The Tower of Sin stood like a monument to exquisite corruption—seven floors carved from obsidian stone and the blood of bad decisions. A structure so decadent, so grotesquely magnificent, it looked less like it had been built and more like it had seduced itself into existence.
It loomed at the city’s edge, wreathed in plumes of red fog, guarded like a vault of virgins and secrets. Each floor represented a different sin—Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Lust, Envy, Wrath, and Pride—and each one promised unfiltered indulgence. To ascend to the next floor, you didn’t just survive your vice. You had to overcome it, outwit it, or be utterly consumed in the process. Naturally, the city’s elite adored it.
Think of it as a spiritual enlightenment course, but sponsored by a sadistic playwright and a few dozen bottles of absinthe.
But entry? Ah. That was the twist.
The Tower of Sin was more heavily guarded than a virginal heir on the night of an arranged marriage. The gates were sealed tighter than a nun’s thighs, and entry was granted only by invitation—delicate, red-scribed cards passed in whispers and bribes among the powerful. Not even the Baron—who owned more brothels than teeth—had managed to snag one in the past five years.
But he did have a lead.
"I suspect," he said while fondling a naked violinist, "that one of the city’s less... reputable businessmen came into possession of a card. Nasty fellow. Human trafficking ring. Operates deep in the slums, past where even rats file tax returns."
And so, here I was. The District of Flesh, as it was called. Trudging through the most foul-smelling pit Ventri had to offer with Miko beside me, my boots slowly losing the will to live.
The slums here were a masterpiece of misery. Corrugated metal rooftops leaned like drunks against one another. Sludge-filled alleyways whispered threats in the wind. The air tasted like rust and regret, with a faint undertone of piss and cheap incense.
Red lanterns flickered overhead, bathing the streets in a low, sultry glow. Somewhere in the distance, someone screamed. No one turned to look.
"Smells like home," I muttered.
Miko wrinkled his nose. "Your home needs a better perfumer."
We passed stalls stacked with suspicious meats, flickering opium dens, and cages of people being auctioned like exotic pets. And then we saw it.
A noble—fat, florid, and glistening like a melted candle—was waddling down the street with a leash in hand. Attached to it was a boy, slender and barely clothed, with a collar around his neck and a tail swishing behind him in small, anxious motions.
Rare, hunted, and sold like silk.
The boy couldn’t have been older than nineteen, if that. He had the long, pointed ears and sleek tail of a wolf, and the tragic beauty of something bred for sorrow. His skin was pale beneath grime and bruises. His frame? Feminine, almost ethereal. A courtesan carved for cruelty.
Two men followed behind, groping him between giggles like he was a toy they’d already broken.
I glanced at Miko, who wore the same frozen look I did. The one where if you blinked, you’d either cry or kill someone.
"We keep moving," I said through clenched teeth. "We’re not here to play savior."
Until the fat man laughed and said a name that made my heart twist.
"I hear old bastard Mavus is holed up again," one of the men grunted. "Ringleader my ass. All he does is drink away his sorrows."
Mavus Grey, the ringleader within The District of Flesh.
The one we’d come here to find.
It took a moment to register. My brain—usually quick with schemes and scorn—stumbled over itself before snapping to attention.
I turned just in time to see the beast boy bare his teeth and sink them into one of the men’s hands.
The man screamed. The noble roared. Chaos bloomed like a rotten flower.
"You little mutt!" the fat noble spat, yanking the leash so hard the boy fell to his knees. "Think that was funny?"
The boy whimpered, blood on his lips. Defiant. Beautiful. Terrified.
The noble turned to his companions, cackling. "I need a piss."
And he meant it. Right there. In the middle of the street. He unfastened his trousers and relieved himself on the cobblestone, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.
Then—just for sport—he knocked the boy down and stomped on his head.
"Clean it up with your tongue, dog."
Laughter. Laughter like knives.
I stepped forward, no longer hearing Miko behind me, no longer thinking at all. Then I placed a hand on his shoulder. He turned just in time to see me.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Then I simply flicked my wrist, my knuckle landing point blank on his chin.
The sound of his jaw breaking was oddly satisfying. Like cracking a crab leg.
He dropped to the ground in a heap, screaming through wet gurgles. Tears spilled down his jowls.
The others lunged, but Miko moved faster than any prayer could catch. Shadows erupted from beneath his feet, tendrils coiling up like serpents. One man screamed as he was flung against the wall. The other collapsed in a pool of his own shadow.
Silence returned to the alley, thick and sharp as a blade.
The beast boy was still on the ground, trembling. His tail curled tightly around him, ears low, eyes filled with stunned disbelief.
I knelt beside the noble and yanked his sweaty face up by the hair.
"You mentioned a name," I said coolly. "Mavus Grey, the man who runs this circus of skin. Where is he?"
"P-please—" he slobbered.
I pressed a boot against his throat. "Don’t beg. You’re ruining my mood."
The second man—alive, barely—wheezed and raised a trembling hand. "The park... amusement park. Abandoned. He drinks there sometimes. Alone. No one bothers him."
"Because he’ll kill them?" I asked.
"Because they’re afraid."
I dropped the fat noble’s head with a grunt and stood, brushing the filth from my coat with deliberate disgust.
Miko hovered near the boy, keeping a respectful distance.
"He’s not speaking," he said softly.
I approached slowly, crouching to the boy’s level. He flinched. Gods, he flinched like I’d raised a whip.
"Hey," I said gently. "It’s alright. I’m not here to hurt you."
"I know what they did," I murmured. "I know you’ve had your voice taken from you again and again. But you bit one of them. You fought. That means there’s still a fire in you."
His eyes flicked toward me, hesitant.
"You don’t have to trust me," I said. "You don’t even have to speak. But if you come with us, I promise I’ll make sure no one touches you like that again."
A long pause. The boy stared at me with those wide, uncertain eyes—like I was a storm he wasn’t sure would kiss or kill.
Then he nodded. Just once.
I stood, offering a hand. He took it. His grip was weak, but it was there.
Miko watched this with his arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Oh don’t look at me like that," I sighed.
"Like what?" he said, raising a brow.
"Like you’re about to write me a poem titled Cecil Valen, Unexpectedly Noble Bastard."
He smiled faintly. "You’re better than you pretend to be."
I gave a long, theatrical sigh. "Gods, I hope not. I have a reputation to maintain."
We slipped into the shadows of the street, our new companion close behind. The city still burned red around us, lust and blood baked into every brick.
But somewhere ahead, past the filth and fear, past the laughter of monsters and the tears of the forgotten, an amusement park waited. And with it, the next piece of the puzzle. The ringleader. The invitation.
The Tower of Sin loomed ever closer.
And I, as always, was ready to climb.