o
The ale at tasted like fermented socks and disappointment, which was perfect because that happened to be Eymire’s current aesthetic.
I was four drinks deep—well past my limit of "one for the nerves"—and I found myself spilling my soul to a guy in a crisp Academy suit who looked like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. He had that "I study magic and my father owns a guild" posture that usually made me want to trip people He was clearly here on a "slumming it" tour to see how the poor people suffered., but tonight, he was my best friend.
"And then——she gives me this contact for a job," I slurred, waving a limp hand. "Lirra. She’s... she’s an angel. A fire-haired, city-saving angel who just happened to be kissing a guy who looked like he buys people for fun."
The Academy student sighed, swirling his expensive wine. He looked at me with the kind of pity you reserve for a three-legged dog.
"The Lyric Court Inn, right?" he asked.
"Yeah! How'd you—"
"God, you country boys are a renewable resource," he interrupted, his voice dripping with bored malice. "The Lyric Court isn't a romantic getaway, friend. It’s a trap house. Lirra and girls like her? They specialize in ‘consistent harvests.' You’re not her boyfriend nor her friend; you’re a tethered mark on a long leash. That guy she was with? That’s the Patreon , Tier you can’t afford. He’s the boss. She’s a courtesan for the upper class, and you’re the guy who pays for her 'unfortunate cousin’s medical bills' while she laughs about it over caviar."
The world tilted. It wasn't just the ale. It was the sudden, violent realization that I hadn't been a protagonist in a romance; I’d been a line item in a ledger.
I didn't say goodbye. I barely made it to the alleyway before I lost my dignity and my dinner
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
The cool air hit me, and suddenly, my chest didn't feel heavy anymore. The "blackout" didn't just fade—it snapped. A spark of cold, familiar lightning danced behind my eyelids.
The power was back, humming in my blood like a choir of angry hornets. And with the power came a very specific, very Warrens-flavored idea. I wasn't going to go back there and argue. I was too awkward for a "heart-to-heart" about my feelings.
In the Warrens, we don't talk it out. We burn it down.
I ducked into the shadows, pulling my hood low and moving with the silent, predatory grace I’d spent years perfecting. I navigated to the "not-so-nice" part of the district, where the marble was cracked and the guards were bribable.
I found a dealer in a back alley who looked like a pile of damp rags. After I paid him double for his silence—and a Silver Crest for the goods—I walked away with three heavy bags of black powder.
"Don't blow yourself up, boy," the dealer wheezed.
"I'm a professional," I lied.
I slipped back toward the Lyric Court. It was a beautiful building, all lace curtains and polished wood. A temple of lies. I moved like a ghost, Jumper-shifting into the basement through a small coal chute.
I laid the powder in a perfect line along the main support beams. But a job isn't a job without a signature. I took a handful of the black dust and traced a symbol on the floorboards in the center of the lobby: in jagged, sharp letters: VELKRATH NOCTYREN.
The Underground Prince. The name they whispered of me in the Warrens when a box went missing or a rival boss ended up in the river.
I struck a match. The flame was tiny, but it felt like the sun.
"Honest work was boring anyway," I whispered.
I dropped the match and Jumped.
The world blurred into a smear of grey and shadow. I reappeared three blocks away, standing on a high rooftop overlooking the district. A second later, the night was torn apart.
The ground shook. A pillar of orange fire roared into the sky, swallowing the Lyric Court whole. The lace curtains turned to ash, the polished wood to charcoal. It was a beautiful, violent masterpiece.
I stood there, watching the crowd gather in the street below, listening to the screams of "Fire!" and the clanging of the City Watch bells. The heat felt good on my face. I reached into my pocket, felt the single copper mark Oren had given me, and tossed it into the air.
I didn't need coppers. I was a Jumper again.
I leaned back against a chimney, a slow, dark smile spreading across my face as the "arrogant light" of the fire finally outshone the moon.