The Praecia Veil never truly slept. It only changed its mask.

By dusk, the scent of perfume and cheap cosmetics began to seep through the halls, clinging to the velvet drapes and gilt walls like a second skin.

Claudia had already made herself comfortable, legs tucked beneath her on Cain’s bed like a spoiled cat basking in warmth. Her lips, tinted with the soft blush of wine, curve faintly as she took a slow sip from her glass.

The pale corseted gown she wore shimmered in the candlelight—it was Madam’s reward for “exceptional service,” as she so delicately put it.

Claudia couldn’t stand Lucinda, and she never tried to hide it. That feeling, Cain suspected, was mutual. Still, credit where it was due, Claudia knew how to make money. That alone was likely why Lucinda continued to drape silks and scatter jewels at her feet. 

Twenty years old, Claudia was at that golden age: old enough for guiltless indulgence, yet young enough to still look untouched. Six years in the Veil had taught her how to turn fragility into profit, and though she often floated through conversations as if her head were filled with silk and feathers, she saw far more than she let on. 

She’d learned by watching him. Claudia clung to Cain’s side like a shadow, studying the way he smiled just enough to make a man forget what he came here for, the way his voice could sound like mercy. It was both affection and the perfect apprenticeship. And in the Praecia Veil, there were worse things to learn than how to make a living out of lies.

“I can’t stop thinking about the man they found,” she said at last. “I wish they’d tell us who he was. It feels cruel… knowing nothing but the way he died.” 

Cain, sitting on a velvet chair across from her, didn’t look up. “Why do you need to know? What purpose would that serve?” 

“There’s been bodies before,” Claudia continued. “But… they were always far away. You know, in alleys or behind the markets. We’d hear stories about drunks or jealous husbands, but this…” she glanced toward the window. “...this was different. Right outside our gates. Surely someone must know who he was, or what he was doing there.” 

Cain swirled his wine. “Don’t you believe that ignorance is bliss?”

“Not when the dead are on our doorstep.” She exhaled shakily. “What if… what if this time it was one of our customers, and not just some stranger?” 

Cain finally met her gaze. “And what difference does that make?” 

Claudia’s throat tightened. “Because it means whoever did it could come back. It means we’re not safe, Cain. It means the danger isn’t just outside anymore. It’s here.” 

Cain lifted the glass to his lips, letting the wine linger on his tongue before setting it down on the vanity next to him. He leaned back in his chair, one ankle crossing over the other, fingers idly toying with the rings that gleamed against his pale skin. 

“I don’t like it,” Claudia whispered, her voice trembling. “Seviel’s always been corrupt, I know this. I’m not an idiot. But, I don’t know. This… this feels different. We were supposed to be safe here, Cain. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s consuming every minute of my day.” 

Cain let out a low laugh. “Safe? Claudia, we were never safe. The Praecia Veil isn’t a sanctuary, it’s a prison with velvet walls.” 

Cain lifted the glass from the vanity. He took a slow sip, letting the wine settle his nerves, willing the stillness to return to his hands.

She flinched at his tone. “Why do you always do that?” she snapped back. “Why do you have to make everything so cold? Why can’t you just admit that you’re scared?” 

His jaw tightened. “You think I’m not?” His voice cracked. “You think I don’t wake up every morning wondering if tonight’s the night I’ll be next? Or if one of you won’t come back? I think about it every day, Claudia.” 

She blinked, startled. “Then why don’t you ever say it?” 

“Because what good would it do?” He slammed his glass down, wine sloshing over the edge. “You want me to sit here and scream that I’m afraid? Fine. I’m afraid! I’m terrified! But what the fuck does it change?” His voice broke, and for a moment, the anger trembled into grief. “Do you think the world cares that we’re scared? We’re whores, Claudia. We don’t have names that matter. We don’t have education, we don’t have money, we don’t have family. We’ve got painted faces and tired bodies, and that’s all anyone ever sees.” 

Claudia stared at him, silent, tears spilling. 

He pressed a hand to his eyes, breath uneven. “If we ran… tell me, where would we even go? Who would take us in? Do you seriously think that anyone out there gives a shit about what happens to us? We’d starve before anyone listened.” His voice faltered, quieter now, but each word cut deep. “This place kills us slowly, but the world out there would finish the job.” 

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Finally, she whispered, “I know. I just… hate feeling helpless.” 

Cain looked up at her then with glassy eyes. “So do I. More than you know.” His voice softened. “Every time I hear about another dead body, I pray it isn’t one of the girls. Every time I see one of you walking upstairs with a stranger, I wonder if I’ll ever see you again. And every night, I pretend I’m not afraid. Because if I stop pretending, I’ll fall apart, and if I fall apart, we all do. 

Claudia reached her trembling hands out toward him. He didn’t move at first, but then he took them, gripping tighter than he meant to.

“I wish you’d tell me these things,” she said.

He laughed bitterly, his eyes shimmering. “You shouldn’t have to carry my mess, Claudia.” 

“That’s what families do,” she whispered. “And you are my family, Cain. You make me feel less alone. Even when you’re angry.” 

Cain’s expression crumpled. For the first time, he looked as if he might cry. But the tears never came. He leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

At last, he whispered gently: “I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.” 

༻𐫱༺

Madam Lucinda moved through the corridor with practised grace, her heels striking sharply against the marble floor as attendants followed behind her, lighting candles one by one. Their flames trembled in the mirror sconces, reflecting her silhouette as she passed.

Be charming, my darlings. Be careful,” she called, her voice smooth as honey. “Business must go on. People forget their sorrows easily if you smile the right way. Comfort them. That’s what they’re paying for.” 

Her words drifted after her, equal parts gospel and warning. 

When the last candle was lit, Madam Lucinda slipped into her private study and shut the door behind her. 

From a drawer, she retrieved a gold cigarette holder, fixed a cigarette into place, and lit it with steady hands. Smoke spiralled upward, soft rings unfurling like ghosts in the lamplight.

Lucinda Erith was a woman carved by survival, as if elegance were sharpened into weaponry. 

Once, she had been an ethereal beauty; men had crossed borders just to share an evening in her company. Time, however, had its own cruelty. The years had softened her face, but not her will. Her hair, still dark as ink, was always pinned into immaculate order, her bright blue eyes framed by the faintest traces of laughter and loss.

Lucinda brushed the papers aside with a faintly imperious flick, her fingers lingering on the smooth surface of the desk as if measuring the weight of her thoughts. She lifted a pen, dipped it in ink, and wrote slowly. When the note was complete, she folded it with care, sealing it with her personal insignia—the wax leaving a small, perfect mark.

She moved like a shadow down the hallway, sliding the envelope into the waiting hands of one of the Veil’s attendants. Then, without a word, she turned and descended the staircase, her presence commanding every shadow she passed.

The door at the end of the corridor opened, spilling a ribbon of golden light across the marble floor.

Music drifted upward. 

The scent of wine and warm perfume began to bloom through the halls.

Below, attendants moved like clockwork, trimming candles, straightening cushions and fixing their mouths into perfect smiles.

The Praecia Veil was waking once more, its heartbeat slow and ready to swallow secrets whole. By the time the first guests stepped through the gilded doors, the night was already watching. 

༻𐫱༺

Leda's Illusion: Leda was a queen of Sparta, wife to King Tyndareus. One night, Zeus descended to earth in the form of a swan to seduce and violate Leda. That same night, she also lay with her mortal husband. From these unions were born several famous figures: Helen of Troy, Clytemnestra, and Castor and Pollux. Leda often represents the moment when innocence and violence intertwine, when something holy dons a mask of beauty to commit an act of desecration. The swan's white feathers conceal the god's predatory nature beneath.