Let it be known, marching back through a hedonistic cityscape while your ex-girlfriend struts beside you fully nude is not a subtle entrance.
Willow didn't walk. She glided. She sashayed. She passed through crowds like a scandal wearing perfume and heels made of sin. The moonlight kissed every inch of her glistening, wine-dark skin like it knew it was on borrowed time. Men gasped. Women fanned themselves. Somewhere, I swear, a nobleman clutched his pearls and promptly exploded with joy.
"She's going to cause a riot," Leo murmured beside me, his eyes stubbornly fixed on the cobblestones like they might reveal the secrets of the universe if only he stared hard enough.
"She's already caused three," I replied dryly. "And two divorces."
Ahead of us, Willow twirled, giggling like a delighted demoness at a candy shop. Her tail flicked, her hips swayed, and a crowd of silk-robed nobles—half drunk on wine, the other half on desperation—stood slack-jawed, visibly trembling.
"Oh darling~" she cooed, approaching a duke with more jewelry than dignity. "Did your heart just skip a beat, or is that something else entirely?"
It was something else entirely.
The poor man whimpered as his knees buckled and a very suspicious stain bloomed across the front of his pants. He slumped against a wall with a soft, blissful moan.
"Gods," I muttered. "She's not even trying."
"Should we be worried?" Leo asked, still flushed.
"No," I said, my tone turning honey-slick as I stepped behind another stunned onlooker. "We should be opportunistic."
I slipped my dagger out—just a flicker of metal—and in one smooth motion, I sliced through a coin pouch and caught it as it fell. The noble didn't even blink. His eyes were still locked on Willow like a man watching his salvation dance naked across a battlefield.
One pouch. Two. Five.
Each victim crumbled under Willow's wake like men struck by divine revelation—and I, humble cleric that I am, collected my offerings.
Praise be to lust. And long eyelashes.
"How much longer do we have before someone catches on?" Leo asked.
I smiled, weight of coins warming my pocket. "Roughly five minutes."
We made it three.
A whistle pierced the air like an outraged falcon.
Then another.
Suddenly, the cobblestones were swarming with armored boots and angry mustaches.
"Hey! You there! Cease your seductive crimes!"
I turned to Willow. "Time to run, sweetheart."
She grinned. "Finally!"
We bolted.
Through alleys, over crates, around startled street performers. The guards shouted behind us, puffing like pigs in helmets. Leo sprinted like a born survivor, dodging with ease. Willow—nude, glowing, cackling—leapt from rooftop to rooftop like a fever dream on fire.
And I? Well, I've never been caught in my life.
We tore through the underbelly of Ventri and ducked into the slums—wet, steamy, always vaguely smelling of roasted eel and bad decisions.
Our feet slapped across cracked stones until, blessedly, we reached the Baron's theater. I slammed the door open, lungs burning.
"Home," I gasped. It was around three in the morning about now.
Inside, the velvet gloom greeted us like an old lover with terrible habits. Lanterns flickered low. Costumes dangled from rigging. The scent of greasepaint and sin filled the air.
"Cecil!" boomed a voice from the rafters.
The Baron descended like a champagne-drenched thundercloud, arms wide, belly bouncing. His eyes sparkled as he took us in—me, panting; Leo, flushed; Willow, very, very naked.
"And what delights have you brought me tonight?" he roared with laughter. "You spoil me!"
Miko stumbled out from behind a curtain, wineglass in hand, hair tousled. He blinked once.
"Did someone cast a sex spell, or is that just you, Cecil?" he slurred, grinning lazily.
I winked. "Just me."
From upstairs came a cry—quick footsteps.
Leo's head snapped up.
She was there in an instant.
The woman from the carousel auction. No longer trembling and half-dressed, but standing tall, robed in modest white, hair now washed and cascading like silver waterfalls. Her ocean-blue eyes widened the moment she saw Leo.
"Leo!" she cried.
He ran.
They met halfway on the stairs and clutched each other like lost halves of a prayer. His hands cupped her cheeks, hers tangled in his hair.
I looked away.
Because then she dropped to her knees.
Before I could quip, she bowed her head deeply, pressing her forehead to the floor at my feet. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, High One."
Well. That escalated quickly.
"I accept gifts in cash or compliments," I said, stepping back. "But kneeling will get you special treatment."
She laughed gently and stood, wiping tears from her cheeks.
I beckoned her toward the balcony. "Come," I said. "Let's talk in moonlight."
She followed.
Behind us, Willow had already found the Baron's lap. And his zipper. The sound of slurping began almost instantly—wet, enthusiastic, and utterly unbothered by propriety. Miko cheered softly from the orchestra pit.
Ignore them, I told myself.
The balcony was quieter. The air cool. The moon above glimmered like a gossiping eye.
She stood beside me, arms crossed gently. She smelled of lavender and seafoam. Her hair shimmered like crystal spun into silk.
"You're more radiant in peace," I murmured.
She blushed.
"What's your name?" I asked, tilting my head. "And how do you know Leo?"
She hesitated. Then, softly: "My name is Syrene. I am—or was—the High Priest of the Eastern Cathedral of Greywatch."
My jaw dropped so hard I nearly dislocated something.
"You—what?"
Her gaze remained on the city beyond. "I served Osirene, goddess of water, memory, and prophecy. I was kidnapped a few weeks ago by someone I once trusted. I…opposed certain decisions made by my temple. I proposed cooperation with your Velvet Cathedral."
I stared.
"You're joking."
"I wish," she said bitterly. "After I vanished, my temple began covering up my disappearance. Declared me 'on pilgrimage.' But I knew the truth. And now…so do you."
She looked down at the courtyard where Leo sat quietly. "He was one of our orphans. A good child. Strong. Always tried to protect the smaller ones."
"Then how did he become such a little whirlwind of violence?" I asked.
She exhaled. "There was a secret training initiative. I didn't authorize it. Combat priesthoods. They trained the children to fight—without telling me. If they failed to meet expectations, they were…discarded."
I closed my eyes.
Of course they were.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out Mavus Grey's contract—rolled tight and sealed with dark ink.
"This is over," I whispered. "The slave trade between Ventri and Greywatch dies. By my hand."
She turned to me, eyes wide.
"And your Cathedral," I said, "will be rebuilt. In time. When I've finished here, you'll have my support—on one condition."
She nodded solemnly. "Anything."
"Loyalty," I said simply.
She met my gaze. "You'll have it."
We lingered in silence, two holy sinners beneath the stars.
Inside, muffled moans grew louder.
"Well," I sighed, "that's my cue."
We returned downstairs. The Baron waved from a couch, his face flushed, his pants missing. Willow sat atop him like a conquering empress, cheeks glowing, still naked, still smug as ever.
"You look radiant," I said.
She licked her lips. "I'm glowing with job satisfaction."
Leo, now dressed in a simple but well-fitted tunic and soft leather trousers, approached with Miko in tow. Leo's silver-blonde hair, damp from a quick wash, fell gently over his forehead, and a gleam of quiet determination settled behind his eyes. The young beastman looked clean, sharp, and ready—like a blade freshly honed.
Miko, on the other hand, was still in last night's ensemble—a glittering crimson shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, collar popped like he'd lost a bet with fashion. He held a pastry in one hand and a bottle of something dubious in the other, swaying slightly with each step. His eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Don't look now," he slurred, "but I think we've officially become the hottest party in the city."
The four of us lined up before the grand curtain of the Baron's lobby, lit in molten gold from the antique chandelier overhead. Each of us held a different kind of readiness.
Fresh clothes.
Fresh weapons.
Fresh resolve.
Well—three of us were clothed.
Willow stood proudly beside me, her arms folded under her bare breasts, tail flicking like punctuation behind her.
"Willow," I muttered under my breath, "for the last time, please put something on."
She cocked her head, lips curling in a grin as decadent as a poisoned dessert. "Never," she chirped.
I gave up.
We stepped outside.
The moonlight bathed us. Somewhere behind us, the Baron laughed like a god drunk on honey. The city trembled beneath our feet.
And ahead, far in the distance, tall and ominous, stood the Tower of Sin—seven levels, each one rumored to challenge a deadly vice, each one draped in legend and debauchery.
I licked my lips.
Leo adjusted his collar.
Miko cracked his knuckles.
Willow stretched luxuriously and yawned.
We walked into the night, a parade of saints, monsters, and scandal waiting to happen.