I found myself back in the basement of the arena, descending those same polished marble stairs I'd climbed what felt like hours ago but was probably closer to thirty minutes, my boots clicking against the stone with a rhythmic precision that echoed in the enclosed space.
The air down here was cooler than the arena proper, thick with that same humid musk of sweat, steel, and old violence that seemed permanently baked into its walls.
I was just a few steps away on the staircase when I paused, one hand resting on the cold wall, because the scene before me wasn't what I'd expected.
Tora sat on one of the two black marble benches positioned in the center of the chamber, his slight frame almost swallowed by the shadows despite the flickering torchlight that painted everything in shades of orange and gold.
His hair seemed to glow with an internal luminescence in the dim light, catching and reflecting every stray flicker of flame until it looked like he was crowned with moonlight. His eyes were cast downward, fixed on the floor with an expression that hovered somewhere between contemplation and concern.
I let the theatrical mask snap back into place with the ease of someone putting on a familiar costume, smoothing away the exhaustion and darkness that had started to creep into my features during the walk back, and stepped into the room with a soft smile playing across my lips.
"Well, well," I said lightly, my voice carrying across the chamber with practiced warmth. "Fancy finding you here."
Tora jumped so violently he nearly toppled off the bench, his hands flying up in a startled gesture that would have been comical if it wasn't so genuinely alarmed. When his eyes found mine they were wide with surprise and relief in equal measure.
"L-Loona!" he stammered, pressing one hand to his chest as though trying to physically calm his racing heart. "You—I didn't hear you coming down the stairs, I was just—" He cut himself off, swallowing hard.
I tilted my head with exaggerated curiosity as I crossed the chamber and lowered myself onto the opposite bench, letting my injured side protest with a sharp spike of pain that I carefully kept from showing on my face.
"I'm surprised to find you here," I said, settling into a comfortable position and crossing my legs in a way that made my skirt ride up just slightly—not enough to be scandalous, just enough to be present. "I would've thought you'd be up there with the Director, witnessing the... aftermath of our little performance."
Tora sat back down slowly, his movements careful, deliberate. His gaze drifted back to the floor as though he were searching for words written in the stone.
"Spectacles like those don't really interest me all that much," he admitted quietly, his voice carrying that particular quality of honesty that made it impossible to doubt him.
I nodded slowly, letting his words settle between us. "Makes sense," I said, keeping my tone neutral and free of judgment. "Unlike the nobles and Velvets up there, you don't strike me as the type who gets off on watching people suffer. You're too..." I paused, searching for the right word, "...kind for that. Too human, maybe, in a city full of monsters."
But even as I said it, something nagged at me, some detail that didn't quite fit. "Although, if I'm being honest, what surprises me more is your fortitude. That seems unusual for you, given what I'd just done to her."
Tora's expression flickered—something passing across his features too quickly for me to fully identify—and he met my eyes with a directness that was rare for him, his usual timidity momentarily set aside.
"I've seen worse," he said simply, and the weight behind those three words made my breath catch slightly. "Plenty of times before, actually, back when I first became a Glasswick and was assigned to the upper layers. The things that happen in the private chambers of the truly powerful..." He trailed off, shaking his head as though trying to dislodge unwanted memories.
I leaned back in my seat, letting that information percolate through my thoughts, and found myself studying Tora with new eyes, seeing layers I hadn't fully appreciated before.
He'd witnessed horrors I could only imagine, had stood in rooms where power was exercised without constraint or consequence, and somehow he'd emerged from it still capable of kindness, still willing to help me despite knowing exactly what kind of person I was becoming. That took strength of a variety I wasn't sure I possessed.
Tora shifted slightly, his gaze sharpening with sudden intensity, and asked the question I'd been half-expecting since I walked into the room.
"And what about you?" His voice was soft but carried an edge of genuine curiosity, maybe even concern. "Did you enjoy watching Elvina fall into ruin like that? Seeing her broken and humiliated in front of everyone?"
I opened my mouth to give him my usual flippant response, some theatrical deflection about embracing chaos and playing the part I needed to play. But the words died in my throat, because this was Tora, and he deserved better than my performance.
"I..." I paused, "Yes. Parts of it."
I let that truth settle, then continued with equal honesty. "Even so, I won't justify my actions by pretending what I did was righteous. Even though I performed it that way for the crowd, the reality is far more simple. Her ruin was necessary for my personal progression. For cementing my influence, for protecting my crew, for establishing myself as someone too dangerous to cross. I won't lie to myself about my motivations."
Tora nodded slowly, absorbing my words with that particular stillness he adopted when processing something significant, and then he said something that made my chest tighten with unexpected emotion.
"You've changed, you know. Ever since the day your mother died, you've..."
I raised my hand sharply, cutting him off mid-thought, because I didn't need him to finish that sentence, didn't need to hear him articulate what I already knew with crystalline clarity.
"I know exactly what I've become," I said quietly, my voice carrying a weight that had nothing to do with volume. "I'm not blind to it, Tora. I made choices—conscious, deliberate choices—about who I would be in the wake of that loss, and this is the result."
Tora's usually meek face stiffened then, his jaw setting with determination that transformed his delicate features into something almost stern, and when he spoke again his voice carried a certainty that made it a statement rather than a question.
"You're going to kill him, aren't you."
I nodded. "Yes."
"I knew it," Tora sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly as though confirming what he'd already suspected somehow made it more real, more inevitable.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and let the full weight of my conviction show in my expression.
"I won't stop," I said. "I won't let myself fall into the despair of the past, won't let grief, guilt, or any other inconvenient emotion derail what needs to happen. Even if it means burning this city to the ground, I'll do so without hesitation if it means achieving my goal."
Tora winced slightly at the raw intensity in my voice, and when he spoke again there was genuine worry threading through his words. "That type of mentality will come back to bite you, you know?"
I nodded in agreement, because he wasn't wrong—I knew the dangers of obsession, understood that the path I was walking would extract prices I couldn't yet imagine.
"You're probably right," I admitted with casual acceptance. "But I'll push through regardless, because that's who I am. A creature of chaos. A harbinger of sin. A theatrical masterpiece wrapped in flesh and spite."
Tora's expression softened into something knowing, almost sad, and he countered with quiet perception. "Or that's what you dress yourself up to be. What you perform for everyone, including yourself, because the alternative—acknowledging the parts that are still human, still capable of feeling things beyond rage and satisfaction—is too dangerous to your mission."
I laughed then, a genuine sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in my chest, because he'd managed to see through layers I thought I'd successfully buried. "Don't I wear it well, though?" I asked, my tone slightly playful.
Tora giggled despite himself, the sound light, musical, and entirely at odds with the weight of our discussion, before nodding with reluctant agreement. "Enough to fool me," he admitted, his smile softening his features. "Most of the time, anyway."
Then that smile vanished almost immediately, his expression turning blank as the humor drained away. "Ah, I nearly forgot to mention. That boy—what was his name again?" He tapped his chin thoughtfully, clearly searching his memory, before the answer surfaced. "Ah yes, Dunny, he brought me the diagram you requested," he said, his tone shifting back to business, probably because dwelling on my moral decay was too painful for both of us.
Tora reached beneath his pristine white robes, his hand disappearing into some hidden pocket, and pulled out an old piece of parchment that had been folded multiple times into a compact square. He unfolded it carefully, smoothing out the creases, and held it up for me to see.
My heart stuttered in my chest, actually skipping a beat like some melodramatic protagonist in a romance novel, because there it was—the diagram of Iskanda's ruby, every facet and angle captured with the kind of precision that came from someone who'd spent hours staring at the damned thing.
The sketch showed the gem from multiple perspectives, noted its approximate dimensions, even included details about the silver chain it hung from and the particular way light seemed to catch and refract through its depths.
It was perfect. More than perfect—it was exactly what Tora would need to summon the actual object.
Tora stood slowly, his movements deliberate as he positioned himself in the center of the chamber. He held his hand out palm-up, closing his crystal blue eyes in concentration.
The air around him began to shimmer, taking on that heat-wave quality I'd seen before, and I watched with held breath as space itself seemed to fold inward, reality bending and twisting around his outstretched palm like fabric being gathered by invisible fingers.
There was a soft pop—not loud, just a gentle displacement of air—and suddenly the ruby was there, materializing out of nothing, the gem catching the torchlight and throwing it back in cascades of crimson brilliance.
It hung suspended on its delicate silver chain, swaying slightly from the momentum of its sudden existence, and when it settled into Tora's palm with a soft weight, I felt something electric shoot through my entire body.
I rose from the bench slowly, almost reverently, and crossed the distance between us with measured steps, my eyes never leaving the ruby.
When I reached Tora, I extended my hand with fingers that trembled just slightly—from exhaustion, from excitement, from the sheer weight of what this object represented.
He placed it carefully into my palm.
The metal of the chain was cool against my skin, the ruby itself warm in a way that suggested it held heat from wherever it had been moments before. I closed my fingers around it with the care usually reserved for handling explosives or newborn creatures.
Then Tora began to sway.
It started as a subtle shift in his balance, barely noticeable, but within seconds it had progressed to full wobbling, his knees going weak and his eyes rolling back slightly as all color drained from his already pale features.
He nearly collapsed—would have collapsed if I hadn't lunged forward and caught him around the waist, steadying him with enhanced strength and guiding him back down onto the bench where he settled with a soft thump. I sat next to him, pressing my hands to keep him steady.
"Tora!" I said sharply, genuine concern cutting through my usual performance. "Are you okay? What happened?"
He nodded weakly, one hand pressed to his forehead as though trying to physically hold his consciousness in place. "I'm fine," he managed, his voice thin and breathless. "Just... I can't summon too many objects in such a short period of time without significant strain. The cage, the Director's cane, and now this—it's too much, too fast. My core is practically screaming at me." He gave me a sheepish grin that looked more like a grimace. "I'll be fine in a few hours. Just need to rest and let my reserves regenerate."
I felt something warm and uncomfortable twist in my chest—gratitude, maybe, or guilt at having pushed him so far.
"Thank you," I said quietly, the words inadequate but sincere. "For going this far for me. For trusting me enough to help even when you know exactly what kind of chaos I'm orchestrating."
Tora's sheepish grin softened into something more genuine, and he waved off my thanks with a weak flutter of his hand. "What are friends for?" he said simply.
His eyes tracked to the ruby still clutched in my hand then, curiosity flickering across his exhausted features. "What is it, anyway?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "I could tell it was a magical artifact of some kind when I summoned it—it has this... resonance, like it's humming on a frequency I can barely perceive. I've never seen anything quite like it before. What does it do?"
I paused, weighing my options, then smiled with mysterious playfulness. "I'll keep that a secret," I said lightly.
Before Tora could press further—before I had to deflect more questions I wasn't ready to answer—the sound of footsteps echoed down the stairwell, sharp, distinct, and approaching with purpose.
My heart kicked into overdrive, adrenaline flooding my system as panic threatened to override rational thought.
I moved on pure instinct.
In an instant, I stuffed the ruby deep into my boot, shoving it down between the leather and my calf where it pressed against my skin with uncomfortable but secure pressure, while simultaneously Tora's hand shot out and snatched the diagram from where he'd left it on the bench.
He crumbled the parchment with frantic efficiency, his fingers working faster than I'd ever seen them move, and tossed it aside into the shadows just as a figure came stumbling into view at the base of the stairs.
Director Thalen emerged from the darkness like a specter, his skeletal frame leaning heavily on his cane, each step measured and deliberate but clearly taxing on his ancient body.
Behind him, moving with her usual predatory grace, came Iskanda, her expression unreadable as her eyes swept across the chamber and landed on Tora and me with brief but pointed assessment.
"Well," Thalen said, his voice carrying that distinctive rasp that always sounded like gravel being dragged across stone, "what have we here? A private conversation in my arena's basement? How delightfully clandestine."
His eyes—sharp despite his age, missing nothing despite the dim light—tracked between Tora and me with calculating interest. I felt the ruby pressing against my leg like a burning coal, a secret that suddenly felt far too large to hide.