At that mont, in the ballroom...
The performances had ended, and every nobleman in attendance had already chosen their favored companion for the evening—so had even set their sights on more than one, just waiting for the mont they could indulge themselves behind closed doors.
Of course, they couldn’t be too blatant about it. So, under their host’s careful guidance, the awards ceremony began.
Every art troupe that had perford returned to the ballroom—n and won both—milling through the audience as the young nobles began loudly calling out, picking and naming which ones should follow them to a private "award collection" room.
So of the more naïve girls were actually excited about this; only a few with experience sensed sothing was wrong. But here, resistance was impossible—ard guards watched their every move, and there was no chance to slip away.
So they could only go along for now, following the staff as they were led to their designated rooms.
The second floor and above of the theater had long ago been remodeled by the Cassalanter family into luxury suites—ant expressly for these sorts of private rendezvous between nobles and their chosen dancers.
Inside one such room, Hans—the short, heavy-set noble—had already showered up. He was sprawled out on a huge, snowy-white bed, a bath towel barely covering him, eyes gleaming lecherously.
He’d lusted after the Morning Peacock’s lead dancer for ages. Tonight, he was finally going to get his hands on her. The thought had him giddy.
Ha! That woman had dodged him for so long, making him fail again and again. Tonight, he was going to really break her!
Once he’d had his fill, he planned to make her crawl, naked, through all the corridors—on hands and knees, like a dog, paraded through the whole theater.
And he’d ride her, and no matter who they ran into on the way—even an actual dog—he’d "invite" them to take their turn!
The sick thoughts spiraled through his mind; the usual gas did nothing now. What he craved were new, twisted thrills.
Click—
Just then, the door was thrown open. The Morning Peacock’s lead dancer was shoved inside by two guards, her face full of terror.
She’d known this greasy, disgusting noble had been drooling over her, and she’d done everything she could to avoid him. But tonight, there would be no escape.
Behind her, the door slamd shut. She spun, tried the handle—the door was locked tight.
She was trembling violently when she heard the noble thump to the floor, laughing salaciously as he approached. "Nowhere to run, beautiful—just accept my favor like a good girl..."
His voice oozed with sli, making her even more frantic; in her heart, despair boiled.
Was this really it? Was she really going to be humiliated beyond saving tonight?
No. No, she didn’t want this. She refused to accept such a fate!
Her will and rage surged, and the brass badge on her shoulder glowed, the blood-red markings coming alive with a sinister light.
Suddenly, a deep, magnetic, tempting male voice echoed in her ear: "Do you desire the power to resist him?"
"If you do, just silently chant these words: ’Chill Touch...’"
Her eyes filled with longing, but she answered the voice deep inside her. As the fat noble’s clammy hand was about to touch her, she suddenly grabbed his arm.
"Chill Touch!"
Buzz—
A rush of necrotic cold exploded from her palm. Hans, the fat noble, stiffened—instantly frozen into a block of ice!
Encased in the ice, he still wore that sleazy grin—he hadn’t even had ti to change his expression before plunging headlong into death.
anwhile, in the theater’s basent below...
Regolas knelt piously before a makeshift altar. "Great Lord phistopheles, please accept this soul-feast!"
On the altar, magical brilliance flared, weaving a sweeping vision: a deserted, frigid tundra swept by razor winds, a lone white tower standing proud against the elents, indomitable, unfallen.
This was the palace, the library, and the arcane laboratory—seat of the Archdevil of Cania’s Eighth Layer, Regolas’s master phistopheles, the most knowledgeable being in all the Nine Hells.
As Regolas bowed low, a voice of vast power echoed out: "Yes, I have felt it—my power has touched the first Offering."
"You have done well, Regolas. When this night is over, you shall receive the reward you crave."
Regolas’s heart pounded. He pressed his forehead to the ground again. "My lord, serving you is the greatest honor I could ever ask for!"
...
In the main lobby, Charles suddenly halted.
Ever since Galleon’s blessing, thanks to frequent use of Hunter’s Mark, he had beco incredibly sensitive to the pulse of magic.
Sothing was happening here.
He wasn’t sure what—so he quietly incanted Hunter’s Mark, trying to pinpoint the disturbance.
In response, a brass badge—one of those he’d confiscated—suddenly burst with arcane light in his palm.
Just then, that sa magnetic, seductive male voice slid into his ear: "Do you desire the power to kill him?"
Charles’s pupils contracted sharply.
It was the voice of a devil’s temptation!
That ordinary-looking brass pin—it was a creation of the devils in the Nine Hells, used to corrupt and tempt mortals!
Wait.
Suddenly, it all clicked—this was Cassalanter’s design!
They deliberately kept the real purpose of tonight’s party secret from the perforrs. Only once these girls were trapped, betrayed, and faced with the harsh truth would their rage—at being tricked and humiliated—and their despair—in the face of imminent abuse—ignite!
And at that peak of emotion, through the magical brass badges on their shoulders, the blasphemous voice would lure them to take revenge—the girls would trade their very souls, desperate for the power to kill the monsters atop them!
All the murdered nobles, all the girls seduced by this voice—every soul in that cycle would be harvested by the true mastermind!
Tonight was never just a decadent noble revel. It was a ticulously prepared Cassalanter conspiracy. This entire gala was a sacrificial site for their devil master. Both the participating nobles and the performing girls were offerings for the House Cassalanter’s infernal lord!
Realizing the truth made Charles’s skin crawl. The sheer scale—how many people were in this building tonight? He felt a chill run down his spine.
The Cassalanters—were they insane?! Dozens of noble youths killed, and all these girls damned? No one could possibly cover up a scandal of this size!
This wasn’t so South Harbor District slum where murders went ignored. These were the sons and daughters of the city’s most powerful and entrenched houses!
Was the family truly deranged, or did they have so hidden fallback in place?
Didn’t they just try to rehabilitate their na by sending champions to fight at Montport? Weren’t they planning to keep climbing the ladder in Liberl Port?
Why would sothing like tonight ever happen?
~~~
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