The House of Silver Veils slept beneath the weight of its own perfume.
Down in the hall, the music had faded to a slow heartbeat of harp and drum, and the laughter of the night's revels had turned to murmurs and sighs. Behind every silk curtain, the city's sins whispered themselves to sleep.
Kaine stood before the mirror in his chamber, bare-chested, the faint light of the lanterns tracing the defined lines of his shoulders. His old cloak lay across the chair — ash-streaked, torn from the long road out of Valyria. It looked like something that belonged to another life.
He reached out, and the air rippled.
The fabric dissolved, folding in on itself, unraveling thread by thread until nothing remained but stillness and the faint smell of smoke.
From the open window, Vaerynna's voice curled into his mind like warm breath against cold glass.
You destroy more clothes than you wear.
"I'm cleaning house," he said.
By erasing it?
"It saves time."
And makes a mess of reality.
He smiled faintly. "Reality has survived worse."
The air shimmered again — energy gathering, then molding against him like memory turned solid. Shadows folded into shape; leather, steel, and movement became one. The mercenary's attire formed seamlessly — layered, quiet, and built for war without announcing it.
When he was finished, Kaine looked every bit the wanderer who had seen too much of the world and yet refused to bow to it. His two Valyrian blades rested against his back, their dark steel glinting faintly in the candlelight.
Vaerynna watched, half-visible against the window, eyes molten and curious.
You've traded mystery for menace.
"Menace tends to live longer."
So does arrogance, apparently.
He chuckled softly. "You're learning tone."
I learn from the best.
Kaine glanced toward her reflection in the glass. "Then you're in trouble."
You always say that when you're about to do something stupid.
"I call it interesting."
I call it inevitable.
He fastened the last buckle and flexed his hand once. "Stay here."
You think I'd listen?
"No," he said, amused. "But you'll pretend to."
You should know by now that pretending isn't my talent.
"Then humor me."
Only if you come back in one piece.
He smirked, brushing the last trace of dust from his gauntlet. "I always do."
And if you don't?
"Then burn the city. I know."
Vaerynna's voice softened, a purr hidden in the static of her thoughts. Try not to make me prove it.
Kaine's smile lingered, faint but real. "Be patient, little flame."
I hate when you call me that.
"I know."
When Kaine stepped into the corridor, the air changed.
Perfume drifted in waves — amber, rose, and myrrh — each scent more calculated than the last. Veiled women moved through the halls like silk in motion, their laughter a melody practiced to perfection.
As he passed, their voices dimmed.
Heads turned. Fans paused mid-sweep. Whispered words hung in the air like sparks from a dying fire.
He moved through them with the ease of someone accustomed to attention, but not bound by it. His presence drew eyes the way gravity drew stars — quiet, inevitable.
"That's him…""Look at his eyes— gods, they shimmer.""No mark, no crest — yet he walks like the Old Blood."
Their admiration was silent worship, threaded with curiosity and danger. He neither encouraged nor refused it.
At the bottom of the stair, the innkeeper looked up — and froze.
"M-my lord," he stammered, clutching the ledger as if it were a shield. "Forgive me, I… I hardly recognized you."
Kaine's gaze drifted lazily toward him. "Do I look so different?"
"You look," the man said, "like a story that forgot how to end."
Kaine's lips curved. "Stories are better that way."
The innkeeper's eyes darted toward the blades across his back. "If I may — are you a sellsword, my lord? Or something… else?"
Kaine tilted his head slightly. "A traveler. One who remembers how to fight."
The man hesitated, torn between profit and pity. "Then perhaps, my lord, you'll stay indoors tonight. The coliseum stirs. The blood runs thick when the Demon fights."
Kaine paused. "The Demon?"
The innkeeper nodded quickly, lowering his voice. "A woman. Gods save us all — if she still is one. They call her the Demon of the Pit."
Kaine raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
The man hesitated. Kaine placed a single gold coin on the counter and let it spin.
"She's not from here," the innkeeper said. "Half Westerosi, half Essosi. You can see it in her — pale skin, touched by the sun; dark hair braided like chains; gray eyes that burn. Beauty and ruin in the same breath."
"Go on."
"She was brought here as a girl — no older than fifteen. Taken during a border raid near Pentos. The pitmasters bought her to amuse the crowd. First fight, she tore her opponent's throat out with her bare hands."
Kaine listened, his eyes faintly reflective under the lantern light.
"They tried to tame her," the innkeeper continued, voice trembling. "Whips, hunger, worse. It didn't take. She learned. She waited. When they threw her back into the sand, she stopped fighting to survive — and started fighting to remember. Every blow she gives is for someone who didn't get to give theirs."
Vaerynna's voice slipped softly into Kaine's mind. She fights for ghosts.
"They all do," he thought back.
"Five years now," the man said. "Three hundred victories. Men, beasts, even a Red Priest once. She kills clean. No waste. No mercy. The crowds love her. The masters fear her."
Kaine's voice was quiet. "And you?"
The innkeeper hesitated. "I think she's what happens when the gods stop listening."
Kaine nodded once. "Or when mortals start pretending to be them."
The man blinked. "You sound as though you understand her."
"I do."
He turned toward the door.
"My lord!" the innkeeper called after him. "Don't go! She doesn't fight men — she ends them! You'll die, and no one will remember your name!"
Kaine stopped at the threshold. His iridescent eyes caught the light — silver flickering like stars in a dark tide.
"Then perhaps," he said, "she'll remember it for me."
"Are you mad?"
"Possibly."
He stepped out into the Volantene night.
The air was cool and thick with smoke. The city glowed like a fever dream — marble and shadow, fire and laughter.
From somewhere far off came the roar of a thousand voices, rising and falling like the breath of a beast.
The pits were awake.
Kaine's gaze lifted toward the coliseum, its torches flaring like a crown of fire.
Behind him, the innkeeper stared at the gold coin still gleaming on the counter, untouched, its surface still warm.
"Either he's mad," the man whispered, "or he's not a man at all."