CHAPTER 105: THE LADY OF FANGS

I swear, if the gods have any sense of humor left—and I know they do, because they’ve been laughing at me since the day I was born—then this was their punchline.

Because there she was, the Lady of Fangs herself, stepping onto the lacquered stage with all the subtlety of a comet crashing into a tea party. She moved like she owned the world and had already mortgaged the heavens as collateral.

And in her gloved hands, freshly delivered by some trembling attendant who clearly wanted to throw himself into the nearest canal and be done with it, was my pen.

It gleamed under the chandelier light, mocking me, taunting me, the little silver nib flashing like a knife. She held it up between two fingers as though she had plucked it from a pile of trinkets, tilting it back and forth with a languid amusement that made bile crawl up my throat. Then—because the gods really do enjoy making me suffer—she suddenly whipped her head around and locked eyes with me.

I froze. Absolutely froze. My blood, my heart, my soul—all of it decided to abandon ship at once, leaving behind only a very pale, very sweaty husk of Cecil who couldn’t decide whether to faint or vomit first.

Her smile widened. Wide enough to show the faintest glimpse of those infamous fangs. Wide enough to make me consider writing a will on the back of the velvet seat in front of me, signed in whatever bodily fluids I had left to offer.

And then, as if the entire situation wasn’t already circling the drain into absurdity, a boy stepped from the shadows at the edge of the stage. He moved with all the confidence of a cat burglar who had never actually stolen a thing in his life, clutching his little hands together, his face splitting into a grin so familiar I nearly gagged.

"Fitch," I whispered, horrified, as if saying his name aloud might banish him back to whatever crack in the universe he’d crawled out of.

The Lady of Fangs bent down, her fiery hair spilling like molten silk over her shoulders, and whispered something in Fitch’s ear. Whatever it was, it cracked him open like an egg, because he immediately started giggling. Loud, high-pitched, joyous giggling that rang through the theater like someone strangling a choirboy. My dizziness doubled; the Lady’s laughter joined his, louder, sharper, echoing through the rafters until I was half certain the building itself would collapse in shame.

Then she moved.

She didn’t walk so much as glide, every step a command, every swish of her gown a decree. And where did she glide? Straight up the center aisle. Straight toward me.

Beside me, Rodrick tensed so hard I swore I could hear the leather of his jerkin creak, his hand twitching as though reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. Dunny, of course, chose that exact moment to squeak, a shrill, ridiculous sound that echoed like a dying mouse.

Half the row snapped their heads toward him in unison, a chorus of glares sharp enough to slice paper, and I could feel the heat of their disdain rolling over us like a wave.

My stomach dropped, dread curling tight in my gut as I bit down on my tongue to keep from hissing at Dunny to shut it before he made things even worse.

The Lady came closer, closer, closer still, until she was level with our row. Her eyes lingered on me, her smirk curling like a whip. Fitch toddled at her side, holding a small mountain of her winnings like a smug valet.

And then she passed me. Just like that.

Not a word, not a touch. Just a wicked glare thrown in my direction, sharp enough to slice through the last thread of my composure, while Fitch giggled at me like I was the punchline to a joke only he and the Lady understood.

I almost stood, almost shouted, almost demanded—something, anything—but then a shadow loomed behind me.

It was the knight.

I nearly leapt out of my skin. My heart did an Olympic sprint through my ribcage, and I swear my soul detached from my body for a brief holiday.

"By all the gods," I hissed, clutching at my chest, "would you stop appearing like that? Put a bell on. Put pants on. Put... something on."

He only tilted his head, unbothered as ever, his massive frame blotting out the gaudy lights. "Did you get your pen?"

"No," I snapped. "But thank you for your concern. On that note—did you find a healer?"

The knight’s silence was more eloquent than any speech. He shook his head once, slow, deliberate, the motion of a guillotine blade descending.

My teeth clenched. My lip bled beneath the bite. Salem’s shallow breaths echoed in my skull, each one a reminder of how little time we had left. And here I was, being toyed with by predators in ball gowns and children with giggles like weaponized nails on glass.

"Fine," I muttered. "We move. Now."

Together we slipped from the row, threading through the flood of nobility descending toward the stage. The air was thick with perfume and greed, laughter curling around us like smoke.

When we were back in the main hall, we stopped. Because there she was.

The Lady of Fangs, waiting in the center of the grand hall as if she had planned this very moment, her gown flaring around her like a pool of blood. Fitch stood at her side, still clutching her prizes, his grin wide enough to crack his cheeks.

Her golden eyes fixed on me. Her smirk deepened. She had been waiting for me.

I steadied my resolve—what little there was of it—and strolled forward with all the false bravado of a man about to juggle knives blindfolded. The knight’s heavy footfalls matched mine, a silent sentinel at my side.

"Lady of Fangs," I said with a bow so theatrical it nearly snapped my spine. "How fortunate, how miraculous, how utterly coincidental that we meet here in this cesspit of commerce."

She laughed. Loud, rolling, pompous laughter that filled the hall and made me want to jam silver spoons into my ears. "You’re bold, unregistered mage. Bold, foolish, and absurd. My three favorite qualities in a man."

"I aim to please," I said with my best smirk, the one that usually made innkeepers reconsider throwing me into the street. "Though I confess, I’m more accustomed to receiving applause than being outbid."

Her eyes gleamed. "Is that what you call that little performance? A bidding war? I call it desperation. And oh, how delightful it was to watch you squirm."

I spread my arms, feigning casual ease while my insides tied themselves into knots. "Desperation is simply another word for ambition, my lady. And ambition, as I’m sure you know, is the only currency worth more than gold."

She tilted her head, lips curling wider, fangs glinting. "You wear your mask well, boy. But I see through it. I see the cracks. I see the little man beneath, clawing for scraps, terrified of being noticed and yet unable to bear being ignored."

My smirk faltered. Damn her. Damn her to every hell and back.

Fitch giggled. "She knows you, Cecil. She knows you."

I resisted the urge to punt him into the nearest chandelier.

"Tell me," I forced out, "why take interest in me at all? Surely you have better toys to play with than a half-drowned rat and his friends."

Her laughter swelled again, echoing against marble and gold. "Oh, Cecil. You entered this tournament without a sponsor, without registration, without a shred of sense. You paraded your tricks before the vultures, and you lived. How could I not take interest? You are absurdity incarnate. A blight upon the order of things. I adore it."

"And yet," I said carefully, "there’s more, isn’t there? Another reason."

Her smile thinned. "Yes."

I waited. The silence stretched. She didn’t answer.

I scowled. "You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?"

"Immensely." She twirled my pen between her fingers, the silver tip flashing like lightning. "As for this little trinket of yours... oh, I could use it as leverage. Leverage is always useful."

My blood chilled. Leverage. Against me? Against others? Against what?

"And what," I asked, forcing each word, "would you want in return?"

Her golden eyes flared. She pointed with the pen—my pen—toward Salem, still slumped in the knight’s arms. "In exchange for your cooperation," she purred, "I will return this pen to you. And I will heal your friend."

The words hung heavy, smothering. My throat worked, but no sound came out. Slowly, I turned to the knight. His gaze was unreadable, but he gave one firm nod.

My choice was no choice at all. I swallowed hard, squared my shoulders, and bowed once more. "Very well, my lady. You have yourself a deal."

My words wrapped around me like chains. In that moment, I knew: I had just stepped into a web woven long before I ever crawled into this cursed city.