The elevator sank slowly, shuddering with every clank of its ancient chains, and Lucien stood in the center of it without a flicker of unease. The iron cage around him rattled as though it carried not a boy but a coffin, lowering itself into the underworld. Darkness pressed on every side; a single rusted lantern swung above his head, dripping faint oil onto the grated floor.
The descent was long enough to silence thought. In that time, most would have felt a rising dread, some animal urge to claw at the gate and climb back toward the faint strip of light above. Lucien only breathed once, shallow, the way he always did when his heart knew no reason to waste a beat. His eyes remained fixed on the lantern, pale reflection catching in its glass, until finally the elevator thudded against stone.
The gate groaned open.
A wave of stench hit him—iron, sweat, musk, and rot, all woven together into something humid and suffocating. He stepped out into a corridor carved from bedrock, its walls sweating with moisture, lined with torch brackets that smoked but gave little warmth. Voices echoed in the distance: low groans, laughter, and the metallic clink of chains.
Lucien walked.
The tunnel widened into a hall, and the sight would have crushed the stomach of any ordinary boy. Cages lined both sides, stacked two high like a kennel, each filled with men. Some were stripped bare, bruised and blindfolded, their hands bound to the bars so their bodies sagged. Others knelt with chains running through collars, their faces slack with defeat. A few were forced to posture as grotesque ornaments—one man crouched on all fours while another's feet rested on his back like a stool.
The scent of degradation was thicker here, almost tangible. It would have been easy to imagine the air itself was poisoned, that once breathed, it would corrode one's dignity until nothing human remained.
Lucien did not flinch. He looked only straight ahead, boots striking the stone floor with even rhythm. Some of the men lifted their heads at the sound, their eyes hollow. One or two whispered hoarse warnings—"Don't go farther. Run while you can"—but Lucien did not pause.
At the end of the hall, two massive guards stood before a pair of carved doors. They were not men in the proper sense: shaved bald, muscles oiled to gleam, their mouths gagged with leather straps. Their eyes had long been emptied of will. They crossed spears before the door as Lucien approached.
"I was told to deliver this," Lucien said simply, raising the sealed box he carried.
Neither spoke. One pulled the doors open with a grunt.
Inside was the throne room.
It was circular, cavernous, the ceiling high enough to vanish into shadow. A ring of crimson carpets stretched across the stone, leading to a dais of black marble. Upon it lounged a throne carved from ivory bones, its frame set with gemstones that glowed faintly in the torchlight.
And on the throne sat the Lady Man.
He was not old, though his presence carried the weight of decades. His hair, a pale silver, spilled down to his shoulders in waves too soft for a man, yet his jaw was strong, chin lifted proudly. He wore silks in layered shades of violet and rose, flowing robes that fell open at the chest to reveal skin smoother than most courtesans'. Rings sparkled on every finger, long nails painted black. Around him, half-naked attendants—both men and women—knelt at angles, offering trays of fruit, wine, or their own bodies for use.
The Lady Man smiled when he saw Lucien. His teeth were small, neat, too perfect.
"Well now," his voice slid through the chamber like smoke, warm yet sharp, "the messenger arrives."
Lucien stepped forward, unbothered by the dozens of gazes clinging to him. He set the box carefully upon a low table before the dais, bowed his head by the barest margin, and said, "The package."
A servant in jeweled chains scurried forward to retrieve it. He lifted the box, hands trembling, and turned to the Lady Man. But before he could reach the throne, his foot slipped on the carpet's edge.
The box tumbled.
It hit the floor with a dull thud.
The hall froze. Every chain ceased rattling, every breath caught. The servant fell to his knees, his face draining of blood. "M-my Lord, forgive me! I—"
The Lady Man's smile widened, almost gentle. He lifted a languid hand, adorned with rings, and flicked his fingers.
A guard moved. One swift arc of a blade, and the servant's head fell, rolling across the carpet until it bumped against Lucien's boot.
The silence afterward was total, vast. Even the torches seemed to burn more quietly. The body collapsed beside the boy, still twitching.
Most children would have screamed, retched, or fled. Lucien merely shifted his weight and looked at the Lady Man with a flat, winter-pale stare. He did not so much as blink at the blood pooling around his shoes.
For the first time, something faltered in the Lady Man's gaze. He tilted his head, intrigued.
"You do not tremble," he said softly. "Most cannot even breathe when they see me take a life."
Lucien's lips moved once. "It isn't the first time I've seen someone die."
The attendants whispered among themselves. The Lady Man raised a hand, and silence fell again. His smile returned, but now it held teeth—sharp, interested, predatory.
"Tell me your name, boy."
"Lucien."
The name lingered in the air like a challenge.
---
The Lady Man's Past
He studied Lucien for a long moment, and something inside his smile wavered—an echo of memory. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the boy he once was.
He had been called delicate since birth. A father who sneered at his soft voice, brothers who laughed at his narrow shoulders. When he tried to spar, they shoved him into the dirt. When he tried to speak, they mocked his lisp. "You're not a man," they said, voices jeering, fists bruising.
Later came the older men. Some sought him because of his beauty, because he resembled a girl in candlelight. They whispered sweetly, then used him roughly, then cast him aside. Each encounter left a wound, but also a lesson: power lay not in resisting but in controlling the hunger of others.
He remembered the night he killed the first of them. A noble who tried to buy him outright, calling him a "pet." He had smiled, poured wine, and when the man was drunk, he slit his throat with a hairpin. He had felt the warm spray, and instead of revulsion, he had felt alive—finally, terrifyingly alive.
From then on, he built himself with cruelty as mortar. He seduced men of influence, then blackmailed them. He gathered secrets, built debts, assembled a court of the broken. Each humiliation he once endured, he returned a hundredfold upon others.
And here, beneath Gravemont, he constructed his sanctuary: a world inverted. A place where men became toys, where strength bent to beauty, where fear was the only law.
Yet this boy, this Lucien—he looked upon death and showed nothing. Not fear, not hatred, not even disgust. The Lady Man's chest ached with something he had not felt in years: curiosity.
---
The Offer
"You have seen my world," the Lady Man said, his voice soft but carrying through the hall. "Here, the strong serve the beautiful. Here, pain is worship. Do you know why I allow outsiders to glimpse it?"
Lucien's eyes gave no answer.
"Because among the sea of weak men, sometimes I find a pearl. Someone… different." He leaned forward, robes spilling over the throne's arm. "You, Lucien. You are unbroken. I could make you more than a messenger. You could stand beside me, rule at my feet, taste pleasures this world denies."
He raised a hand, beckoning. Attendants shifted, their eyes burning with envy. The Lady Man's gaze was a velvet snare, a promise of power.
But Lucien only looked back at him, cold and silent. There was no flicker of temptation, no glimmer of hesitation. His expression was carved from stone.
The Lady Man felt it—a sting. For the first time in decades, his charm slid uselessly off someone's skin. He searched the boy's eyes for any crack, and found only emptiness.
"You refuse me," he whispered, almost reverent. "Do you know what men beg for, crawl for, kill for—to be chosen by me? And you look at me as if I am… nothing."
Lucien's voice came, low and sharp: "Because you are nothing."
The words struck the chamber like thunder. Attendants gasped, some recoiling. Guards shifted uncertainly. No one had spoken thus to the Lady Man in years.
Yet he did not rage. He threw back his head and laughed, a sound both beautiful and broken. When he looked down again, his eyes burned not with anger but with obsession.
"You will leave," he said finally, voice trembling with excitement. "I will not cage you. Not yet. Because now, Lucien, I must see what you truly are. Whether you are pearl… or dagger."
---
The Exit
The doors opened once more. Lucien turned without bowing, stepping past the corpse still cooling at his feet. The hall parted before him, guards lowering their spears, attendants watching in awe or terror. He walked back through the cages, past the men who groaned in their chains, past the stink and the blood, until the elevator swallowed him again.
The ascent was silent. When he emerged once more into Gravemont's midnight, the air tasted clean compared to the underworld stench. The moon was a thin knife above the rooftops.
Lucien walked the cobblestones, his shadow stretching long. His mind did not linger on the Lady Man's offer, nor on the corpse. To him, the world below was simply another kind of rot, another symptom of human weakness.
And yet… somewhere in the darkness, chains rattled in memory. The Lady Man's laughter echoed faintly in his ears.
This was not the end.
It was only the beginning of a pursuit.