Rules For The Bled

Yvain found himself on a narrow balcony on the third floor of the Menagerie, legs propped against the ornate iron railing, his robe cinched loosely at the waist. Below, Lavender Street glowed with the flicker of oil lamps and the staggering gait of drunkards, gamblers, and courtesans.

His anger had ebbed by now, worn thin by silence and solitude. In its place was the quieter ache of restlessness, the kind only a book could soothe. He sighed. But of course, asking for a library in a brothel would earn him a laugh.

Still, he could imagine it, the weight of a leather-bound tome, the smell of old pages, something obscure and ancient to drown his thoughts in. But imagination was a poor substitute.

He heard the door creak open behind him.

"By the gods, Yvain," came the familiar, too-cheerful voice of Mars, "this may very well be the third best night of my life. Second, if I'm feeling generous."

The bard sauntered out, shirt open, neck marked with lip prints, a half-empty goblet dangling from one hand. He leaned on the railing beside Yvain, squinting at the lights below like he expected them to start dancing.

"How in all the hells did you convince the Mistress to let us stay overnight?" Mars asked, grinning.

Yvain shrugged. "We were tired. She was gracious."

Mars raised a brow. "Gracious? Zelhara? Either way, I'm grateful." He took a swig, then glanced sideways. "And you should be too. Instead of skulking here like some ghost, you could have your face tits-deep in some delighted damsel."

Yvain glanced at him, deadpan. "I think you've had enough for both of us."

Mars threw his head back with a loud laugh. "That I have! And some more, if you're offering."

He was still chuckling when the door opened again, and Celeste stepped onto the balcony.

Mars spotted her and immediately straightened, smoothing his hair in an exaggerated manner. "And on that note, I believe I promised someone I'd drink a bottle of wine the size of my regrets." He winked at Celeste on the way out. "He broods worse than a widow."

Then he vanished back into the velvet-dark corridors of the Menagerie, leaving them alone under the starlight and city haze.

Celeste lingered by the door for a moment, arms folded. She studied Yvain without speaking. "One would think you were at a funeral," she finally said.

Yvain didn't reply immediately. Instead, he sank deeper into the cushioned seat, gazing out over the street as if hoping it might offer some wisdom. Or distraction.

"Feels like I'm attending my own," he muttered.

Celeste stepped forward, silent save for the rustle of her robe. "Still blaming yourself for not bedding the girl?"

He spoke, eyes still forward. "Blaming myself for wanting to."

Her gaze softened, only slightly. "She's an enchanter. You were drawn in. It's what they do."

He turned to her now. "She's also a person."

Celeste tilted her head. "And she offered. Freely."

"Under orders," he shot back. "Because my blood is noble. Because I'm someone."

"Exactly," she said. "And someday soon, you'll have to stop pretending you're not."

The air between them thickened. City sounds drifted up from below, a woman laughing too loud, a lute being tuned poorly, a distant argument over dice.

"We should leave soon," he said, wanting to be done with this place.

Celeste blinked. "We just got here."

"And we never should have come." He didn't look at her. His eyes were still on the street below, haunted by more than candlelight. "Zelhara will have sent a messenger bird to the Grandmistress by now, to verify who we are. If she hasn't already, the old witch will know where we are soon enough."

Celeste parted her lips to protest, but stopped. She folded her arms, thinking aloud. "How long do we have?"

"A week," Yvain said. "Maybe more."

"Or not," she whispered.

Yvain caught the tremor in her voice. He turned sharply toward her, and then followed her gaze back to the street.

A knight approaching the Menagerie on horseback. Sorel.

The automaton knight moved with a precision that bordered on the divine. Her entire body was clad in dull bronze plates, tarnished by salt and time but never by weakness. Every joint, shoulders, knees, even the tips of her metal fingers, hummed faintly with inner motion, a symphony of gears and clockwork artistry. She carried no crest now, no banner, but there was no mistaking her.

Sorel was not simply a construct.

She was one of the few sapient automatons forged in the old imperial age by Jantra the Nine-Handed, his most enduring masterpiece. Within that armored shell was no soul, no blood, no flesh, only ancient machinery spinning endlessly.

Once, she had marched with the Dehmohseni legions, bearing the twin banners of the Ouroboros and the Sun-Eclipsed Spear, her blade tasting the blood of kings and generals.

"How did she find us?" Celeste breathed, as though speaking too loudly might draw the thing's attention.

"She must have tracked us from Adwini," Yvain said, standing abruptly. "Or from the village." His mind was racing. "We need to leave. Now."

Celeste didn't argue this time. She turned, already moving. "I'll get the bard."

Yvain didn't waste another breath. He ducked back inside, grabbing what few belongings he had left scattered across the boudoir.

He met up with Celeste and Mars at the edge of the Menagerie's second-floor corridor, just as the automaton knight stepped through the brothel's front doors.

She stood beneath the hanging velvet drapes like some grim relic of another era. Tall, rigid, and silent, bronze armor catching every flicker of candlelight like a war drum mid-strike. The clink of her footsteps on marble echoed oddly.

It was a surreal sight. The clockwork knight of the Old Empire in a den of silken vice.

The trio ducked behind the carved railings of the upper gallery, crouching low. From here, they could see the whole main floor, courtesans frozen mid-step, patrons stammering as the war-forged silhouette stalked forward.

"Who is that," Mars whispered, "and why, gods above, are we hiding from her?"

Yvain didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on Sorel. "Is there a back door?" he asked, urgent.

"Not that I know of," Mars replied, already sweating.

"There is," said a new voice behind them.

They spun.

Adeline stood in the hallway behind them, her appearance subtly altered. Gone was the luminous gold hair and soft charm of her Menagerie persona. Now her hair was black as a raven's wing, slick and gleaming in the low light. Her lips were painted the same onyx shade, the transformation rendering her gaze sharper.

"What happened to you?" Yvain asked.

"The golden hair was a glamour," she said with a shrug. "Customer preferences."

She knelt beside them. "I know the back way out. It leads to the alley. Come."

"No arguments from me," Celeste said, already rising.

They followed Adeline through the hushed halls, past stunned courtesans and anxious guards who gave her a wide berth. They slipped down a narrow hallway draped in moth-eaten curtains, through a back room stacked with wine crates and perfume barrels. Finally, Adeline pushed open a small iron door, and cold air kissed their skin as they stepped into the alley beyond.

Outside, the world was still waking.

They hurried to their cart, only to find it half-looted. The sacks were slashed open, half their provisions gone, and someone had taken Yvain's cloak.

"We're lucky they didn't take the horses," Celeste muttered, climbing on.

Yvain was strapping in when he turned to Adeline. "Won't you get in trouble with your mistress?"

"I'm not staying," she said simply, hopping up beside him on the driver's perch.

Yvain blinked. "Wait. What?"

"The more the merrier," Mars said, clambering up from the back with a grin, hair tousled, shirt missing a button.

Celeste gave a short, satisfied nod. "We really should get moving."

Yvain didn't wait to argue.

He cracked the reins, and the horses galloped into the misty Canthian dawn, hooves pounding against cobblestone as they raced for the city gates.