Chapter Forty
ELYSSARA
The door slams shut 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. The streets 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 seeking service.
“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’s the King of Zerynthia.” Her dainty finger points to Kael, but she doesn’t make eye contact with him.
“Holy fucking Stars, Tess,” Amarisse groans, but drops to her knees all the same. “Princess,” she breathes, bowing her head.
I still don’t know what to do—the deference catching me off guard.
Amarisse turns her body to Kael, pressing her fingers together in an inverted triangle. “I stand with Zerynthia,” she murmurs.
Pride flickers down the tether, and I know it’s not pride from himself. I feel the brand of his stare searing into me, and slowly, I lift my eyes to his.
Dravara’s Princess. His voice rumbles down the tether, sweet as honey.
His eyes entrance, his voice settles in my chest like a prayer.
But my gaze snaps back to Amarisse.
“Please—we have no time for formalities. We need boiling water and a place to hide. Can you do that?” My voice is ragged and rushed, because I know we need one hundred heartbeats, and it’s probably all we have to form a plan.
Amarisse nods urgently, mind working, forming a plan. “Do you have a healer for your injured?”
But it’s obvious.
Rubi’s already moving, unhooking elixirs from her belt, cutting herbs from her leather pouch, looking around the room to find tools and supplies she can use in the makeshift infirmary.
Her bronze eyes glint with feral focus as she snaps, “One hundred heartbeats. No less.” She reaches for a brass kettle, filling it with water from the pitcher, and placing it over the hearth.
“The healer goes with him,” Amarisse points, stabbing a finger at Therion.
“I won’t leave him,” Seren’s voice cuts through, assertive, unwavering.
“Jax is a Luminaar; she doesn’t need Shards. She can go, too,” Ronyn snaps, protectiveness palpable.
Jax opens her mouth to retort, a savage snarl on her mouth—
“That’s it. No more space,” Amarisse snaps, and her foot presses against a small latch hidden beneath fabric cascading from the couch.
Click—
The round table tilts ever so slightly, a small gap appearing between the bottom of the table and the floor. A hidden refuge.
The table doubles as a trap door that creaks as its hinges pry open. Amarisse pulls on the table, leveraging it open, revealing a set of steep stairs that lead into an underground basement. She tips the table on its side, sending dice and forgotten tankards sprawling.
“What about us?” Ronyn asks, indignant, though his mouth lifts in a roguish smile. “Oh well, guess I’ll have to find some way of entertaining myself while I’m here. What’s a man to do in a place full of liquor, cards and courtesans?”
I shoot him a withering stare, and I don’t miss the way he flinches at Jax’s snarl.
“Hurry up, hurry up,” Rubi breathes urgently, watching the water, as if she can will it to boil.
“They’re here, Madame,” a young man says, poking his head through the velvet curtain dressed in an indulgent silk robe.
“Shit,” Amarisse breathes. “Tell them the lady of the parlor is entertaining guests and I’ll be there momentarily to show them some of my new delights,” she croons, selling the lie with the same ease Gellesk sold worthless trinkets.
The water begins to boil, and Rubi clambers for the jar. She places the Obsidian Shards in delicately, handling them with care. “One hundred heartbeats. Work fast on this plan, if you don’t mind,” she stresses, finally letting the Shards steep.
“Tessie, go! Get back to Gellesk,” Amarisse snaps, and Tess doesn’t hesitate. She’s done this before. She knows how this works. Tess looks to me, sadness heavy in her gaze. But I don’t have the luxury of goodbyes and long embraces.
“Go!” I command, and she spins on her heel before vanishing through the curtains that conceal us.
But Amarisse swings her gaze to me. To Kael. Back to me. Sizing us up, concocting a plan.
“You,” she says, snapping a finger at Kael. “You’re my new courtesan.”
Kael’s face pales in a heartbeat. “Me?” he questions, looking genuinely surprised, and despite the circumstances, I can’t stop the smile that creeps onto my face.
“Yes, you. What? You don’t think men need to earn a living, too?
You may be a king in Zerynthia, but here, you’re a man with a body others would pay for,” Amarisse asserts with a sneer.
She clicks her fingers, and the young man’s head breaks through the velvet curtain again.
“Take off your robe and give it to this gentleman. He’s working, starting now.
” Her voice is demanding, and the young man removes the robe without question, passing it through the curtains.
“Fifty heartbeats,” Rubi counts, urging us on.
“Put it on,” Amarisse snaps, throwing the robe of black silk at Kael’s chest.
He looks at her, confused, and she grunts in displeasure. “Take off your clothes and put it on, Your Highness,” she snarks, and Kael does as she bids, tossing his armor and weapons, save for a small dagger, into the underground basement.
She spins to me.
“And you—take out your braids. Remove your leathers. Leave your undergarments. You’re his customer, understand?
” she spits the words at me in haste, and my cheeks blaze under her instruction.
But I do it, kicking off my boots and leathers, and listening to them thud against the earthy floor of the basement.
Stars save me—I’m the newest customer in The Tainted fucking Veil.
“Thirty heartbeats,” Rubi pants, swirling the ink-black liquid, Shards having dissolved into the boiling water.
Amarisse removes the silk robe that wraps around her shoulders and trails the floor.
She tousles my hair, pulling the loose strands forward over my shoulders, creating a pleasure-addled look. She spritzes me with her perfume, the plume of it choking and obnoxious, but a better alternative to blood and sweat.
“Ten heartbeats,” Rubi says, sweat appearing on her brow.
The door to The Tainted Veil shudders under the urgent fist of the guards bellowing to be let in.
“Drink deep and find a spare alcove,” she instructs. “Be convincing, Your Majesties. All our lives depend on it,” she commands, raising her eyebrows in intensity.
She’s right. If we can’t convince the guards we’re meant to be here, we’ll be Thalmyr’s prisoners, and Aevryn will be lost to us.
“And me?” Ronyn asks again.
“There’s a game of poker on upstairs—find it and join it. Make it look like you’ve been there a while,” Amarisse says. “Now, I have some guards to stall.”
“Drink!” Rubi urges, pressing the boiling tea cup into my hands, and pouring it down Therion’s throat despite his dwindling lucidity.
I drink deep, sucking down the steeped Shards and almost choking on the acrid tang. I force it down.