Chapter 133 (Part 2): Feast of Masks
The Unmasked Court
Whispers rippled through the room like poisoned honey as Bennett entered. The nobles' gazes clung to his mage robes—garments that marked him both outsider and enigma. Memories of the idiot prince legend surfaced in their eyes, but skepticism withered under the weight of his poise. A fool could not command the arcane threads weaving through his aura, nor wear the Rowling sigil like a blade half-drawn.
"Save your courtesies," Prince Chen-Augustine murmured, steering Bennett past a cluster of earls whose powdered wigs tilted in unison. "Here, even dukes kneel only to their vices."
The banquet hall was a fever dream of decadence. Velvet drapes swallowed the walls, embroidered with gold thread so thick it resembled molten chains. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto nobles who'd shed their titles along with their breeches. A marquess lay sprawled on a divan, his mouth latched to a servant girl's throat while another giggled, trailing wine down his bared chest.
Chen's transformation was jarring. The prince who'd once debated statecraft with monastic focus now laughed like a tavern drunk, fingers digging into the waist of a desert-born dancer whose obsidian skin gleamed under oiled lamplight. "Bennett!" he slurred, waving a goblet sloshing with amethyst liquid. "Must you stand there like a gargoyle? Find a warm shadow to haunt!"
Bennett's nostrils flared. The air reeked of jasmine musk and sweat-slicked desperation. A woman in crimson silk—her gown slit to the navel—pressed against him, breath hot as forge coals. "A mage," she purred, tracing the silver embroidery on his collar. "Do your spells burn as bright as your eyes?" Her hand slid lower, nails scraping his hip.
He stepped back, smile polite as a tombstone. "Your fire outshines my humble craft, my lady."
Her laughter followed him like a curse.
Serpent's Banquet
The hall's centerpiece was a sunken pool where noblewomen floated like water lilies, gossamer gowns dissolving into translucence. One arched her back, droplets cascading from nipples pierced with ruby studs. "Come drown with us, little mage!" she trilled, kicking a leg over the pool's edge—a deliberate show of thigh branded with a serpentine rune.
Bennett averted his eyes, only to lock gazes with a masked figure reclining on a chaise. Her body was a sculptor's fantasy: wheat-gold skin taut over curves that mocked gravity, legs parted just enough to reveal the glint of a golden anklet. Yet her face remained shrouded, the lace veil a dare. Look but never know, it whispered. Crave what you cannot claim.
"Ah, the Veiled Siren," Chen materialized at his elbow, voice thick with mock reverence. "They say she's a countess by dawn and a courtesan by dusk. A dozen men have dueled to death for the right to unmask her." The prince's grin turned feral. "Care to make it thirteen?"
Before Bennett could reply, a roar shook the chandeliers.
"ENOUGH!"
The crowd parted like startled hens. On a raised dais sat a mountain of flesh swathed in emerald brocade—Count Bylar's "guest of honor." His jowls quivered as he shoved a weeping girl off his lap. "BORED!" he bellowed, chest hair matted with wine dregs. "Where's the spice you promised, Bylar? Or must I melt your silverware into a throne to amuse myself?"
Chen's lips brushed Bennett's ear. "Behold Deranshan's Behemoth—a piglet who gorged himself into a titan. His mines arm half the imperial legions. His gold could choke dragons."
Servants scurried forward, rolling a platform veiled in white silk. Magic hummed beneath the cloth—a glow Bennett recognized as sanctified light, the kind used in temple rites. The silk fell.
Four figures stood motionless, draped in pristine mage robes. Their faces hid beneath peaked hoods, hands clasping staves carved with false runes. A sacred hymn swelled—the same choir chant that echoed through Roland's grand cathedrals.
Then the hoods dropped.
Gaspes tore through the hall. Four identical faces gazed out—youthful, angelic, their blue eyes wide with feigned piety. Slowly, in perfect sync, their hands rose to the throats of their robes. Buttons popped. Fabric slithered to the floor.
Bennett's gut clenched.
Beneath the robes, their bodies gleamed like alabaster—every curve bared save for strategic strips of gauze. The "mages" arched backward, fingers trailing up their own thighs as the hymn crescendoed into obscenity. Their lips parted in mock prayer, tongues flicking over ruby-stained teeth.
The Behemoth's laughter shook the wine goblets. "NOW THAT'S HOLY MAGIC!"
Beneath the Veil
Chen's hand clamped Bennett's shoulder, nails biting through cloth. "Observe," he hissed, no trace of drunkenness left. "These girls were novices at the White Spire Convent—kidnapped last winter. Note the brands under their left breasts."
Bennett's magic sight flared. Indeed, faint scars marred their skin—the sigil of a slaver guild banned three emperors ago. One girl met his gaze, her saintly smile never wavering. A single tear cut through her powdered cheek.
"This," Chen spat, "is the empire's beating heart. Rot swaddled in silk. But remember…" He turned, eyes glinting like daggers in shadow. "…we are the surgeons now."
The Behemoth lurched to his feet, hurling a purse of gold at the platform. "STRIP THE GAUZE!"
As the crowd's roar reached a fever pitch, Bennett's fingers curled—not in desire, but in the beginnings of a spell. The chandeliers flickered.
Somewhere beneath the laughter, iceberries fermented in wine goblets hissed their approval.
Chapter 133 (Part 3): Veils Torn, Chains Unseen
The Behemoth's Prize
Deranshan's "Behemoth"—a moniker earned through both girth and greed—leered at the four faux mages on the platform. His laughter shook the chandeliers. "Brilliant, Bylar! A whore who chants spells while riding you? Ha! Gold well spent!"
Bennett's jaw tightened. Costume roleplay—a concept as old as brothels themselves. But here, the fantasy wore mage robes instead of nurse uniforms. A perverse mockery of his craft.
Count Bylar preened like a peacock. "These treasures took two years to train! Each can cast minor stamina charms. Imagine their whispers as you—"
"Enough!" The Behemoth tossed a fire diamond to a servant. "Charge my vault tomorrow. Now, bring them closer!"
Bidding erupted. Nobles shouted figures that could feed villages for decades. When the Behemoth slammed a meaty fist, declaring, "One million gold!" the hall fell silent.
Prince Chen-Augustine stepped forward, Bennett in tow. "Dear Behemoth," he purred, "spare one for my friend here. A true mage deserves such… scholarly companionship."
Deranshan's piggish eyes narrowed, then crinkled in mock generosity. "Two! No—all four for the Rowling boy! Let wizards bed witches—poetic!"
Marquis Solomon, hunched over an ivory cane, cackled. "Add mine too! At my age, vigor lies in watching youth stumble."
Bennett's smile felt carved from ice. Political theater. They're painting me as Chen's puppet. As servants led the trembling women away, he disabled the platform's crude enchantment with a tap—a silent rebuke to this farce.
Gilded Cages
The "private suite" reeked of jasmine and dread. Four girls knelt by a bed wide enough for a battalion, their mage robes sheer as cobwebs. The eldest met Bennett's gaze—a spark of defiance beneath painted submission.
"Leave," he said softly. When they hesitated, he snapped a fire sigil into existence. "Now."
Alone, Bennett traced the room's hidden symbols. Warding runes. Spy holes. A bronze mirror positioned to reflect the bed. Chen's test. Always tests.
He found the prince on a moonlit terrace, swirling wine like blood. "Disappointed?" Chen asked without turning. "I expected at least one to tempt you."
"Temptation requires subtlety." Bennett leaned on the balustrade. "Bylar's theatrics wouldn't fool a tavern drunk."
Chen's chuckle held winter's edge. "Yet they fooled Deranshan. Solomon. Half the council." His goblet tipped, wine staining marble like a fresh wound. "Men see what they crave—power in a mage's staff, purity in a whore's tears. Show me your hand, Bennett Rowling. What do you crave?"
Before Bennett could reply, a servant materialized with fresh drinks.
The man's left hand lacked a thumb.
Severed Threads
Bennett's magic flared before his mind caught up. The servant froze—a rabbit pinned by a wolf's gaze.
"Thumb," Bennett hissed. "Missing. How?"
Chen frowned. "War injury. Why?"
"No." Bennett circled the man, aura crackling. "Imperial veterans lose fingers to blades, not clean amputations. This was chewed off. By teeth. Human teeth."
The servant's pulse rabbited. Chen's goblet shattered.
"Guards!"
Too late.
The "servant" lunged, a blackened dagger materializing—obsidian carved with soul-drinker runes. Bennett's shield spell deflected the blade into stone, sparks screaming. Chen drew a rapier thinner than a sigh, its tip kissing the assassin's throat.
"Who owns you?" the prince whispered.
The man spat blood-tinged foam. "The true emperor."
Then he convulsed. Skin blackened. Eyes melted.
Bennett caught the collapsing corpse, magic probing the ruin. "Self-ignited corruption spell. Professional."
Chen wiped his blade on dead man's livery. "Not an assassination. A message." He turned, face half-shadowed by moonlight. "My brother's work. He always did favor… flourishes."
Somewhere below, the party's laughter crescendoed—oblivious to death's stench.
Beneath the Masquerade
Chen led Bennett to a hidden study, its walls lined with ledgers. "Deranshan's 'gift' wasn't for pleasure. Those girls are couriers." He tossed a parchment—shipping manifests. "The Behemoth moves illegal fire crystals through Bylar's brothels. My brother funds it."
Bennett scanned the numbers. "Enough to arm a rebellion."
"Or frame one." Chen lit a pipe with trembling fingers. "Hence tonight's farce. I needed witnesses to your 'corruption.' Now, half the court believes you're a decadent fool. Perfect cover."
"For what?"
"To infiltrate Deranshan's mines. Find proof linking my brother to the coup plot."
Bennett's laugh held no mirth. "And if I refuse?"
Chen opened a lacquered box. Inside lay a child's necklace—the Rowling crest twisted into a serpent. "Your cousin's. Found in a slaver's den near the Southern Marshes."
The air crackled. Bennett's magic warped the ironwood desk.
"Save your fury," Chen murmured. "The trail leads to Deranshan's pleasure barges. Coincidence?"
Outside, dawn bled across the horizon. Somewhere, a woman screamed—whether in ecstasy or agony, none could tell.
Chapter 134 (Part 1): Shadows of the Severed Hand
Echoes of Blood
The servant's missing thumb—gnarled, chewed to the knuckle—flashed in Bennett's mind like a struck flint. The inn at Giantwood. The ambush. The assassin with the same mangled hand.
Beneath his sleeve, a stone-curse scroll warmed against his palm. The servant's posture shifted—subtle as a wolf tensing before a pounce.
"My friend," Prince Chen-Augustine's voice sliced the tension like silk, his body sliding between them with practiced grace, "the night air disagrees with you?"
Bennett forced a smile. "A headache. Nothing more." His gaze lingered on the servant's mutilation. "Curious… such wounds are rare outside battlefields."
The servant bowed, rigid as a drawn bowstring, and retreated.
"Not here," Chen murmured, steering Bennett toward a moonlit terrace. "This garden devours secrets."
Stone Sentinels
The terrace sprawled beneath a sickle moon, its balustrades carved with warriors frozen mid-strike. Bennett traced the cold ivory blade of a statue's sword, its gemstone eyes glinting like trapped stars. "Military patronage," he said flatly. "This den reeks of it."
Chen leaned against the railing, wine swirling crimson in his goblet. "Roses thrive here. Their thorns? Less poetic." He tilted his head, moonlight catching the melancholy in his smile. "Tell me, Bennett—have you ever loved?"
A memory flickered: Vivienne's flushed cheeks at Port Walker, her stammered farewell, lips brushing his cheek like a moth's wing.
"Perhaps," Bennett said.
The prince drained his cup. "I envy you. Love is a luxury crowns crush beneath duty." He gestured to the shadowed gardens below. "This place? A symptom. The army's coffers bleed dry funding my father's… passions."
The Rot Beneath Gold
"Twenty years ago," Chen said, voice hardening, "the Sand Purge. Ten thousand tribesmen slaughtered. Rivers ran red where there was no water." He gripped the railing, knuckles whitening. "A conqueror's heart in peacetime breeds rot. The tribes now burn with vengeance, while our generals line pockets here—selling flesh to fund more folly."
Bennett studied the statue's empty gaze. "And the emperor tolerates this?"
"Tolerates?" Chen laughed bitterly. "He rages! Smashes vases, roars at council meetings. But gold silences even kings. The military's brothels bankroll campaigns against phantom rebellions. A farce where everyone plays their part—my father the wrathful lion, the generals his tamed jackals."
He turned, eyes sharp as daggers. "That servant… his wound. You've seen its like before."
Bennett's thumb brushed the scroll. "Giantwood. An assassin with a chewed hand. Tribal work."
Chen stilled. "The Sand Tribes don't forgive. Or forget." A night breeze carried laughter from the gardens—rich, drunken, oblivious. "They've infiltrated the capital. And someone high enough to hide them here, in this military nest…"
Webs Within Webs
Footsteps echoed—deliberate, armored. A general emerged, medals clinking, face a mask of false camaraderie. "Your Highness! Your friend abandons the revels?"
Chen's smile returned, smooth as poisoned honey. "General Orlov! We were admiring your garden's… thoroughness."
The man's gaze flicked to Bennett. "Ah, the Rowling heir. Your father's letters praise your… unconventional talents."
Bennett bowed shallowly. "He neglects to mention my distaste for theatrics."
Orlov's chuckle died as Chen stepped closer. "Tell me, General—how fares your campaign against the Sand Tribes' 'infiltration'? Any progress since last month's… unfortunate incident with the grain shipments?"
The general paled. "Rumors,殿下. Bandits, not tribesmen—"
"Bandits who leave no tracks but sand?" Chen plucked a rose, thorns drawing blood. "How curious."
As Orlov stammered excuses, Bennett's magic prickled. The statue's gemstone eyes glowed faintly—recording spells, woven into the stone. Every word. Every silence.
Chen crushed the rose, petals falling like dried blood. "We'll retire, General. Do give my regards to your… allies."
Dawn's Knife-Edge
Back in the hall's gilded squalor, Bennett watched nobles guzzle wine from goblets shaped like screaming faces. Chen's whisper cut through the din: "Orlov's daughter weds the Northern Duke next month. A union to 'strengthen border defenses.' Convenient, as the Sand Tribes mass near those very borders."
Bennett's mind raced—tribal assassins, military corruption, a missing thumb linking past and present. "You want me to disrupt the wedding."
"Disrupt?" Chen's smile held winter's bite. "I want you to make it a pyre. Let the flames show who truly pulls the strings."
As dawn bled through stained glass, painting the revelers in corpse-light, Bennett finally understood: this was no mere brothel.
It was an altar.
And every debauched noble here—himself included—was both priest and sacrifice.