Rinerva walked alone into the massive manor, her hands folded calmly behind the small of her back.

  She didn't sneak. She didn't draw a weapon. She walked with the entitlement of a woman who owned the ground beneath her boots. A short, hunched man in a tailored suit received her, bowing low enough to scrape his nose against the floorboards before showing her into a parlor.

  The air here was heavy. Not with humidity, but with Mana.

  It was thick, ancient, and cloying. To a sensitive like Rinerva, it felt like walking through invisible velvet. The house was laden with wards, old traps, and history. It didn't smell like the rot of the lower city; it smelled like power.

  It almost felt like home.

  “Lord Strigoi will be with you shortly.”

  “I would hope so,” Rinerva replied, her voice cool and bored.

  Her ice-blue eyes traced the hunched servant as he scuttled backward out of the room. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, blotting out the sunlight that should’ve been streaming through the tall windows. Instead, the room was lit by flickering candlelight that cast long, grisly shadows against the damask wallpaper.

  She walked over to a high-backed armchair and sat, smoothing her coat.

  A porcelain cup sat on the table before her. Steam drifted lazily from the rim. She didn't touch it. She smelled the iron content from three feet away.

  Her mind drifted to the others. Agon and Lillik had been dispatched to search for the two members who hadn’t returned to the central inn. They would sweep the safehouses first, but Rinerva wasn't optimistic. Whatever was happening in this city wasn't random violence; it was a targeted dismantling of her team. Talos and Nomi were being tormented, separated, and toyed with. Though she was loath to jump to conclusions. Twice could still be coincidence.

  The pieces were moving on their own, and Rinerva hated losing control of the board.

  “I apologize for my lateness, Lady Rinerva.”

  The voice didn't come from the door. It came from the shadows in the corner of the room—a smooth, baritone purr that sounded like dry leaves sliding over stone.

  “It is rare that we receive guests of such… lineage.”

  “That is fortunate for your guests. Your manor is suffocating,” Rinerva commented, not bothering to look at him. Her eyes inspected the rim of the teacup with mild distaste. “I was unaware the architects of Spindlegrad had yet to discover windows.”

  She tapped her fingers idly on the armrest. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Sit.”

  She didn't ask. She didn't shout. She gestured with a flick of her hand, claiming ownership of the parlor as easily as she breathed.

  Silence stretched between them. Thick. Heavy.

  Strigoi tensed. His upper lip curled, revealing the tips of serrated fangs. For a moment, the predator surfaced—but then, he paused. Perhaps it was the reputation of her blood, or perhaps it was the sheer audacity of a human ordering a monster in his own lair.

  Slowly, stiffly, he sat in the chair opposite her.

  “You are a strange man, Strigoi,” Rinerva mused, her cold eyes finally locking onto his. “You wear the clothes of a noble. You adopt the manners of a courtier. Yet your city is a pigsty of mud and rot.” She leaned forward slightly. “And now, you have a chance to reclaim your prestige. Yet you stand in my way while I clean up your mess?”

  Strigoi bristled, his pale skin flushing with indignation.

  “I— Excuse me? I will not be insulted in my own h—”

  “But you will allow a maniac with a broken Coven to control your city?”

  Rinerva cut him off, her voice like a guillotine blade. Her gaze bored into him, dissecting his pride.

  “If you want respect, Strigoi, it is earned. That is the lesson Rethnia teaches its nobles. We rule through Will.”

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  She gestured vaguely at the opulent, dark room.

  “Yet you, it seems, were never taught that. Build as many mansions as you like; you rule over a land of mud. Now, don’t interrupt me again.”

  Rinerva commanded.

  She didn't shout. She spoke with the tone she had learned from her father—the heavy, absolute cadence of House Glace. She was the rightful heir to a legacy of ice and iron, and she would not allow a pathetic, scurrying schemer to maintain any illusions of control in her presence.

  “Your Matriarch will be dead by the end of my time in this squalid city,” she stated, as calmly as if discussing the weather. “So my question for you is: does that upset you?”

  Strigoi tensed, his long fingers curling into the velvet armrest.

  “Why would it upset me?” he deflected, his voice careful.

  “Hm. Normally, when a pawn learns its King is to be toppled, it grows upset. Or… excited at the opportunity.”

  Rinerva leaned back, her eyes narrowing.

  “So tell me, Strigoi. What kind of pawn are you?”

  “I am no pa—”

  “Oh, please.”

  Rinerva cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. The air in the room dropped ten degrees instantly. Frost began to creep up the side of her teacup.

  “Seven years,” she hissed. “Seven years of Purge, and you draw breath? You think I believe that your little… gathering of rats with wings simply resisted the Matriarch? No. I am not so naive.”

  She stood up slowly. The candles in the room flickered violently, bowing away from her.

  “You survived because you knelt. Either drop the act, or we can see exactly what your people’s pale, chemical imitation of magic looks like against the weight of a Highborn Mage.”

  Strigoi tensed, then… all the fight left his body and he slouched into the chair.

  “...I am no pawn.”

  He repeated, a hand rubbed the near blind bat eyes. A habit from before his mutations. The ears drooped slightly.

  “But I am an accomplice. We survived because she’s utterly mad. A sadistic overlord obsessed with her own entertainment. She has… Rules. If we follow them, she lets us live, mostly in peace. Until she deems we’re worthy of being a part of her script.”

  Strigoi’s eyes turned up to her, shedding the haughty veneer of a lord to reveal the tired survivor beneath. He shifted with newfound, desperate resolve.

  “But she’s not the untouchable god she believes she is. Some of us broke free of being thralls. Last night, your Null did the same.”

  Rinerva’s mask cracked, just for a fraction of a second.

  “...You know where Talos is?”

  “They should already be on their way back to the little inn you’ve colonized. The Null and the… Fox.” The Bat snarled the word Fox, his upper lip curling in an instinctive, biological hatred. “You are arrogant, Noble. But you are powerful, and you have powerful allies. So I will play the only cards I have left on your side of the board.”

  Rinerva paused for a moment, her cold blue eyes dissecting him. She saw the fear. She saw the calculation. She accepted it.

  “Then I expect value,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “Pay your tithe, Strigoi.”

  “Very well, most of what I discussed with professor Lillik was untrue. There are hundreds of mutated bats, but only three High Witches that still draw breath. I am one of them.”

  He held up a long, pale finger.

  “The second is Jiang. She resides in the Lower City, and I don’t know her exact whereabouts. She is absolutely insane—a fanatic who views Carmilla as a living deity. She has spurred most of the commoners into a frenzy. She is the voice of the colony.”

  He held up a second finger.

  “And finally, there is Brujah. The Warden. He controls the aerial patrols and the mutation pits in the West District. He does not care for politics or religion; he only cares for the flesh. He builds the abominations you have been fighting. If Jiang is the Voice, Brujah is the Fist.”

  Strigoi leaned back, his expression grim.

  “And above us all sits Carmilla. The Director. She likely won't show herself until the finale begins. She prefers to watch her children tear each other apart first.”

  “And what does that make you?” Rinerva asked, her voice dry.

  Strigoi smiled. It was a tired, wary expression that didn't reach his eyes.

  “The Turncoat. She always intended for me to aid whoever came next. She spared me to serve as an ally for the doomed heroes. It adds… texture to the narrative, she says.”

  Rinerva stared at him, her disdain deepening.

  “The eternal prisoner,” she noted. “Fitting for a greedy schemer.”

  “...I resent that comparison.”

  “Then prove it wrong.”

  Rinerva pulled a parchment map from her satchel and slapped it onto the mahogany table between them.

  “Mark the locations. I want all of Jiang’s known safehouses, and I want the location of Brujah’s workshop.”

  Strigoi reached into his coat, producing a fountain pen. With precise, elegant strokes, he began to circle areas in the Lower City and the West District. Notably almost the entire lower district belonged to Jiang.

  “Your Giant,” Strigoi murmured without looking up, the nib of his pen scratching against the paper. “He is currently in rags.”

  He finished the markings and slid the map back to her.

  “Our people collected trophies during the war. Heavy iron. Titan-forged steel. I would offer them to you as a tribute to our… alliance.” Rinerva stilled, a costly gift. Both knew it. “If he is to fight Brujah, he will need more than an aged axe and a tunic.”

  “Have it delivered to our inn. Ensure you aren’t written out by the time I need your assistance in my own tale.”

  Rinerva pulled the map from the table, and walked out of the room with all the grace and focus of a woman raised since birth to be her title.