The Ecdysis Club was not a place born of the sun. It nested in a Soho basement, accessible only via a narrow staircase that smelled of stale gin and unwashed bodies. To descend into it was to enter a womb of crimson velvet and choking tobacco smoke, a Grail-aspected sanctuary dedicated to the desperate pursuit of fleeting appetites.
Isolde moved through the press of bodies like a shadow through high grass. Even beneath the heavy black wool of her turtleneck, she felt the gaze of the patrons—hungry, predatory, boring into her back. They did not see the dancer; they saw the ruin of something beautiful, a fallen angel upon whom they could project their own squalid fantasies.
She hated them with a cold detachment. But she needed their mediocrity. Their money bought the laudanum that kept the scar quiet, and the old books that taught her how to make it louder.
Backstage, the air was thick with cheap powder and the copper tang of fear. A dozen women prepared for the slaughter, applying war paint in the cracked mirrors. Among them, Isolde was a figure of terrifying isolation. She was the Prima, but she was no longer one of them. Where they sought survival, she sought annihilation.
"Isolde."
The voice was soft, a gentle rhythm amidst the chaotic Moth-buzz of the dressing room. It was Arthur, the club's pianist. He stood in the doorway, clutching a sheaf of tattered sheet music. He looked pale, worried, his eyes fixed on the high collar that hid her neck.
"You didn't come to rehearsal, Arthur," Isolde said, not turning from her mirror. She was occupied with applying a layer of greasepaint white enough to mimic bone.
"I was worried," he whispered, stepping into the room. He brought with him the scent of old paper and rain. It was the smell of the humanity she was trying to peel off. "Isolde, you're getting worse. I can hear it when you dance. The rhythm is... wrong. It's not ballet anymore. It's chaotic."
Arthur represented the anchors. He represented a cozy house, safety, and the agonizingly slow decay of a life lived in ordered mediocrity. He loved the Isolde Vane that had died in the metal and glass three years ago.
"It is not wrong, Arthur," she said, turning to face him. She let her gaze drop, becoming hooded and insect-like. "It is merely changing. My skin is too tight."
Arthur flinched. He reached out to touch her shoulder, perhaps to ground her, perhaps to offer comfort.
But the thought of his warm, human hand on her arm sent a jolt of raw repulsion through her. It was Grail-hunger, twisted. It wanted to devour, but not to merge. Behind her ribs, the Moth thrummed violently, its geometric wings beating a warning. Touch not the. Shed not the old guise before the new is ready.
Before his fingers could make contact, the dressing room door slammed open. Mr. Valerius, the club manager, strode in, smelling of cigar smoke and greed. His presence was a blunt, material hammer.
"Isolde! Stop looking like a corpse and get to the wings," he bellowed, ignoring Arthur entirely. He flashed a grotesque smile. "We have specialized guests tonight. Deep pockets. They expect... authenticity. Don't disappoint me, or I'll make sure the Suppression Bureau finds that package of laudanum you received last week."
Specialized guests. Mr. Valerius only meant Grail-lust or Edge violence. He didn't understand the subtle nuances of the Invisible Arts. To him, she was meat. To her, he was merely a symbol of the ordered world she meant to destroy.
Isolde rose, the black turtleneck concealing the jagged edge of the scissors pressed against her ribs. "I will give them what they came for, Mr. Valerius."
As Valerius left, Arthur looked at her, devastation in his eyes. "Isolde, please. Stop this. We can go. Away from London."
She smiled, and it was a terrible, scarlet wound of a smile. "But the forest has no walls, Arthur. Why go anywhere, when you can simply... open?"
She swept past him, the scent of old paper and rain fading, replaced by the raw scent of burning earth and pheromones that only she could smell. In the mirror, as the door closed, she didn't see a woman. She saw a cocoon, vibrating, ready to crack. The itch beneath the scar had become a symphony.