The map rolled out across her bed in a broad breath of dust, crackling like an ancient scroll that had been waiting centuries to judge me.
I stepped up beside it with cautious reverence, trying not to look too eager even though my eyes were already darting across the lines and markings like a starving raccoon discovering a buffet menu.
Beside me, Dunny shuffled around with the teapot, and the moment he set it down, he offered Iskanda a bow so deep I worried he might snap in half.
She waved him off with the casual authority of someone dismissing an obedient plant, and he hurried out to prepare her evening bath—leaving me alone with the map, the shadows, and a woman who could snap my spine like a breadstick if I mispronounced a street name.
The second the door slammed shut, Iskanda jabbed her finger at the map's center.
"The Spire," she said. Her tone had that reverent menace teachers use when pointing out something structurally important, like the cornerstone of an ancient temple or the last donut in the break room that everyone wants but nobody wants to look greedy enough to take. "This is where we are. The heart of the city. The inner ring."
I leaned closer, squinting as though the map might suddenly sprout pop-up illustrations to assist my chronically failing attention span.
"So this is the nice part of town," I said, pointing at the tiny golden icon shaped vaguely like a very smug needle. "The fancy district. The place where even the rats pay rent."
Iskanda snorted. "Close enough. Only the highest-ranked brothels and the noble elite operate here. Everyone else is filtered downward." She gestured in a widening circle, then tapped the next ring outward with her nail. "This is the midpoint. Balanced territory, stable enough."
"And the outer ring?" I asked.
Sure enough, she pointed at the far rim of the parchment, a mottled area marked in faded ink like bruises on old skin.
"The slums," she said. "It's where desperate hopefuls begin, where failed brothels fall, and where trouble spreads fastest. If the midpoint is a simmer, the outer ring is a pot that constantly threatens to boil over."
I nodded slowly, though part of me couldn't help imagining my unlucky self stationed in one of those crumbling houses, patching leaks with optimism and eating soup flavored with sadness.
"So that's where I'll start?" I asked, moving a finger around the map like I could will my future toward the nicer districts. "In the outer ring or the midpoint?"
"If you're unlucky, yes," she replied with such casual bluntness that I felt personally slapped by fate. "Newcomers are placed depending on demand. Talent. Recommendations. Circumstance. Expect nothing, prepare for anything, and you might avoid being crushed."
"Wow," I muttered. "I love motivational speeches that double as threats."
Her lips twitched. "Consider it a public service."
She paced along the bedside while I followed the map's boundaries with the same dread one feels when reading an instruction manual that clearly knows you'll break something. Then she placed a hand firmly on the parchment and leaned in.
"Now listen carefully. The war between the brothels in this city isn't fought with weapons—at least, not publicly." Her eyes flicked upward, glinting. "It's fought with rumors whispered into the wrong ears at the right time. With sabotaged performances. With stolen clients, poached talent, bribes passed in perfume-scented envelopes. Sometimes," she added with an airy shrug, "even a misplaced compliment can shift the balance of power."
I blinked. "That sounds… ridiculously petty. Like, impressively petty. Olympic-level pettiness."
"You have no idea," she replied dryly. "This city was built on three pillars: vice, beauty, and rivalry. And it thrives because all three sharpen each other."
I folded my arms, trying to pretend the concept didn't terrify me on a spiritual level. "So you're saying I'm going to be… what… a pawn?"
"You," she said with a slow, pointed smile, "are going to be hunted."
"Oh good," I squeaked. "Fantastic. Just what my anxiety ordered."
She tapped my forehead with a single finger. "And once you step into this war—because yes, you will—the enemies you make will not be passive ones. They will be subtle, strategic, and absolutely relentless."
I opened my mouth to insist I had no desire to step into any type of war unless it involved pillows or dessert, but her next words hit like a hammer wrapped in velvet.
"The best thing you can do," she said, "is make peace with your patron once chosen. Your success is tied to your respective brothel. Your reputation is theirs. If they rise, you rise. If they fall…"
"They fall on me?" I guessed weakly.
"Quite dramatically," she said with a bright, unhelpful smile.
I sat back on my heels, absorbing that with all the grace of a wilted carrot. The map seemed to ripple subtly beneath my fingertips, as if mocking my visible panic. I inhaled through my nose, squared my shoulders, and nodded.
"Alright. So… don't antagonize whichever terrifying noble ends up being my boss. Good to know."
"Correct." She paused. "And don't make enemies lightly."
"I don't make anything lightly. I'm a chronic overachiever."
Her laugh was a low rumble, warm and amused. It was the kind of laugh that made me feel simultaneously appreciated and slightly bullied in a loving sort of way.
I hesitated a beat, then cleared my throat. "Is there… uh… anybody in particular I should look out for? You know. Besides everyone."
Iskanda's expression shifted into something thoughtful, sharper, the amusement draining into a cooler seriousness. She nodded slowly. "Yes. Watch for those who seek conflict openly. The ones who turn sabotage physical. The ones who think blades and brute force will win them power."
I swallowed, my mind unhelpfully supplying an image of a dozen muscular troublemakers lurking behind alley corners like a chorus of aggressively violent raccoons.
She continued, "If such people grow too bold, too reckless, they risk igniting a real war. That's when the Velvets deal with them."
A shiver ran through me. Not a delicate, nervous tremor. No—this was a full-body, spine-stiffening, hair-raising quake, because that's when my memory yanked me back to that moment on the balcony.
The moment when Iskanda had drawn that colossal bow and fired that arrow into the city with the casual confidence of someone flicking away a fly.
Iskanda must've seen something twitch behind my eyes because she added, tone steady and matter-of-fact, "Cutting off the root of the problem is often enough to remind the others to behave. It acts as… a message."
I nodded in the same careful manner a man nods when a predator begins to explain its dietary habits. "Right. Message received. Loud and clear. Extremely clear. Deafeningly clear."
"Good," she said simply.
With my courage shakily rebooting, I jabbed a finger toward the northern side of the map where a glowing gold blotch shimmered like spilled sunlight. "What's that? Looks fancy."
"That," Iskanda said with a scoff, "is Oberen's den. A greedy little parasite who runs a gambling empire near the slums. He traps nobles with rigged games and debt they can never repay. Stay far, far away."
I recoiled instantly. "Okay, so… add him to my 'nope' list. Right under 'anything involving spiders.'"
"Smart," she said.
My eyes drifted further along the map until they landed on a massive glass dome sketched in delicate green ink, wreathed in small illustrative vines. It looked out of place among the harsher edges of the city layout, like a serene greenhouse dropped inside a battleground.
"What about this? It's… pretty. Suspiciously pretty."
Iskanda stiffened, just slightly. Then she shook her head. "Avoid it. That place is invitation-only, and those who go without permission don't return with their reputations intact. Or sometimes at all."
My entire soul recoiled. "Great. I'll just pretend the massive dome doesn't exist. If anyone asks, I'll claim I'm allergic to plants. Or glass."
"Both would be wise," she said.
I scanned further, curious, until I found an area painted in warm shades of orange and red, shaped like a cluster of pools with swirling steam curling from their illustrated surfaces. "And these? Looks cozy."
"The central hot springs," she said, perking up with fondness. "Neutral territory. Almost always safe. If you get the chance, visit. You'll meet interesting people, overhear useful conversations, and maybe make allies."
I nodded enthusiastically. "Finally, something in this city that sounds pleasant and not like it's waiting to mug me."
"Yes," she said, "but don't get too comfortable. Even pleasant places can have teeth."
I swallowed. "Of course they can."
For the next several minutes I peppered her with questions, pointing out half a dozen oddities—tiny circles, runes, mysterious shadowed alleys that looked like artistic mistakes but were definitely intentional.
She answered almost all of them with smooth, practiced ease, but each time my curiosity threatened to spark another interrogation she would gently but firmly redirect me with the subtlety of a seasoned assassin.
Finally, after my finger landed on yet another intriguing blotch shaped like a crooked cat paw, she rolled the entire map up in one swift motion that nearly caught my thumbs in the parchment.
"That," she said, "is enough for today."
I blinked up at her. "But I had, like, twelve more questions."
"And you will ask all twelve," she said. "Over the next few days. One at a time. Along with learning the secret passageways, the lesser-known districts, and my hidden connections. But for now—"
She paused.
Then her hands landed firmly on my shoulders, thumbs pressing just hard enough to ground me.
I froze, breath snagging somewhere between my lungs and my throat, because Iskanda's fingers had a way of turning perfectly innocent shoulder-touching into a full-body hostage situation.
Then she leaned in—slow, deliberate, predatory—and buried her nose in the damp hair at my temple, drawing a long, shameless inhale that made my knees wobble in protest.
A low, filthy little hum vibrated against my scalp, and before I could combust from that alone, she ducked lower, nudging her face right into the hollow of my armpit like it was the world's most decadent bouquet.
She breathed me in again—deep, greedy, the kind of inhale that should come with a warning label and a cigarette—and the sound she made was pure, unfiltered satisfaction, a growl wrapped in velvet that shot straight between my legs.
"Gods, you reek of victory," she purred. "We're taking a bath," she declared, lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice husky enough to strip paint.
I jolted upright so fast my spine cracked like a whip. "Together?" I squeaked.
Iskanda merely smirked before turning on her heel, hips rolling in a rhythm that should've been illegal in public.
She didn't look back; she didn't need to. The sway of her body and the lingering heat of her breath were already dragging me after her, chasing the promise that whatever waited in that steaming water would wreck me so thoroughly I'd thank her for the gesture.