Wretch walked on naked feet across a narrow corridor, the carpet brushing against his soles as he descended a stairwell. It led into a dim kitchen, stacks of blackened pans and dented cauldrons filled the counters.

  From behind a door came the faint thumps of footsteps. The door swung open, bright lights illuminating his half-naked, bloodied body, claws quivering and tail whipping behind him. Wretch bared his sharp, red-stained teeth in a hiss.

  The man in the doorway let out a startled cry, stumbling backward. Wretch lunged, his shoulder crashing into the man’s chest, sending him to the floor with a thud. As the victim gasped for air, Wretch’s tail slithered around his throat. He grabbed the man’s hair and pulled him to his knees with the strength of his changed muscles.

  Wretch stared at the shocked man scratching at his tail. He didn’t recognize the face.

  “Where is the professor’s room?” Wretch said, giving the tail just enough slack to let the man speak.

  The man forced a shout from his throat. “We’re under attac—”

  Wretch’s knee interrupted the sentence, slamming against his nose with a crunch. The man crashed into a stack of pans, which rang as they fell to the floor.

  Wretch’s tail yanked the man’s head back, and he ran his claws along the exposed throat. Blood sprayed over the counters, painting the kitchen utensils red.

  The man grew limp, one final gurgle escaping his chest.

  Wretch licked a bloodied claw, savoring the iron taste, then searched through his pockets, finding a thick keyring. None matched the ornate key he remembered, the one that opened Jonah’s cage.

  The boy’s desecrated body flashed before his mind’s eye, his bloodied claws curled into his palms.

  Not enough. Not nearly enough.

  Wretch walked out of the kitchen door into a dark dining room. Stone walls, no windows, a long table beneath a chandelier. Crates littered the floor, some stacked higher than he was, and gas lamps waited along the walls. One by one, he shattered them as he passed, his eyes could pierce the dark.

  Dragging footsteps and muffled conversation approached the door.

  “You sure you heard something? The guard on night duty, perhaps, or Boris?” said a voice Wretch didn’t recognize.

  “I’m certain. From the kitchen, or towards the tower,” answered a second voice.

  Wretch’s dry lips drew into a grin. That second voice, he recognized.

  The double doors squeaked open. Two figures stepped inside, a single lantern held high. Its light pierced the dark, casting long, swaying shadows from the crates.

  “Looks clear. Turn on the light, will you? It’s almost morning anyway.”

  A click sounded, but no light came.

  “It won’t work. Feels loose,” said the woman, wearing a linen shirt and a sabre on her hip.

  “The kitchen. I see light from under the door,” answered the man. He was thin, with brown hair in a ponytail, dressed in a black coat that reached down to his ankles.

  The two walked forward.

  “If an idiot woke me up because of a midnight snack, he better be ready to shi—”

  Behind them, the door screeched closed. A soft click from the locking mechanism.

  “What was that?” the woman whispered in the dark.

  “Shh. Listen,” answered the man, raising his lantern and drawing a rapier from his belt.

  Something struck the wall behind them, metal chiming against stone. The man turned and lunged in a blur of fiery eyes and steel, moving at a speed reserved only for Blessed.

  There was nothing there.

  Just a spoon wobbling on the floor.

  The man's eyes grew to slits at the sight, then the woman yelped. A body hit the floor with a thud. The man twisted back, the lantern’s cone of light swaying just in time to see her reaching hands vanish under the table, dragged by something out of view.

  “Vivianna!” he shouted.

  A wet, tearing crunch answered him, and the woman’s yelp turned into a blood-curdling scream.

  The man paled, and his pupils lit with fire. Lightning arched around his rapier with a crackle. He advanced with careful steps, weapon drawn. The lantern illuminating the underside of the table.

  She was alone. Long gashes marred her face, her throat reduced to a gaping wound pulsing blood onto the carpet. She looked at him with glassy eyes and a gurgle escaping her as she tried to speak. She drew a final breath, then became still.

  “The machine protects,” the man whispered, his eyes flickering between the shifting shadows.

  From the dark came a voice. “The keys, laughing mask. Where are they?”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The man straightened, eyes opening wide. “You… you escaped.”

  Naked footsteps tapped against stone.

  “The professor. Where is he?”

  “You can still crawl back in your cage,” the man said quickly. “He’ll give you leniency. He won’t be harsh.”

  A low voice answered, filled with rattling anger.

  “Where are the keys… laughing mask?”

  “Your people almost rooted us out. It is justice,” the man said, lantern swaying through the room. “But know that I took no pleasure in it.”

  Wretch’s voice grew into a roar from the dark. “The keys. The keys to the cage and the professor. WHERE ARE THEY?”

  A pearl of sweat ran down the man’s temple. “You’ve lost it…”

  From the side, something flew toward him in the dark. The man’s rapier crackled with lightning, he exploded forward, the blade piercing wood.

  A chair.

  From beneath it, Wretch pounced, claws slashing at the man’s chin. but the man was quicker, he struck out with a kick, sending Wretch flying back into the darkness.

  The light flickered as a thick tail snaked around the lantern. The glass shattered, and the light died.

  The man stood alone in the dark.

  “That’s enough, boy,” he hissed, fiery eyes blazing. “I’m a Fireling. You’re just an Ember. I didn’t want to hurt you, but the professor will understand.”

  A guttural, inhuman voice answered back. “Now you bleed, now you suffer.”

  Lightning crackled around the man’s free hand. He strained, trembling as the arcs coiled tighter and faster, converging at his fingertips. For a split second, it was quiet.

  The boom shook the air, a blinding arc crashing through stacks of boxes, slamming against the table in a hail of splinters. For an instant, the room was bathed in white light.

  Wretch was six paces away beside a stack of boxes, ears ringing and eyes half-blind. Their gazes locked, their killing intent exchanged names.

  Jusjenko, Lightning Step

  Wretch the Rat-Eater

  Jusjenko struck out in the blink of an eye, not wasting the flash of light. But Wretch didn’t dodge, he took a step forward.

  The rapier drove deep into his chest, bursting out his back as the room fell into darkness once more.

  The impaling strike would make anyone scream in agony, but Wretch didn’t so much as flinch. His claws hooked around the man, pulling him close in a jagged hug. His teeth sank deep into the neck, ripping through flesh. Jusjenko screamed as his throat shredded.

  He staggered back, both hands clutching his neck.

  From the dark came a sickening scrape as Wretch pulled out the thin blade lodged in his chest. Two fiery pupils stared at the man to the sound of squirming flesh.

  Jusjenko stumbled, warm blood gushing down his neck and hands.

  “I argued for the kinder handling,” Jusjenko wheezed. “We’d break you at the rate we were going.”

  From the dark, two hands grabbed his head, clawed thumbs pressing against his eyes. “Scream.”

  Wretch pushed his fingers into his skull, and the man howled. He crumpled to the floor, whimpering and clutching his ruined face. “We aren’t like him, we’re not like—”

  The rapier pierced through his skull, nailing him to the floor. Jusjenko shuddered, then grew still, a glow appearing in his chest.

  Wretch felt a pulse from his Ember. Kindled, sixth time. He spat blood and meat onto the stone. If the Gulschak had joined the ranks of monsters around his flame, he didn't care.

  Ears still ringing from the lightning, he listened. Hurried footsteps.

  Good. He wanted them to come.

  He ripped out the coal from the dead man’s chest, kindling his flame again. In a pocket of the coat, he found a bone-white mask with a wicked grin.

  His vision flashed, and for a moment he was in the cage again, hands holding him down as the saw approached. He hissed, forcing the memory back through sheer bloodlust, then slid the mask over his bloodied face.

  Information filled his mind.

  Joyous Mask of the Play

  Hides the name of the wielder when expressing killing intent.

  Protection from divination.

  Mutes feelings of joy and laughter in the wearer.

  “When all is said and done, I’m going to break you into pieces,” he whispered.

  Hurried footsteps approached the double doors. Wretch grabbed the rapier and pulled Jusjenko’s blood-drenched coat over his shoulders. He walked up to the door, unlocking it with the stolen keys.

  Warm light flooded into the devastated room. He stepped into a stairwell going both up and down, closing the door behind him. Lights flickered all along the stairs, and he heard shouts coming from below.

  Three figures ascended the stairs in long steps, black suits with sabers drawn. Wretch stood motionless in the dead man’s clothing and mask.

  But for now, little mask. You’ll help.

  They stopped before him, wheezing from exertion.

  “Chief Jusjenko! The agent sent a telegram. The Hunters are onto us. We’re leaving through the escape route with the prisoner.”

  “Last one out opens the cages. That noise earlier, are we under attack already?” another added.

  Wretch nodded slowly, then spoke in a flat, monotone voice. “Where is the professor?”

  “A level down, in his room by the foyer. He—” The speaker stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Chief?”

  Wretch saw the man in the middle glance from his mask down to his stolen robe. It was black, but at the bottom, it was dripping blood.

  Wretch lunged. The rapier flashed forward, piercing deep into his chest. The other two froze in shock as Wretch moved in a blur. With a jump, he kicked one hard in the stomach, and his claws mauled the face of the other.

  He landed on all fours, skittering forward as if possessed. A Gulschak stumbled backward, holding his hands over his shredded face. Wretch drove a clawed hand through his guts, feeling a pulsing cord inside. He ripped it out, blood spraying like a burst steam valve.

  The man gasped, then drained sickly pale.

  Wretch spun around. The woman he’d kicked pressed a hand to her midsection, teeth clenched. She raised her sabre.

  He rushed her, pulling off the mask and throwing it towards her face. She swatted it aside with one hand while cutting with the sabre in a fast, practiced swing.

  Wretch leapt over it. His claws latched onto the woman’s chest, his tail coiling around her stomach.

  She staggered under his weight, struggling to get him off.

  Wretch tore a chunk from her neck with his teeth.

  They tumbled to the floor. His claws raked with animalistic rage, cutting her skin into ribbons. She fought back, but soon grew sluggish. Wretch rose to his feet, gazing around the stairs, thick tubes lining the granite walls of the interior. The last Gulschack crawled a few paces before growing still.

  He retrieved the rapier, dragging it behind him as he walked forward. He ripped a valve free with his strengthened muscles, and steam hissed into the stairwell, filling the interior with hot mist. His sight and hearing made both haze and darkness his domain.

  One level below you said?

  He disappeared down the stairs, leaving a trail of bloodied footsteps behind him.