The next morning, Fally and I walked together arm in arm into the Blue Ballet.

Her hand slipped into the crook of my elbow with the ease of practice, though it was the first time we'd dared something so openly in Bast. The air outside had been crisp, carrying the scent of river mist and horse dung, but stepping across the threshold of the Blue Ballet was like entering another world entirely.

The building breathed corruption.

The scent hit first—smoke that clung to lungs like cobwebs, the acrid sting of pipeweed and burning herbs, alcohol spilled and soaked into wood until it was permanent, sex as a perfume barely masked by cheap incense, and beneath all of it, a sour note of sweat and sin. Fally wrinkled her nose, though she kept her smile bright, perhaps for my sake.

"I thought places like this would feel more… grand," she whispered.

"Oh, it is grand," I murmured back. "Just not the kind of grand you hoped for."

Inside, the chamber opened like a hive. Multiple tiers of balconies wrapped the oval structure, each filled with men and women draped in silks, leathers, or nothing at all. Glosscreens shimmered in the air, each capturing some spectacle in brilliant light: duels fought in other rooms, races I didn't recognize, even staged performances somewhere else in Bast relayed here for gamblers who couldn't bother to leave.

But the heart of it all were the arenas.

Four of them on the ground level, sunk into pits of sand and steel. Ember's Cup had begun in earnest: fighters slammed into each other with the precision of seasoned killers, blades clashing, spells unraveling in flares of light. Each arena carried its own rules—one forbade magic, another demanded it, the third allowed weapons only if they were won from the opponent, and the fourth was pure chaos.

Crowds roared for every hit. Coin purses traded hands so quickly that the money changers barely had time to keep pace.

Around the pits, rows of tables sprawled across the floor. Here was where the real bleed of vice spread thick: poker with cards whose backs flickered illusions, blackjack with coin-stacks higher than some peasants' lifetime earnings, dice games rolling bones carved from monsters' jaws, and another game I couldn't name. A ball dropped vertically through a tower of pins and levers, clinking downward while players shouted and cursed as if their lives depended on where it landed.

"See anything you like?" I asked dryly.

Fally tightened her grip on my arm. "Not a thing. And everything. It's… overwhelming."

That was the point.

I adjusted my Chancellor, letting the top rest against my shoulder. People gave us space. In Bast, no one mistook a Walker for anything other than what we were: sanctioned trouble. Yet eyes followed us still, some curious, some wary, a few calculating.

A servant glided past with a tray of Tempestarii Wine—blue liquid fizzing faintly with crackles of lightning. Fally's eyes followed the bottle, recognition dawning.

"Dullgave's drink," she whispered.

"Exactly."

We pressed deeper.

The Blue Ballet had been named, I realized, not for color or dance, but for the way sin itself spun in constant motion, as if the building were always mid-performance. Drapes of sapphire silk hung from the ceiling, but they were stained with smoke. Acrobats swung above the gambling floor, bodies glistening with oil, their smiles too sharp to be genuine. Dancers in half-masks slithered between tables, brushing gamblers' shoulders, whispering promises they'd sell for coin.

It was not one building, but many stitched together—part tavern, part arena, part brothel, part cathedral of greed.

"Why is everyone watching us?" Fally asked under her breath.

"Because we don't belong."

"And neither do half of them."

"True," I admitted, "but they've sold their souls more convincingly than we have."

She frowned at that, though her eyes kept moving. I knew the Blue Ballet had its glamour. Even disgust couldn't hide the curiosity burning in her gaze. That was how it hooked people. No one walked in planning to stay, yet many never walked out again.

We stopped near a dice table. The dealer, a scarred woman with hair bound in tight coils, glanced at me, then at Fally, before returning her attention to the gamblers. Her hands moved with fluid precision, tossing bones that shimmered faintly with enchantment.

"Two twelves takes all," she barked.

The crowd groaned as the bones landed in favor of a thin man with too many rings. He scooped the winnings without a word.

"That's not normal dice," Fally muttered.

"Nothing in here is normal," I replied.

The Ember's Cup roars rose again, drawing us toward one of the pits. Inside, two fighters clashed—one wielding twin scimitars, the other armored in scales that glittered like emerald. Spells hissed through the air, wards flaring with each strike. Blood stained the sand.

The Glosscreens magnified every motion, every scream. Children too young to know better pressed their faces to the images, cheering for gore. Their parents barely noticed, too caught in their own betting frenzies.

Fally shivered beside me. "It feels… wrong."

"It is wrong," I said. "That doesn't stop it from being lucrative."

She studied me for a moment. "You don't sound surprised."

"I'm not."

And I wasn't. This was Bast at its most honest: profit carved from the flesh of the desperate. If one wanted to know how Baron Dullgave smuggled Glimmer or how Margrave Ballai moved his trafficked goods, it would not be through whispers at court. It would be here, in the noise, in the places where sins were bought and sold as easily as chips on a table.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

I scanned the balconies. Nobles lounged in shadowed alcoves, their masks jeweled and gilded, their laughter too loud, too sharp. Some played at anonymity; others flaunted their names with careless arrogance.

"There." I nudged Fally subtly.

A man with golden hair and eyes like rose quartz reclined on a velvet divan. Three smallswords gleamed at his waist. Baron Dullgave. He sipped Tempestarii Wine while a servant fanned smoke from his face. Around him, lesser nobles leaned close, eager for his approval.

Fally's hand tightened on my arm again. "He doesn't even try to hide."

"Why should he?" I murmured. "This is his den. Here, vice is not crime—it's currency."

We wove closer. Not directly—never directly—but through the currents of the Ballet. I let the noise wash over me, cataloging each detail.

At one table, masked players laid down cards that birthed illusions onto the felt: a dragon coiling, a ship sinking, a maiden weeping. Whoever's illusion held longest without breaking claimed the pot. At another, nobles stacked colored stones in towers, betting on whose would stand when the others toppled, though the stones shimmered with hidden instability.

Fally whispered names of games she recognized, her voice low and sharp with fascination. "That's Mirror Jack. That one's called Shiver Bones. And—oh, that's Dropfall." She pointed at the vertical tower where the ball clattered downward. "I read about that. Supposedly it was invented by a prisoner who wanted to pass the time watching dust fall through cracks in the ceiling."

"Now it makes fortunes fall instead," I said.

She gave me a rueful smile.

The longer we stayed, the heavier the air felt. Music thrummed beneath the noise, a pulsing beat that seemed to crawl beneath the skin. It was subtle, enchantment woven into rhythm, designed to loosen caution, to make every heart beat in time with the house.

Fally swayed slightly before catching herself. "Do you hear that?"

"I do."

"And it's not just music."

"No." I reached and touched her wrist, grounding her. "Stay sharp. The Ballet eats distraction."

She nodded quickly, steadying her breath.

We passed a chamber curtained off from the main hall. The smell hit first—sickly sweet, crystalline. Glimmer. Inside, shadows moved, figures hunched over mirrored tables, snorting powder ground from narwhal horn until their eyes glowed faintly. A guard at the curtain met my gaze, recognized me, and wisely looked away.

So. Dullgave's reach extended even here, in plain sight.

We circled back toward the main floor. Dullgave had risen from his divan, gesturing toward the Ember's Cup pit. His entourage followed like dogs on a leash. He raised his glass, called a bet, and laughter rippled through the crowd.

Fally leaned close to me, her whisper hot against my ear. "He's reckless."

"He's confident."

"Same thing, sometimes."

"True."

Her eyes flicked to me then, a brief spark of mischief. "You're reckless, too."

I smirked faintly. "And confident."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.

The noise swelled again as one fighter in the pit fell, blood dark against the sand. The crowd surged forward, hungry for the kill. Dullgave cheered loudest of all, his pink eyes glittering.

I studied him, every gesture, every careless smile. Here was a man who gambled lives as easily as coin, who drank storm-wine as though it were water, who let Glimmer rot men and women in shadows only steps away from the open floor.

And yet… he was untouchable. Here, at least.

For now.

Fally felt the tension in my arm and squeezed gently. "Patience," she whispered.

I glanced at her, at the defiance in her smile, the steadiness in her grip. In the heart of the Blue Ballet, where smoke and sin drowned the air, she was the only clean breath I could take.

I exhaled slowly. "Patience," I agreed.

We stayed longer, long enough to map the currents of the den. Where the guards clustered. Where the servants whispered. Which balconies led to private chambers. Which tables Dullgave returned to again and again.

Every detail mattered.

But when we finally stepped back into the daylight, leaving smoke and sin behind, Fally leaned against me and laughed softly.

"What's funny?" I asked.

She shook her head. "You. You walked into the worst pit of vice I've ever seen, and you cataloged it like it was just another book to read."

"That's how I survive."

"And maybe how you'll win."

"Maybe," I allowed.

Her arm tightened through mine. I did the honors of escorting her away from the den of vice and villainy, through one of my conjured doors, back to the Everis Hills.

***

"So what did you two learn?" Cordelia asked as soon as we returned.

The air of the Hills was a balm compared to the Blue Ballet. Gone was the smoke, the drug-sweet haze, the stink of coin and blood. The breeze carried the scent of pine and wildflowers, and for a moment, I let myself breathe deeply before answering.

Fally let go of my arm reluctantly, settling into one of the carved stone seats near the fire pit where Wallace and Sven were already waiting. Ten had claimed a boulder at the edge, lounging with the careless confidence of someone who didn't need comfort. Fractal hung back, sharp eyes on both of us.

"It was everything Gin promised and worse," I said at last, brushing a trace of ash from my coat. "Noise. Spectacle. Corruption. The Blue Ballet isn't just a den of gamblers—it's a web. Nobles, criminals, traffickers, addicts… they all spin together there, and they don't even bother hiding it."

Cordelia crossed her legs neatly, her porcelain mask of composure firmly in place. "And Baron Dullgave?"

I glanced at Fally. Her lips pressed thin before she spoke. "He was there. Not even pretending to keep himself obscure. Surrounded by hangers-on, drunk on storm wine, betting on the Ember's Cup like a man who thinks he owns the outcome. If anyone doubted he profits from vice, the Ballet would dispel that."

Wallace gave a grunt. "That boldness makes him dangerous. A man who acts untouchable usually is, at least in his own territory."

"He didn't look untouchable to me," Sven muttered, rolling a pinch of salt between his fingers. "He looked like a man begging for someone to knock his teeth out. Three swords on his hip, drinking lightning like water, laughing at blood in the sand. He's a caricature of excess."

"That excess shields him," I countered. "He blends into the Ballet because everyone there is excess. Even if we'd struck him down in public, half the room would have cheered and the other half would have bet on how long it would take for the body to cool. No one cares what happens in that place, only that the games keep going."

Fractal tilted her head, her voice sharp. "So what did you actually learn?"

I let the jab slide and folded my arms. "Patterns. He returns to certain tables repeatedly. Always Dropfall, never dice. He drinks only Tempestarii Wine—nothing else. He places loud, attention-grabbing wagers at the Ember's Cup, but smaller, quieter ones elsewhere. He's reckless, yes, but it's a deliberate kind of recklessness. He performs excess. I think beneath it, he's watching everything."

Fally nodded slowly. "He isn't sloppy. Not really. He wants people to think he is. But when you're looking closely… every word, every smile, every coin tossed feels chosen."

Cordelia's eyes flicked between us, weighing, testing. "So he's dangerous in both directions. Outwardly arrogant, inwardly calculating."

"Yes," I said simply.

Ten stretched, her chains rattling faintly. "So the plan is obvious, then. Pull him out of his stage. Strip away the audience, the applause, the wine and the games. Find him where the mask doesn't fit."

Wallace frowned. "And how do you propose we manage that? Nobles like him don't wander the streets alone. If he walks anywhere beyond the Ballet, it will be with guards."

"Which is why," I said, leaning forward, "we don't go after the man first. We go after the shadow of him—the games, the shipments, the Glimmer. We tug at the threads until he has no choice but to follow."

Silence fell, heavy but thoughtful.

Then Cordelia exhaled, a sound more sigh than breath. "So the spider in his web thinks he owns the whole hive. Very well. Let's see what happens when someone sets fire to the threads."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.