We follow.
We scramble to keep up.
Leaping.
Soaring across alleyways and plunging deeper into the heart of The Barrier District, further from The Lightborne Barrier itself and its glow that kept us visible.
Now, we let the darkness swallow us whole, as if the darkness itself is an ally.
And like I told Vessira before I relieved her of her head—the darkness knows me intimately.
The tether thrums so fiercely I can’t breathe. I see him—not the brooding king, not the shadow of Zerynthia—but the man who would carry us all if he had to. My chest tightens painfully.
“Move!” he bellows, voice reverberating through the night. And we do. Because how could we not?
We chase him harder across the rooftops, hearts hammering. Tess flies ahead, guiding with frantic gestures, crimson lanterns bobbing in the smoke-choked distance. Ronyn mutters curses as he vaults the gap, Jax is a silent shadow, Rubi all wild hair and skirts in the night. Seren stumbles but presses on, eyes fixed on Therion’s limp body bouncing across Kael’s shoulders.
The guards swarm below, a tide of steel and torchlight, but they can’t keep up. Not with him. Not tonight.
And then—the glow of the crimson lanterns is right there, bleeding through the dark like a lighthouse in the wild seas. The air changes—perfume, smoke, incense masking the stink of sex and grime.The Tainted Veil.
Kael doesn’t slow until he scales down the building and drops heavily into the shadow of the pleasure parlor’s awning, crouched low with Therion still slung across his back. Tess is already pounding on the side door, frantic.
“Open up, open up,now!” she hisses.
The door cracks. Smoke and perfume billow out. A silhouette framed in golden light leans lazily against the doorframe, jeweled bangles clinking at her wrist. The madame herself.
“Well,” Madame Amarisse drawls, eyes raking over our bloodied, panting forms. “If it isn’t Gellesk’s strays.”
CHAPTER FORTY
ELYSSARA
The door slamsshut behind us, muffling the clamor of guards and the baying of hounds. The air inside hits me like another world—thick with incense, rose oil, and something acrid that clings to the back of my throat. Smoke curls languidly from pipes, twining through the jeweled lanterns that bathe the hall in molten gold and red. Perfume smothers the stink of blood and sweat still clinging to my skin, but it doesn’t soothe—it suffocates.
Velvet drapes partition alcoves along the corridor, laughter, grunts and gasps spilling out between the seams. No one stops or notices us—too lost to the rapture. Silk cushions sprawl across low couches, bodies tangled in a haze of intoxication and illusion. The Tainted Veil isn’t merely a brothel—it’s theater, decadence, a temple built in honor of pleasure and worship.
Madame Amarisse glides ahead of us, bangles chiming with every flick of her wrist, her silks trailing like spilled wine across the floor. Her voice is smoke and satin.
“We need refuge,” Tess pleads, chest heaving from our race across the roofs.
But Amarisse doesn’t react, she pulls a mask of regal diplomacy into place instead. “Keep moving, my darlings. Thestreets are crawling, the patrons are happy, and I’d rather not draw attention. Though, the blood rather stands out in here,” she murmurs the last part, disguising our interaction as nothing more than locals seekingservice.
“Of course, madame,” Tess says, bowing her head in deference and understanding.
Madame Amarisse flicks her wrist in a dismissive wave at the attendants that approach, and they scurry like dogs obeying their master. She doesn’t want them too close to us—because we’re a risk or because she’s protecting us, I don’t know.
“To the back,” Amarisse mutters to us, and pulls back a heavy curtain of crimson velvet, ushering us inside.
Beyond the curtain, the whorehouse opens into a lounge carved for discretion, not decadence. The riot of silks and crimson lanterns dims here into muted gold, shadows nesting in the corners. Low couches circle a wide hearth where coals burn hot enough to steep tea, braziers glowing faintly with spice smoke that softens the air. No patrons lounge here—this is where business is brokered, where secrets are traded before coin changes hands.
A single round table anchors the room, scarred with knife cuts and ink stains, cluttered with goblets and forgotten dice. The scent of wine clings heavy, but beneath it lies something sharper: steel oil, dried blood, the undercurrent of Amarisse’s alliances. This is no mere waiting room—it’s a sanctum for the forbidden and outlawed.
Amarisse’s gaze swings to us, all pretenses gone in an instant. “What’s happening out there? Who have you brought into my sanctuary?” She snaps the words at Tess, eyeing the lot of us warily.
Kael’s jaw is clenched tight, his body a fortress around Therion as he lowers him carefully to the low couch. The big man collapses with a groan, blood seeping through his armor,dripping onto the wooden floor beneath the table. He clings to consciousness, but barely. Seren falls to her knees beside him, pale and shaking.
“She— She’s the Lightborne, madame,” Tess answers, gesturing toward me. “And…he’sthe King of Zerynthia.” Her dainty finger points to Kael, but she doesn’t make eye contact with him.
