The night before Walpurgis bled quietly into the Lust faction's camp.
Moonlight dripped through torn silk canopies and broken lanterns, painting everything in shades of pale desire and decay. Perfume and blood mingled in the air — sweet, cloying, wrong.
Bjorn stirred.
His body screamed in protest. Every muscle felt torn. His wrists were swollen and raw, skin rubbed bloody where the ropes had bitten too deep. He'd fought before — tried to break free when they first dragged him here — but exhaustion had conquered rebellion.
Now he hung against the log, bound by thick cords slick with sweat and rain. His breath came in short, cracked bursts. His vision swam. The world around him was sound before shape — laughter, whispers, the faint rhythm of drums somewhere in the dark.
He blinked.
And then he saw them.
Figures — dozens of them — forming a half-circle around him. The Lust faction. Bare skin gleamed in the moonlight, bodies adorned with gold chains, red silks, and eyes that glowed with something between fascination and contempt.
Some smirked, their gazes lingering on him like he was an exotic animal put on display.
Some looked bored — waiting for entertainment to begin.
Others… uncertain. Watching. Studying.
Bjorn's throat was dry, his jaw aching. He tried to move, but his injured wrist sent a bolt of pain through him that stole his breath.
> "Tch…" he hissed through clenched teeth, lowering his head again.
Then — the murmurs stopped.
The sound rippled through the crowd like a signal. A strange hush fell, and the members began to part — their movements almost ritualistic, deliberate, reverent.
The torches flickered. Perfumed smoke curled into the air.
A path opened.
Wide enough for one.
From the heart of the camp, a figure emerged — her steps slow, graceful, and deliberate, like a serpent sliding through tall grass.
The Lust leader.
Her presence was a temperature change. The air itself seemed to bend around her as she approached — her silhouette draped in flowing crimson veils, jewelry glinting like drops of fresh blood. Her bare feet touched the dirt as if the ground itself worshipped her.
Bjorn's breath caught.
Even battered and half-delirious, he could feel it — that commanding gravity that made every gaze bow toward her without words.
She stopped a few feet before him.
Her smile was faint. Dangerous. Beautiful.
> "Well, well…" she said, voice smooth as sin itself.
"The wolf wakes again."
Her eyes traced the ropes cutting into his skin, the bruises staining his chest, the blood crusted at his mouth — not with pity, but with curiosity.
She leaned in closer, the scent of roses and smoke enveloping him.
> "You're mine — not to possess, but to unravel… slowly, endlessly, How poetic."
Bjorn lifted his head slowly, his cracked lips curling faintly despite the pain.
>If you're going to kill me…" he rasps, dry blood on his lip "…do it before you bore me — or you'll regret this."
[A beat of silence. The Lust leader's smile falters — not from fear, but from intrigue. Bjorn's defiance isn't just resistance; it's a challenge — and Lust always plays with fire.]
A ripple of laughter spread through the gathered Lust members — some amused, some offended.
> "Oh, I'm not here to kill you, wolf."
Her tone softened — almost tender.
> "I'm here to see if pain… can be turned into pleasure."
_______
The Pride encampment stood like a citadel carved from arrogance itself.
Tall banners hung unmoving in the wind, their gold stitching catching what little light dared to enter. Torches burned with steady precision, their flames too proud to flicker. Every corner of the marble-and-iron hall was polished — every shadow disciplined.
At its heart sat Lucien.
His throne — forged from fractured stone and wrapped in silver veins — rose above the others like a crown torn from the earth. He leaned against it with practiced grace, one hand supporting his chin, the other draped over the carved armrest as if even gravity obeyed him.
To his right stood Kane — tall, rigid, and silent, his armor still scarred from the previous night's battle. His gaze was lowered, but his presence was deliberate — the posture of a man who knew the cost of standing beside power.
Before them, the rest of the Pride faction knelt in perfect formation — a living testament to hierarchy. None spoke. None breathed too loudly.
Outside the wide arching window, the forest slept beneath an unnatural light.
The moon hung swollen and crimson — vast, alive, almost breathing. It stared back through the glass like an unblinking eye.
Lucien's gaze never left it. His reflection bled into the red hue, sharp, poised, immaculate.
> "Strange…"
His voice was calm, regal — the kind of calm that came from absolute control.
The kneeling soldiers raised their heads slightly, awaiting his words.
Lucien tilted his chin, eyes narrowing with slow interest.
> "The heavens blush tonight. An omen, perhaps. Or a warning."
He paused, a faint smile ghosting his lips.
> "Or perhaps…"
"it is simply the world dressing itself for what comes — Walpurgis."
He let the name linger — tasting it, owning it — as if even the event itself owed him reverence.
Kane's eyes flicked briefly toward him but said nothing. The crimson moonlight painted both their faces — Lucien's proud, unyielding; Kane's unreadable.
Lucien smirked faintly — a thin, beautiful wound of pride curving across his face.
> "But whatever dares to stir beneath such a moon…"
A pause. The room seemed to hold its breath.
> "…would be wise to remember whose world it rises over."
His fingers drummed once on the stone armrest — the sound echoing like a verdict.
> "Let the others tremble at the color of the sky. Let them whisper of curses and prophecies."
He leaned back slightly, posture unbroken, every line of his body a sermon in superiority.
> "We, the Prides… do not bow to omens."
The soldiers bowed lower, their armor clinking softly in reverence.
Lucien's eyes returned to the moon — the red light painting him in something almost divine, almost monstrous.
> "If fate comes for me tonight…" he murmured, lips curling upward.
"…it had better come dressed appropriately."
He smiled.
A proud, dangerous smile that made even the moon look smaller.
_______
The feast took place beneath the cathedral of trees — trunks so wide they could have been the pillars of an ancient deity's ruin. Moss glowed faintly along the roots, and the air smelled of rain, smoke, and roasted flesh. Scattered around were golden plates half-buried in the dirt, goblets tipped over, bones gleaming like relics.
At the center of this gluttonous altar sat Ban, the Gluttony leader.
Naked save for the stained bandages wrapping his stomach, his skin gleamed with sweat and blood. In one hand, a hunk of half-torn meat. In the other, another. His mouth worked greedily, chunks falling from his lips as he devoured without pause. Each breath came with a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl.
Across from him, on a throne crudely carved from stolen treasure, lounged Silas, leader of Greed. Gold chains coiled around his neck and wrists; his rings clinked as he drank from a silver cup. His smile was thin — the kind that hides contempt behind charm.
> Silas (smirking): "You're bleeding again, Ban. Are you truly all right?"
Ban tore another mouthful, talking through it, voice thick with amusement and food.
> Ban (grinning, between chews): "If I can still eat, then I'm alive… and if I'm alive, then I'm fine."
He laughed, spraying crumbs, eyes glazed with a strange joy.
Silas watched him, expression unreadable — his fingers tapping the goblet in rhythm with Ban's chewing.
In his mind, his voice was smooth as poison.
> "The moment your appetite outweighs your use… I'll take your throne, your men, and your skin if I have to."
A thin smile crossed his lips again, polished, patient.
The feast went on — a symphony of tearing flesh, clinking gold, and low laughter.
But unseen above, hidden among the canopy's shroud, another gaze watched.
---
High above, in the shadows of the trees, the Envy faction waited.
They were silhouettes at first — still, patient, eyes glowing faintly like the reflections of knives.
Their leader stepped forward, slender form wrapped in a robe that seemed woven from smoke itself. The moonlight brushed against her pale face, revealing lips curved in quiet disdain.
> Envy Leader (softly, venom-laced):
"Look at them… two beasts fattened by their own stupidity."
Her eyes narrowed, following Silas's smirk and Ban's dripping hands.
> "Greed counts his coins while Gluttony chokes on his next breath — neither realizing they're already prey."
A murmur passed through the shadows behind her — the silent approval of her hidden followers.
> "Let them gorge. Let them drink."
"When their stomachs are full and their eyes are blind…"
"…we'll strike. And I'll make them eat their own pride next."
The forest wind carried her whisper down into the feast below — where laughter and indulgence continued, blissfully unaware that the night itself was watching.
_______
The torches flared brighter as her shadow fell over him.
The drums resumed — slow, rhythmic, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The candles mutter and the orb blinks like a patient eye. The room wears its old rain and iron the way a throat holds a secret — close, dark, and impossible to ignore. Everything else is arranged around the thing that matters: glass, bone, and promise.
A few hours remain. You can count them by the way the light in the orb cools: slow, deliberate, a clock that does not hurry for anyone. I sit very still and listen to the world breathe itself thin. They think the night will shelter them. They think wounds will mend if they turn away. How small the hearts that hope so loudly.
They are delightful in their futility. The way men and women barter courage like coin, the way they brace themselves for endings that will be given to them by hands other than their own — it reads like confession. They try to turn fear into ritual; they try to bend hunger into law. I watch them knot their own nooses and call it discipline. It is almost tender.
They struggle. God, how they strain. They shout and make bargains and invent gods from scraps of honor. Their voices climb then break; their faces become confessions. That is what I hunger for — not the thunder of massacre, not the obvious cruelty, but the exquisite smallness of hope being fenced, measured, and then taken apart until it's only an echo.
A soft, annoyed click from my right. A breath like a bell. Something that sounds suspiciously like patience cleared of sleep. A rustle, as if wings were smoothing feathers. A hollow chuckle, thin as a coin in a quiet hall. They give me punctuation — the punctuation I like. Their tiny sounds are the audience to my curiosity.
Around her, the sits the six other witches
The one draped in raven feathers shifted, a faint rustle like wings remembering flight.
The glass-eyed witch sat rigid, her long fingers tapping once, twice, then stilling midair.
The vine-crowned figure exhaled through his tangled beard, thorns glinting where the candlelight touched them.
The child-sized one hummed softly, the sound too old for her shape, rising like a lullaby that forgot how to sleep.
A limp, snorting laugh broke from another — sharp, wet, and amused, then gone.
And from the stitched shadow at the far end came only a low vibration, the quiet thrill of something pleased.
None spoke.
But in their silence, the air itself seemed to answer her — approving, uncertain, hungry.
I am not proud of this hunger; I name it for what it is: interest. To toy with fate is to ask a question and watch how a soul answers. Will this one bargain? Will that one barter away a memory to save a hand? Can a man be taught to forget what love sounds like? These are experiments I perform in the dark because the dark keeps honest records.
Do not mistake me: I could break them in a single breath. But breaking is blunt; it leaves nothing for examination. I prefer to press a thumb along the seam of their belief and wait to see which seam unthreads first. Make them wait. Let them plead. Let their rites become small, ridiculous, earnest and then unravel in the same careful hands that tied them.
A rustle in the corner. A sharp intake like someone tasting wind. A dry, amused sound — as if coal had been struck and a spark flickered. They speak without words: amused, skeptical, impatient. They do not need to argue; their noises make my sentence fuller.
Everything is set. The board is laid. I feel the world narrow to the whisper before a bell. In a handful of heartbeats the rites will begin and the first syllable will be eaten by the night. I will watch. I will smile quietly. I will learn which of them keeps a secret worth tasting and which will hand their soul to me for the price of a lie.
Let them strain at the ropes. Let them stamp and pray and call their names into the dark. The small, pitiful insistence of their hope is an excellent flavor. The hour comes, and I will pull the thread I have chosen.
How tidy cruelty is when one knows the exact place to press.