggers.”
“To swift success,” Malik echoed, casting Layla another tender look before lifting the flute to his lips and taking a deep swallow.
Then, he froze.
His eyes widened, and panic danced across his face. “Can’t… breathe,” he gasped, clawing at his collar.
“Malik?” Layla’s hand flew to her chest. “I… I feel faint.”
She swayed slightly. Her eyes rolled, and her limbs began to convulse.
“Fuck,” Malik rasped. “What did you…”
His sentence disintegrated into air as he reached blindly for her. His body sagged, collapsing onto her lap, spasming weakly as the draught overtook him. He writhed like a dying fish, desperate to resist.
“Can’t… let it… win,” he wheezed.
Then Layla crumpled over him.
Across the room, Balthazar and I exchanged looks and burst into laughter.
“What a waste of Veuve Clicquot,” I said with mock sadness, snatching the bottle and drinking straight from it.
“Oh, I’d say we got our money’s worth,” Balthazar replied, rising to his feet. “Come on. We’ve got about an hour.”
We worked together, grunting and sweating as we hauled Malik’s limp body down the servants’ passage and into the old dungeon below the estate.
The corridor was a tomb of silence, choked with mildew and rot. Each cell exhaled decay, sweat, stone, and something older and fouler. We dropped Malik’s body onto the gritty floor of a narrowcell, and the atmosphere of the dungeon settled around us like a burial shroud.
Only a single sliver of moonlight slipped through the barred window, casting a ghostly stripe across the floor.
Balthazar stood before the iron door—ancient and heavy. It bore the scars of time—thick, rusted bolts, scrollwork carved into the hinges, and a blackened lock with a keyhole too narrow for anything modern. The door had been painted a deep, menacing red, and across it, a single word had been scrawled in stark block letters?—
UNFORGIVEN.
Above it, a small glass viewport waited to be slid open or snapped shut like an executioner’s visor.
Balthazar smirked as he slid the key into place. The lock gave a satisfying click as it turned. He looked back at me, offering his arm.
“Shall we?”
“We shall,” I replied, sliding my hand into the crook of his elbow with a wicked grin.
