Side Quest

Nathan heard a voice. Warm, sing-song, tugging him out of the dark.

“There you are. Hello!”

His eyes cracked open. Nyx’s pale face swam above him, grin far too pleased. A vial clinked softly as she set it aside.

“…Hnn?” His throat was sandpaper.

What’s this weight…?

He squinted down at his chest. Black eyes filled his vision. Glossy. Lidless. Reflecting a scarred, grizzled face he barely recognized—Mason’s.

For one delirious heartbeat, he thought the swamp had dragged him under after all.

The weight squeezed. Tendrils curled tighter, pressing against his bandages. A bubbling giggle scraped his ears like water gargling through a drain.

Nathan lurched upright with a strangled gasp. Pain lanced his ribs like hot wire. His vision almost blacked out again as the thing wobbled but clung tighter.

“Am I in hell? Did we lose?!”

“Relax, hero.”

Nyx’s voice—dry, teasing, far too amused.

He blinked hard until the blur steadied. Not swamp. Not hell. The manor’s carved beams arched overhead, morning light slanting through shutter slats. Real sheets under him. Actual pillows. His chest bound tight.

And still—the nightmare doll plastered to him.

It shivered. Its slit-mouth peeled open just enough to flash rows of needle-sharp teeth.

Nathan’s stomach dropped. “Is this—that thing that crawled out of the egg?!”

Nyx was sprawled sideways in a chair, one boot hooked over the armrest, chin in her palm. She grinned like she’d been waiting for this moment.

“I kept it in a jar while you slept. Two days.” Breezy, as though she’d been babysitting a kitten. “Didn’t seem to do anything harmful. So…” She lifted her hands in mock innocence. “…I let it out.”

“You just let it out? Crazy.”

The creature burbled happily and pressed its whole face against his sternum.

“Jar. Now. Please.” Nathan squeaked, flinching so hard his whole chest screamed.

Nyx leaned forward, utterly unbothered. She plucked it bare-handed, tendrils wriggling against her wrist, and plopped it into the waiting jar.

“How—how can you just touch it like that?! No gloves, no tongs—”

She didn’t bother with the lid, just traced a lazy flick of her stylus across the rim. “Stay,” she murmured. A faint sigil shimmered, invisible unless the light caught it.

The little monster wriggled up the glass, pressing its face against it like a child at a window. The sigil pulsed once and held.

Nathan dragged a shaky hand down his face. His heart hammered like it wanted out of his ribs. “Nope. This is nightmare fuel. What even is my life?”

His gaze flicked back to the jar. It clicked its teeth against the glass, delighted. Nathan’s skin crawled. “That thing shouldn’t even exist.”

He shoved the nightmare into a mental box labeled Do Not Process. “Maybe if I… give it a name. That’ll make it easier to think of it as… not swamp vomit.”

He sighed. “Bob. Fine. It’s Bob now.”

The thing burbled. Then giggled.

Nathan froze. “…Oh, come on. Now it likes the name?”

Bob clicked its teeth in delight.

Nyx smirked. “Bob likes you.”

“Just what I wanted,” Nathan muttered into his palms.

Her grin vanished. In its place: sharp, glittering focus. “It’s disturbing,” she murmured, eyes fixed on the jar. “Entities like this should have dissolved hours outside a dungeon. There are no motes here, and yet…” She tapped the glass with a stylus, voice quick and clipped. “…it’s still stable. Anchored. Persistent. Almost as if you created it.”

Nathan peeked between his fingers, appalled. “Created it? No. Doesn’t it just want to eat me? Drain me?”

Nyx’s eyes stayed locked on Bob, her tone distant. “It can’t. You’re completely drained of mana—emptied. There’s nothing for it to take.”

Nathan’s stomach tightened. “…Drained? Is that why it feels like I got run over?”

“Oh yes,” Nyx said lightly, though her gaze was still far away, clinical. “Every bit of mana burned out of you when you closed that mote vein. Any scraps left over seemed to just… leak out of you.” She tapped her finger against the jar, voice quickening with thought. “Your anomaly simulates dungeon-born conditions. You and this thing are like kin now. It clings to you even though you’re… essentially a void.” Her eyes narrowed. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

Nathan’s stomach lurched. “No. No. Don’t put that on me.” His palms were damp, every breath grinding through him.

Nyx didn’t laugh. Her finger scratched against the glass again, too intent. “I’ve seen creatures adapt, but this—anchored without a source—this is new.”

Great. My life as a case study continues.

Nyx finally leaned back in her chair, stretching until her joints popped. Then, out of nowhere, she hummed a silly tavern tune under her breath—off-key, but pleased with herself.

Nathan stared at her. “Okay… split personality much?”

Nyx tilted her head, mock-thoughtful. “Split personality?”

He sagged back against the pillows, ribs aching. “One second you’re dissecting monster ecology like some mad mage-scientist hybrid, and the next you’re all—” he waved weakly at her grin “—this. It’s like two different people.”

Bob burbled again.

Nathan glared at it. “That’s enough out of you, swamp vomit.”

Bob clicked its jaws and giggled, delighted.

Nathan shuddered. “…So creepy.” He nudged the jar farther down the side table with one finger, as if two extra inches of distance would matter. It didn’t.

Silence stretched. His mind, raw and aching, groped for safer ground. “So… what about everyone else? Sera and the others?”

Nyx rolled her shoulders. “Alia got you stable enough to move once we were through the portal. Ribs bound, bleeding slowed. Then she and the others headed for the rally point. They’ll be ready for muster.”

Relief sank through Nathan like a stone settling in water. He let out a shaky laugh that tugged at his ribs. “Good. That’s… good. At least they made it.”

He blinked at her, frowning. “So why are you here? Why didn’t you go with them?”

Nyx tipped her head toward the jar, grin curling sharp. “Because once I came to, I told Alia I wasn’t leaving you yet. She wasn’t thrilled, but Sera gave the okay. So they let me stay while the others went ahead. And…” her grin widened, “I’ve got a new thing to observe.”

“Fantastic,” Nathan muttered.

Her tone softened—just barely. “And because I promised I’d do what I could to get you home. You’re a very unique research subject, Nathan. I’d be an idiot to walk away now.”

Nathan pressed his hand to his face. “Glad to know I’m an academic goldmine.”

Nyx’s grin only widened. “Exactly.”

She leaned down, tugging something from her satchel. “Speaking of—which brings us to the artifacts…”

She drew a bronze-framed disc from her satchel, no bigger than a palm. The glass surface rippled like disturbed water, refusing to hold a reflection. Glyphs crawled faintly along the rim, flickered once, then guttered out.

Nathan frowned. “I remember… Bren pulling that out. Thought I was hallucinating.”

“You weren’t.” Nyx’s voice shifted sharp, scholar-clean. “Everything else we could identify. This one? Nothing. The glyphs don’t match any Collegium record. That’s unprecedented. Which is why I kept it.”

“You stole from the guild?”

“I preserved a unique piece of magical history,” she corrected, eyes sparkling. “Besides, I thought you’d want to see it.”

Nathan’s gaze snagged on the watery surface, glyphs around the edge pulsing faintly. For a blink, the water broke its own rule. The reflection staring back wasn’t Mason’s scarred face at all—it was his own. Nathan. Seoul. The features he hadn’t seen in weeks. Then the image broke into ripples and smeared into light, gone as if it had never been. His breath hitched. Had he imagined it?

From the jar, Bob burbled, tendrils pattering against the glass in time with the glyphs. Nathan swallowed hard. “Yeah. Very comforting.”

The door suddenly swung open.

Ronan filled the frame like a wall—broad shoulders, gray streaks cutting through his long hair, armor scored but polished. His gaze flicked from Nathan to the jar where Bob was tapping. He didn’t comment, though his jaw ticked once.

“You’re awake,” he said. Iron voice, no preamble. “Good. We need to talk.”

Nathan blurted before he could stop himself. “The mercs. From the dungeon?”

Ronan’s gaze hardened. “Two left. Oris and Kerric. The rest didn’t make it.”

The words landed like stone in water. Nathan’s throat closed. He managed, “...Right. Sorry, Ronan.” Hollow.

Ronan let the silence sit like a weight, then cut it. “Muster’s in three days—by the third day we report or we’re deserters. Travel’s a day and a half. Works out because the auction is tonight. Eleven bells.”

Nathan’s blood drained. “…Tonight? Tonight-tonight?”

“You’re the actor,” Ronan said flatly.

Of all the times…

Silence stretched until he forced himself to speak again. “Ronan… if we do all this—if I act like Mason, if I pull off tonight—what happens if he wakes up again in this body? And we’ve messed up all his plans?”

“If he wakes up with his mana intact, he’ll probably kill me and put the others back under spells.”

Nathan’s stomach turned.

Ronan didn’t look away. “I thought about ending it.”

Nathan blinked. “Ending… what?”

“You.” Flat. “Mason’s body. While we were in the dungeon. Quick. Clean.” His hands flexed once at his sides, betraying the thought. “But I couldn’t. My body wouldn’t follow the order.”

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

Nyx cut in sharply. “Binding residue. Mason carved loyalty into muscle, not just mind. You’re free, but your hands remember.”

Ronan gave the faintest nod. “If Mason floods back in, and we aren’t able to finish him before he wakes… after that…” his jaw clenched, “…none of us walks away free.”

The weight of it settled over Nathan like another set of chains. “So what—you’re saying if Mason comes back, you’ll have to kill me?”

“Not you. Mason. Preferably while he is not awake—after you’ve switched.”

Shit. That’s not a terrifying thought. Nope.

Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s switch focus back to tonight, shall we? Mob bosses. I’m supposed to act like Mason’s some kind of mob boss.”

Nyx tilted her head. “Mob… what is ‘mob’?”

He groaned. “Gangsters. Organized crime. People outside the law, running things with fear, loyalty, money.” Blank stares. He sighed. “Okay, guess we don’t have that word here.”

Nyx tapped her chin, thoughtful. “So. Mason the gangster.”

Ronan gave a grim nod. “Then yes. If that’s what you want to call it.”

From the jar, Bob burbled. Then, in a high, rasping mimicry:

“Gang…ster.”

The room froze.

Nyx’s grin vanished. Her voice turned clinical. “…That’s new.”

Ronan’s hand drifted to his sword hilt. “It spoke.”

Nathan’s voice cracked. “Oh my god. It’s talking.”

“If that’s a greeting,” he muttered, “I’m not sure whose side it’s on.”

Ronan exhaled, steady and sharp. “Enough. Come on.”

Nathan balked. “Come on where, exactly?”

“The study. You’ll learn Mason’s tics—who he flatters, who he ignores, how he looks at people. That’s how you survive tonight.”

Nathan swallowed. “And you? Where will you be in all this?”

“I’ve already gone over the details with the men I trust,” Ronan said. “All that’s left is getting you ready. We’ll be out of sight.”

“Wait—you won’t be there?” Nathan turned to Nyx. “And you?”

She lifted the jar like an absurd talisman. “I’ll be playing a role too. And covering your gaps on magic.”

“…Right. Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better.”

His jaw tightened. The ache in his ribs, the hollow where the mana had been, all of it beat against one steady thought: I want my life back. He’d agreed because these two had promised to try. But the thought of being in a room full of people Mason had ruined—and wearing the smile Mason used to make others small—made his stomach twist.

“I don’t want to be him,” Nathan whispered. “I want to go home.”

Ronan only turned toward the door. “Then learn fast.”

They left the room. Nathan felt like he was on a slow procession to doom.

He braced against the cool stone wall as Ronan led the way. Nyx trailed beside him, carrying Bob like a handbag accessory.

“Why are you bringing that?” Nathan hissed.

She smiled, sweet and unhelpful. “Because it likes you. And I’m observing.”

“Great. New pet project, huh?”

Before she could answer, bootsteps echoed down the corridor followed by soft voices. Three mercs rounded the corner—Dane, Caldris, and another Nathan didn’t recognize. All three straightened at once, spines stiff.

“Boss,” they said in unison, sharp and practiced.

The word hit Nathan’s stomach like a rock. Too heavy, too final.

Boss. Here we go again.

Then he caught Dane’s eyes—steady, almost friendly—and some of the tension drained before he could stop it. A smile tugged at his mouth, genuine relief cracking through the mask.

Ronan’s glare cut sharp as steel. Nathan’s grin snapped shut, twisting into something closer to Mason’s scowl. Too late. The mercs had seen.

Dane’s brow ticked, almost startled by the slip. He inclined his head with formal respect, though his tone softened and a smile touched his lips. “Glad you’re back safe. How are you feeling?”

“Uh… better,” Nathan managed, too honest. “Thanks.”

Caldris bowed, posture perfect, but his eyes lingered. Sharp. Measuring. Nathan remembered that look from the sparring ring—the way the kid seemed to file everything away, every swing, every breath.

The third merc’s gaze slid past Nathan and fixed on Nyx. His brow creased at the jar. Bob pressed its tendrils against the rim, glossy eyes catching the torchlight. Unease rippled across all three men, but none spoke.

Nyx didn’t offer an explanation.

Nathan’s mouth went dry. He thought about saying pet, or specimen, or not my idea. Nothing came out.

The hush grew heavy.

Ronan’s hand clamped down on Nathan’s shoulder. “Inside.”

The three mercs dipped heads again and moved on. But as Nathan passed, he caught a flicker in Dane’s eyes—too sharp, too curious.

Probably just imagining it.

Ronan steered him to the double doors ahead. The wood loomed heavy, polished by years of use. He pushed them open and gestured Nathan inside.

“Now we begin.”

Nathan let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. I have a really bad feeling about this.

In a market alley thirty minutes from the manor…

The alley reeked of smoke and piss, sunlight cutting between the buildings in a thin wedge. Kieran stepped in, cloak drawn, eyes sharp. The Hood was already waiting, shoulder pressed to stone, his face hidden in shadow—a tuft of orange hair visible.

“You sent word,” Kieran said.

“I went back,” the Hood answered simply. “The ritual site.”

A pause.

“Not what the guild claimed. Their scouts weren’t lying—they must’ve gone in when the frenzy hit. By the time I reached it, the noise had burned out. Starving beasts clawing at each other. Bigger than they should’ve been, vicious. Too many half-eaten corpses—even mana-born tearing at their own. I cut through more than I liked, but none of them were where they belonged. Territories broken. The weak are gone. What’s left is restless and strong.”

Kieran’s jaw shifted, but he said nothing.

“And the motes,” the Hood added. “Almost none. After the ritual, I don’t recall seeing a single spark. Now there are a few—thin, sluggish. Like dregs at the bottom of a cup.”

The pause dragged.

Finally, Kieran asked, “And at the manor?”

“Ronan’s gathering a small contingent. Escorting the Boss to an auction.”

Kieran’s lip curled. “Auction?”

“Yes. Artifacts. Slaves. Illegal work.”

Kieran’s expression sharpened, anger flashing through his stillness. Bastards.

“The Boss has only just woken,” the Hood went on. A beat. “There’s a woman as well. Mage. Possibly Collegium-trained. Strong mana for her age.”

Kieran studied him, silent.

“The auction’s tonight,” the Hood said.

“Tonight? What time?”

“Eleven bells.” He handed Kieran a slip of paper. “Coordinates.”

Kieran’s fingers tightened around it, knuckles whitening. “Anything else?”

“No.”

“Good work,” Kieran said.

The Hood inclined his head. “Then I’ll return.”

Kieran watched him slip into the sunlit crowd of the market, cloak swallowed by the press of bodies. His jaw tightened. Plan. Fast.

Ronan shut the doors with a thud that rattled the shelves. He strode to the broad desk and jerked his chin at the chair behind it.

“Sit.”

Nathan hesitated, then slid into Mason’s seat. The wood felt too solid, too heavy beneath him.

Only then did Ronan sweep a stack of ledgers into order and drop them in front of him hard enough to slosh the inkpot.

“Dossiers,” he said. “Names you need to know. Nobles. Confederates. Foreign buyers. Mason had leverage on half of them.”

Nathan stared at the wax seals stamped in red and black. They might as well have been written in Martian. “Oh great. Crime homework.”

Nyx slid into a chair opposite, lounging as though she’d been invited to afternoon tea instead of a war council. She set Bob’s jar on the desk with a soft clink, then twirled her stylus between her fingers, smile sharp.

“What sort of leverage?”

“Debts. Affairs. Illicit contracts,” Ronan said. “Mason bought loyalty with gold when he could, with blood when he couldn’t. Letters of confession. Blackmail. He kept half the Guild quiet because their own kin were on his ledgers.”

Nathan muttered, “This world is really missing out on The Godfather.”

Ronan ignored him. “They hold captives tonight. After tonight, too late—they’ll be gone. Sold.”

Nathan stiffened. “Slavery’s… legal here?”

“Not in Eryndral,” Ronan said. “But Venthane thrives on prisoners of war, debtors, the poor from borderlands. None of these were Eryndral-born—too dangerous to touch. They were taken from other countries and backwaters. Easier to snatch, no questions asked.”

Nyx’s mouth curled in distaste. “Nasty place. If they’re moving stock this fast, children will be among them.”

Nathan’s stomach flipped. Slavery. Actual, people-selling slavery—penciled in like a business dinner. “And let me guess—our RSVP is non-optional.”

Ronan’s eyes cut to him. “Mason Draegor is expected to attend. That gives us this opportunity.”

Nathan rubbed his temples. “And again, what exactly are you supposed to be in this circus?”

Nyx leaned in close, voice low and velvet. “The seductive scholar. Dangerous, indispensable. I can rattle off artifact lore and fabricate just enough mystery to keep the dealers salivating. When they probe you about magic, you nod at me, and I spin the story.”

“Fabricate,” Nathan repeated, queasy.

Her grin curved sly. “Fabricate convincingly. I’ll be the one to make them wonder what secrets Mason Draegor unearthed this time. A weapon on his leash. A brain too valuable to waste. That’s my role.”

A con. Scam.

Nathan hunched over the papers and muttered, “Casting notes, I can do this.” He fumbled for something to write with.

Ronan motioned to the ink well and quill on the desk. Nathan blinked. “This would be easier with ballpoints.”

“Notes?” Nyx asked, amused.

“Flash cards,” Nathan said grimly. “My only chance.”

Ronan began pacing, dictating names like a drill sergeant.

“Baron Velthar. Old money. Still owes Mason three favors. Acts above the underworld, but drowning in debt. Shake him if you can.”

Nathan scrawled: VELTHAR — pompous debt-balloon.

But Ronan didn’t stop.

“Lady Serathine. Widow. Feeds on gossip—Mason echoed her own secrets back until she thought he was omniscient.”

“Bosric. Guild commander. Ego the size of a keep, skin thinner than parchment.”

“Lady Corvina Thale. Eryndral-born. Informant.”

Nathan’s quill scratched to a halt. “Informant for who?”

Ronan’s eyes flicked to the door, then back, voice low. “Droswain. Not written in any ledger—Mason kept it close. She reports through one of the Counts. A noble of our own, compromised. If that truth were common knowledge, she’d already be in chains.”

Nathan froze, quill hanging slack between his fingers. “Droswain? The same people invading here?”

Ronan’s silence was answer enough.

Nathan swallowed hard. “So… traitors in the nobility?”

“Yes.” The word was iron. “Mason thrived on knowing what no one else did. Secrets that could shatter a house with a whisper—that’s how he kept his throne.”

“Classic villain handbook.”

Nyx tilted her head, eyes narrowing at the ledger. “Strange thing, though. If he knew she was a traitor, why let her live?” A beat. “Maybe because it amused him. Maybe because sometimes a dangling spy is more useful than a dead one.”

Nathan scrawled on the margin: CORVINA — spy. Strings attached.

Ronan resumed, rattling the list on.

“Meron. Merchant glutton. Jovial face, cruel hand. Owes Mason caravans.”
“Sir Kaedric. Disgraced knight. Lost lands to dice. Dog on a leash.”
“Olyne. Brothel-keeper turned broker. Pillow-talk blackmail.”
“Relik. Trader. Smiles like he already paid.”

The names battered him like hailstones. Nathan’s shorthand blurred into half-legible curses and doodles until his quill skittered a blot across the page. He had no idea how actors were supposed to memorize lines like this without cue cards.

At last Ronan slammed the ledger shut. “There are more. Too many more. Mason wrote plenty down, but never everything. Some orders he kept in his head, or spoke only to the ones he bound. Those gaps are what will catch us if you aren’t careful. That’s why you bluff the rest. Hold their eyes long enough, and Nyx listens for what isn’t on the page. While you keep up the mask, we move for the captives.”

Nathan slumped in the chair, ink smudged across his cheek, quill dangling loose in his hand. “Great. Improv. My favorite.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Will these people at least be easy to spot? Like—big neon signs over their heads?”

Nyx’s smile was wicked. “If only. They’ll be masked, perfumed, and lying through their teeth. You’ll have to fake knowing them better than they know themselves.”

Nathan groaned. “Fantastic. World’s most expendable stage prop, reporting for duty.”

Nyx leaned over his shoulder, smirk wicked. “Stage prop with teeth. When Velthar talks down to you, you glare and remind him you own his title. Easy. Draegor’s secret weapon strikes again.”

“Not Draegor,” Ronan corrected. “Boss. If you call him Draegor in that room, half the nobles will smell the lie.”

Nyx arched a brow, mock-innocent. “Boss, then. Has a nice ring.” She tipped her chin at Nathan. “Right, Boss?”

Nathan scowled. “This is going to kill me.”

From the jar, Bob burbled with glee: “Gang-ster.”

The quill slipped from Nathan’s fingers. “Oh come on, now he’s in on it?”

Ronan didn’t blink. “Good. Even the monster learns faster than you.”

Bob burbled.

Nathan groaned. “Shut up, Bob.”

The hours that followed bled together. Ledger after ledger, names and tics and threats. Ronan drilled him on posture, on how Mason tilted his head when someone lied, on the exact pause before he gave an order. Nyx kept chiming in with mocking asides—“Less sheep, more wolf”—until Nathan’s notes turned into frantic doodles of fanged stick figures.

By the third correction, his hand cramped. By the fifth, sweat plastered his shirt to his back.

And still the sun kept sliding toward the horizon.

Every creak of the shutters made his chest seize. Every lengthening shadow whispered, closer. The auction wasn’t hours away anymore—it was imminent.

When Ronan finally shoved the last ledger aside, Nathan sagged forward, temples throbbing. “I’m doomed. Totally doomed.”

“Not yet,” Ronan said.

A knock at the door. Two servants carried in boxes and set them in the middle of the study. Nyx twirled her stylus once, murmured something under her breath, and tapped the air. The nearest lid popped open and tipped, spilling a bundle of clothing—silks, velvets, embroidered doublets, jewel tones loud enough to blind.

Nathan recoiled. “What is this? Mardi Gras reject pile?"

Nyx only looked amused, chin propped on her hand as if she were waiting for the show to start.

“You didn’t think you were getting out of it that easily, did you?” Ronan said, but his eyes weren’t on Nathan. He picked up some boxes and placed them in front of her, with deliberate calm. He flipped one open

Shimmering folds of fabric spilled out—pink and teal silks, floor-length, the neckline plunging low enough to scandalize a saint.

Nyx’s grin faltered. She actually pouted. “That’s cruel.”

Nathan snorted before he could stop himself, the sound cracking out of him like a pressure release. He doubled over, clutching his ribs, laughter wheezing between gasps. “You—oh my god—you’d look like a parade float disaster crime scene.”

Bob burbled with eerie delight. “Gang-ster.”

That only made Nathan laugh harder.

Nyx shot him a withering look, cheeks tinged faintly pink. “Traitor.”

Ronan shut the box with finality.

Nathan dragged out a brocade coat so bright it looked radioactive. “This is neon at a funeral.”

“He liked to be colorful at gatherings,” Ronan said, entirely serious. His gaze cut between the two of them, flat as stone. “And tonight, both of you are the spectacle. You’re the distraction that lets the rest of us move. If you don’t look the part, the plan doesn’t work.”

Nathan’s laugh caught and withered, strangled by the weight in Ronan’s voice. He tugged the coat on, muttering. “Colorful? He looks like he mugged a peacock.”

“Bright colors are proof of wealth and power,” Nyx said sweetly. “It suits.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t suit me.” Nathan tugged at the collar, cheeks burning under the mask. “If I walk in dressed like this, nobody’s going to believe I’m Mason—they’re going to think I’m his court jester.”

Ronan almost smirked. “Good thing these are his clothes, and on the outside you are him.”

Nathan groaned. “I hate this plan.”

Ronan didn’t answer. The rest of the evening blurred into fittings and final orders, servants bustling like stagehands before a play. By the time Nathan caught his breath, they were already being ushered out, cloaks thrown over silks that felt more like costumes than armor.

The road dwindled into black countryside, city lights long gone. Wild scrub and skeletal trees clawed at the stars. The wheels groaned over rutted dirt, every bump tugging Nathan’s ribs.

Nyx lounged opposite like it was a pleasure cruise, tracing idle patterns on Bob’s jar. The little monster burbled back, delighted.

“Stop encouraging it,” Nathan muttered. “I cannot believe you brought it.”

“It’ll be in my bag.” She smirked. “Loosen your jaw. Show up looking sick, and you’ll sell nervous actor instead of ruthless boss.”

“I am sick. And I feel ridiculous.”

“Perfect. Use it.”

Ronan stirred at last, reaching for a stack of ornate masks. He held them out. “Put them on.” Then he settled one over his own face—a plain black piece, stark against the finery.

They donned them as the carriage crested a hill. Nathan adjusted the gilded half-mask, wishing he had Ronan’s plain black instead.

Below, carriages funneled toward a cluster of abandoned structures squatting in the field—siding gray with rot, windows boarded, roofs sagging under their own weight. Nobles stepped down and filed inside without hesitation, swallowed by shadow. From this distance, it looked like they were walking straight into ruin.

Nathan blinked. “They’re seriously holding this exclusive thing in a place like this? Where the hell—?”

Nyx only smirked. She lifted her stylus and murmured a chant, flicking the air. The ruin shivered like heat haze, edges rippling, and the truth bled through—towering columns, lanterns blazing, balconies draped in silk. The shabby shell was nothing but a glamour.

“Not hell,” she murmured and waved her free hand. “Illusion. Don’t gawk, Boss—it kills the mystique.”

Nathan blinked, jaw slack. “But… not everyone can do what you just did, right? Farmers don’t just pass by and see a palace instead of a ruin?”

Nyx twirled her stylus, smug. “Trade secret.”

Ronan reached into his cloak and drew out a thin bronze plaque etched with faint sigils. They pulsed once as he turned it in his hand. “She was showing off. This is the key. Anyone carrying an invite crosses the boundary and sees the glamour. Everyone else sees rot.”

Nathan swallowed. “Great. Magic bouncers.”

Nyx leaned back, grin curling. “You’re no fun, Ronan.”

Ronan’s face didn’t shift. “Good.”

Nathan's mask pressed close, edges digging into his skin. Fun wasn’t the problem. Pretending to be a monster was.

Here goes nothing.