Running an underground operation filled with magically-enhanced femboys is, surprisingly, not profitable by default. At least not when they keep spending my gold on enchanted perfume and thigh-highs with real silver threading.
"Cecil," Roderick said, holding up our ledger like it was a cursed tome, "we're broke."
I took the book, stared at the red ink bleeding from its pages, and gave the most reasonable response: "This is clearly a forgery."
"No," he said. "It's your handwriting."
"Oh. Then I was clearly possessed."
We were huddled in the lounge, a candlelit war room of velvet cushions and increasingly expensive wine that I could not afford. Jules was lounging on a loveseat, dressed in nothing but a mesh top and lip gloss.
"You could sell some of your magical accessories," he suggested, sipping a drink I never authorized him to pour.
"I could also sell one of you to a traveling prince," I replied. "But we don't do things that way."
Elian blinked. "We don't?"
"No. We do it better."
That night, I paced the hallway, shirtless, as all good geniuses do. My thoughts were racing. We needed income. We needed protection. We needed to make Hollow's little purge squads regret ever stepping into our district.
What did I have?
Magic? Too risky to sell.
Weapons? Barely enough.
Femboys?
I paused, tapped my chin, then smiled.
I had femboys.
And not just any femboys. Mine were handcrafted works of art. Personalized. Stylized. Charm-enhanced and libido-optimized. If there were ever a time to weaponize beauty, it was now.
The brothel idea was presented with all the dignity of a royal decree.
"I'm opening an elite companionship parlor," I said. "A salon of pleasure. A boutique of sin. A cathedral of thighs."
Elian squealed.
Roderick frowned. "We're not selling our bodies."
"Of course not," I said. "We're renting them. At premium rates."
Miko covered his face.
"Think about it," I said. "We control the clientele. We gather secrets. We make coin. We seduce the system itself."
They were hesitant at first. Understandable. But by morning, the ground floor of our townhouse was already being rearranged.
Elian insisted on silk curtains and mirrored walls. Jules negotiated lighting spells for "maximum gloss." Roderick said he'd "work the desk." I didn't ask what that meant.
Salem showed up halfway through the setup. He leaned against the doorframe, watching me direct a floating couch into the corner.
"A brothel?" he asked.
"A companionship house," I corrected.
"Is this your big revolution?"
I turned slowly. "My revolution involves subverting oppressive institutions, reprogramming inquisitors with feathered pens, and making people rethink everything they believe about gender, power, and thigh gaps. This is just… the first franchise."
He blinked. "You scare me sometimes."
"Perfect," I said. "That means it's working."
Opening night was… chaotic.
We had no signage. No advertising. No pricing structure.
What we did have was Jules in fishnets greeting nobles at the door with a smile that promised danger and discounts. The first customer was a merchant baron, wealthy, arrogant, and smelling faintly of cinnamon oil and privilege.
He looked around, unimpressed. "This place is new."
I smiled from behind the counter. "So is rebirth."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing," I said. "First time's double price."
Turns out, people will pay obscene amounts for a night with a magical femboy who could also recite poetry and break ribs.
Jules brought in four clients before midnight. Elian had two regulars by dawn. Even Roderick accidentally seduced a visiting alchemist.
I mostly supervised. Mostly.
Later that night, I wandered into the lounge, and found Miko sprawled across the divan, still flushed from his last client. He looked up, glossy-lipped, eyes half-lidded.
"Boss," he purred, "we're making gold."
"So I've heard." I crossed the room and sat beside him. My fingers found his thigh—warm, silky, trembling ever so slightly.
He tilted his head back, exposing the mark I had left just below his collar earlier that week. My quill had worked fast on him. The transformation had deepened.
"You don't have a client tonight," I murmured.
"No," he whispered, breath hot against my neck, his emerald eyes and short curls catching the light above. "But I could be yours."
I leaned down, tracing a line from his collarbone to his navel with the tip of my pen. His skin broke into goosebumps.
I pressed a soft kiss just above his hip, a damp, desperate gasp escaped him. He arched into me, body slick and warm, glistening with heat.
My hands roamed, dripping with sweat, sliding over his trembling skin as the room filled with the wet and sloppy sounds of our shared hunger—breathless sighs, the slapping of skin, and the quiet pulse of desire leaking between us.
Miko's body trembled beneath my touch, not just with need but with the exquisite ache of surrender.
We finished together, Miko letting out a sharp yelp, before covering his mouth in embarrassment, parting his fingers to let out a stifled giggle, then leaning in for another kiss.
I took my time.
It was only fair after all. They'd given me loyalty. Seduction was just another way to say thank you.
Yet even victories taste strange when you're this paranoid—sweet on the tongue, bitter in the gut.
Hollow hadn't retaliated yet. That made me worry. Silence from the Church never meant peace; it was the breath they took before the blade. The velvet curtains alone were provocation enough to earn their ire, and I'd hung them proudly in every window.
Salem found me on the roof at sunrise, the city still draped in mist.
"You're making enemies," he said, voice low and even.
"Good," I replied. "Means they're paying attention."
"You need allies."
"I have my Court."
"You need outside allies," he pressed. "Guilds. Merchants. Political houses."
I sighed like he'd asked me to wash every floorboard in Soloris. "Fine. But I'm choosing them by cheekbone symmetry."
Later that week, as if Salem's concerns had been addressed by the heavens, a cloaked figure arrived at our brothel. Tall. Pale. And at his hip, a blade I recognized—blessed silver, the kind carried only by Hollow's personal inquisitors.
Roderick moved to intercept, but I caught his arm.
The stranger stopped before me, the hood's shadow hiding all but the glint of his eyes.
"What's your name?" I asked, pen already in hand.
"Call me Ash," he said. "I'm not here to fight."
"No?"
"I want in."
My brow rose. "In what, exactly?"
"In your operation. Your Court. Your rebellion. I want…" His voice dropped. "…to be beautiful."
I studied him for a long beat. This was either a trap dressed in silk or the start of something that could tip the board entirely. Either way, the ending would be mine.
"Very well," I murmured, stepping closer.
I drew the pen's feather along his collarbone. It flared violet, the glow casting sharp shadows across his pale skin. Ash exhaled, knees trembling.
The word slid from my tongue like smoke, and the magic bit deep. His body arched as the light consumed him—muscles honing, jawline softening, cheekbones sharpening into art. His hair spilled like ink over his shoulders. Gold bled into his eyes. The air around us seemed to taste of heat and temptation.
When it was done, he staggered once, then smiled with a kind of hungry reverence. "Thank you."
Behind me, Elian fanned himself lazily. "He's going to make us so much money."
I chuckled. "He's going to make us history."
And for a time, business thrived. The brothel glittered brighter than ever, the Court swelling with whispers and desire. Then Hollow finally responded. A letter arrived—sealed in white wax, scented with incense and blood. Inside, a single sentence:
Your velvet sins will be excised by fire.
Roderick growled. Jules muttered, "Kinky."
I smiled, slow and sharp. "Looks like the Church wants a war."
Salem stepped beside me. "And what do you want?"
Through the window, I watched Ash escort our latest client upstairs, the candlelight catching softly in his eyes.
"Right now? A kingdom of pleasure," I said. "Built on lace, lust, and just enough violence to keep it interesting."
The pen pulsed in my pocket. The Velvet Court was rising.
And we were just getting started.