Chapter 72: Renwick’s Whore Theory: A Practical Demonstration
Guinevere Lunaris had just killed two people in under thirty seconds. Her composure held because her emotions had vacated the premises, hovering somewhere out of reach. It was like this was happening to someone else and she was merely an observer.
RULE 14: They think you meant it? You meant it. Shut your mouth. Half of every legend is bullshit.
The silence that followed was louder than the two kill throws combined.
Three seconds. Five. Seven. Ten. Eleven seconds before anything happened. Guinevere counted. Neither she nor the commander broke eye contact the entire time.
Without looking away from her, the commander spoke first in Setharii. "Weapons. All of them. Now."
Every blade in the room was drawn. Bows rose from the perimeters. And Guinevere stood in the center of the kill box with nothing in her hands.
Confirmation that she’d just paid her first night, and the whore was already working for free.
The commander smiled. "Your move, sweetheart."
RULE 15: Hesitation is for cucks and corpses. Make the move. If you fuck it up, at least you’re still the one doing the fucking.
Yes there were weapons pointed at her. But the most pressing issue was the blade at Ryker’s throat. The Commander would move to him next because Maddox hadn’t worked.
Without pausing, she reached for the flame in her body, flexing that muscle as hard as she could, and shoved it to Ryker.
Please don’t burn him. Gods please don’t burn him. Please don’t burn him.
Gold flame rolled across his body, settling onto his skin without burning him. The man holding a blade at Ryker’s throat immediately caught fire from the proximity and started screaming.
The sound was exactly what she did not want, because there were children in this room who were already terrified, and the sound of a man burning alive was going to live in their memories the way it was going to live in hers.
A blade came for her from the right. Slower. She didn’t know if it was an attack or if someone was throwing her a bone.
She spun, caught the blade, and sent it into the screaming man’s throat in one movement.
That one she aimed for. That one she meant. Three for three not missing. If only Nicholas could see her now.
"And she delivers a mercy kill because the screaming bothered her." The commander clapped once. "You just showed a card, sweetheart. I’m not sure if I should be proposing or recruiting."
Chuckles followed.
RULE 16: A man chasing laughs is just a premature ejaculator who blew his load too early. Get one of his men to laugh at him and the rest will see the stain on his pants.
"I showed a card," she replied. "You’ve shown your entire hand, your backup hand, and your underwear. We are not the same."
"If you’re going to undress me, at least buy me a drink first. I have standards." He glanced at his men. "Low ones, but they exist."
Guinevere had to hand it to him, that response was funny. She didn’t join in the laughter, but he did do well with that.
While his men laughed, she was reaching for her flame muscle again, finding it faster than she had the first time. She didn’t flex it yet, but she had it ready.
She let her eyes drift to the severed head, then back to him. "Your lieutenant is an armrest. Two of your boys clocked out early. You change languages like a woman changing outfits. I would know. You’re still zero for four. And shocker, the ace card you’ve been saving all night is an expired coupon."
A snicker followed. There it was. One of his men saw the stain. Every soldier leaned forward, waiting for her punchline.
"Does this approach usually work for you in hostage negotiations, Commander? I’m genuinely wondering."
The soldier standing next to him cracked first. The most visible spot possible. He tried to swallow it. Failed. The rest of the unit went down like dominoes.
The commander’s jaw tightened, which made some of them laugh harder.
RULE 17: The moment he loses the room, he’ll show you who he really is. Be swinging before the mask hits the floor.
He tipped his chin towards a child in the front. All humor was gone. "Grab him."
Gold fire erupted outward from Guinevere’s chest in a wave. It surrounded Blair, who looked down at her hands glowing gold. Then it swept through the hostages until four hundred people were wrapped in gold light that came from a wolf who had no training, no title, and no explanation for what she was doing except that four hundred people needed her to do it.
The obsidian absorbed the heat radiating from the hostages. But the message sent was still received loud and clear. Every hostile in the room stepped back from the hostages.
Perfect. A bonus whore. Paid and now working alongside the first.
The commander kept his expression neutral, but his eyes flicked behind Guinevere at his men for a split second. It was so fast she would have missed it if she hadn’t been looking for it.
"You’re showing too many cards, Sweetheart," he said calmly. "That’s how amateurs play throne room chess."
"Rich coming from the man who brought all of his leverage out at the same time." Her voice dropped and the room followed it down. "The next weapon raised will meet flame. Lower them."
If they didn’t lower their weapons, she would be forced to try to burn them. Something she wasn’t sure if she could even do, let alone fully control.
For a second, none of them moved. She exhaled, and didn’t hesitate, flexing it again. But to her shock and relief, no one caught on fire.
Instead, golden runes blazed to life across the walls, obsidian columns, and floor beneath her boots.
All weapons lowered immediately.
The commander studied her. The assessment took four seconds, and what emerged from it was a smile that was worse than the last one.
"A little girl standing in the center of a room full of trained killers like she’s the most dangerous thing in it. Fascinating."
"You do realize I could set you on fire. Right?" She probably couldn’t. The fire did what the fire wanted.
Heads swiveled. Left to Guinevere. Right to the commander. Left again.
"You are using intimidation tactics to get what you want," the commander snapped. "Weapons. Now."
No weapons were raised.
Guinevere blinked, stunned with how well this was going. She recovered quickly.
"The commander holding four hundred hostages just accused a little girl of using intimidation tactics on a room full of trained killers." She looked at the tallest soldier. "Am I being pranked?"
He gave a partial shrug then realized he was doing it and un-shrugged.
Snickers followed.
"SILENCE!" the commander ordered. "You’re standing in a room full of men who do this for a living, and the fact that you’ve survived this long says more about how badly my men underestimated you than it does about your chances of surviving the next five minutes."
RULE 18: Take his words and fuck him with them sideways. A man hearing his own line come back at him from the wrong mouth is a man who just watched his dick get stolen.
Amusement crossed her face. She held it long enough for his men to see before schooling it. "Try again. You’ve already announced you need me alive. Wrong house, wrong odds, wrong night. But the delivery? Phenomenal. You talk like you’ve done this before."
Quoted, flipped, and fucked sideways.
One of his men choked on a laugh. Tried to swallow it. Failed. Coughed instead.
Then the throne room erupted into full-blown laughter. Both sides this time. Hostages and killers coming together as one. Blair held for as long as she could, then burst out laughing behind Guinevere. It almost cost Guinevere her intimidation-tactic composure, but she held.
Ryker stared at the ceiling for a full second. The prayer was brief: gods, please don’t let me die laughing in a hostage situation.
"Brass ones on you, I’ll give you that." The commander lifted his hand. The air behind the dais tore open.
A portal. Violet-black, crackling at the edges. The energy pouring from it was cold and wrong and carried a scent that was sour.
The room went still.
"You come quietly. We retreat. Your king bleeds on his own floor, which he was already doing before we arrived. Clean exchange."
Guinevere didn’t look at the portal. "There are more of your men in this Keep. At least thirty-five from my count. Call them to this throne room."
The commander’s eyebrows rose a fraction.
He stared at her for three seconds. Then he laughed, and the laugh was real this time, the sound of genuine amusement from a man who was enjoying himself and hated that he was.
He lifted his chin and the broadcast hit the Keep again. The same bone-deep frequency, the same skull-vibrating pulse that bypassed ears and arrived in marrow.
"All units. Throne room. Now."
Some of the children in the room started crying. The sound was thin and high and hit every wall and came back worse.
She did not react. Her face stayed fixed on the commander. Her hands stayed at her sides.
They came in groups, filing through the doors and took positions along the walls, and Guinevere counted every single one.
A bead of sweat ran down her temple.
The flame was costing her. Holding fire across four hundred people inside dragon iron wards was accruing an energy debt with interest. She could feel it draining her, pulling from reserves she didn’t know she had. Her ears started to ring and her chest tightened. But she held.
"After you." The commander gestured to the portal.
She gave him a flat, unimpressed look. "Your men go first. Then I follow."
"Half."
"No."
"You just merged with flame, from what I hear. So you are undergoing merge fever." His voice was soft now, conversational. The tone of a man who had found the crack and was pressing his thumb into it.
RULE 19: A man who tells you he’s found your weakness just admitted to the room that he couldn’t beat you without one.
He took a step towards her with a grin. "Tell me I am wrong?"
"Take another step towards me and you’ll find out."
His pale eyes dropped to her legs, then came back up slowly. He took another step. Of course he did.
"Flame fever. Exhausted. And your leg is shaking, honey. You can’t hold this forever. You know it. I know it."
He tipped his chin up at his men. "And they feel it."
He took another step.
She flexed her flame muscle again, well aware she was on borrowed time.
CRACK.
