Chapter 5 The Ghost in Velvet
Serafina
The night had been long, cruel, and merciless. Lio’s fever only worsened, burning hotter with each passing hour. I held him close, pressing a damp cloth to his forehead, whispering words that tasted empty even to my own ears. The elixir had done nothing. Nothing but give me the illusion that I was helping.
His breaths were shallow, uneven, rattling in his chest like wind through dead trees. My chest ached from watching him suffer. Every cough, every twitch of his small body, sent a jolt of panic through me. He was slipping further away, and I could feel my hope crumbling into dust.
“I can’t…” I whispered, rocking him back and forth. “I can’t lose you…”
Tears blurred my vision. I had nothing—no herbs, no magic, no coins. Mira’s pouch was gone, taken by the Collectors. My hands trembled as I pressed my face to his neck, breathing in the sickly-sweet stench of fever and fear.
I had to do something. I couldn’t stay here and watch him die. My mind raced, grasping for a solution. Somewhere, someone would help. I had to find them.
With a trembling breath, I set him down gently on the mattress, whispering a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep. “Stay with me, Lio… I’ll be back.”
He murmured weakly, “Don’t… leave…”
“I have to, Lio. I need to find you a healer,” I said firmly, though my voice cracked. “Just… stay alive until I return.”
I slipped out into the streets, the night cold against my skin. The Dust District was silent in that hour, the usual scurrying of rats and street urchins replaced with a suffocating stillness. I had nowhere to turn—no healer, no apothecary, no friends with knowledge or means. And then I remembered.
The Collectors.
There was no way the Warden would help me. She would see me as nothing more than labor—working night and day, denied food, denied sleep.
Or worse. I would have to submit. Bend the knee. Pledge my loyalty—and become the person I had sworn never to be.
I had to find a way around her.
My stomach twisted. The Collectors were cruel, yes—but their influence stretched far beyond the streets of Dust. I had seen them do favors… always for a price.
Perhaps… perhaps they could help me find a healer. Perhaps they would let me pay by scrubbing their floors, washing their dishes, doing their laundry and making their beds.
I would promise lifelong servitude, if that was the price of saving my brother.
I ran through the alleys, my slippers slapping against wet stones, heart pounding. By the time I reached their usual haunt, a brothel tucked behind a cluster of empty warehouses near the boundary between the Dust and Coal Districts, my lungs were burning. I paused, swallowing hard, trying to steady my nerves. The place smelled of smoke, alcohol, and perfume—the heavy, cloying kind that stuck to the skin.
Inside, the usual chaos reigned. Women leaned over counters, men laughed and shouted, and the hazy glow of magical lamps clung to the air like smoke. At the center of it all—lounging with the lazy confidence of a predator—sat the leader of the Collectors.
He was clean now, scrubbed free of the murky puddle and dog filth he’d fallen into earlier.
His dark eyes found mine at once. A cruel smile curved his lips.
“Well, well,” he said, circling me like a hawk. “If it isn’t the little Dust girl. You’re looking… desperate.” His gaze dragged over me. “What do you want?”
“I need help,” I said, barely steadying my voice. “For my brother. He’s worse. I need a healer—please.”
“A healer is expensive.” He stopped close enough that I could smell the sour ale on his breath, his shadow swallowing me whole. “But we can always work something out, yah?” His mouth twisted into a slow, ugly leer as he reached for my hair.
In my haste, I had forgotten my bonnet.
“Men would pay a pretty penny for a girl like you.”
The words sank into my skin—sticky, vile, a poison I couldn’t wipe away.
“But the choice isn’t mine,” he went on softly. “You’ll need to speak to the Warden. All you have to do is bend—”
“Not the Warden, please,” I broke in, my voice cracking. “There has to be someone else. Anyone. Someone I could work for without being ground to dust.” I swallowed hard. “Someone who won’t kill my brother.”
He went still, eyes raking over me as though weighing my worth.
“No,” he said at last. “Warden Voss controls everyone.”
A pause. Then, quieter, almost reluctant—
“Even the Mistress.”
“The Mistress?” The word slipped out on a breath.
I knew of her. Everyone did. I carried water to her brothels—this one included. But the Mistress was a ghost, a rumor wrapped in silk and sin.
“Where is she?” I whispered, hope and desperation knotting in my chest. “At least she might show mercy.” I stepped closer. “Where is she?”
He hesitated—just for a heartbeat.
And in that heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward the back of the brothel.
That was all I needed.
I spun on my heels and plunged toward the back.
“Hey! Dust rat—wait!” he shouted.
I didn’t.
Heat and noise swallowed me whole. Smoke curled beneath low lanterns, bodies pressed together in swaying clusters. I slipped between tables, ducked grasping hands, letting the music and laughter cloak my path. My pulse thundered as I reached the back of the room—where a single curtained doorway breathed silence.
I was almost there when rough hands seized me and hurled me aside.
The leader loomed over me, chest heaving, his finger stabbing the air inches from my face.
“Don’t you ever go over my head again,” he snarled. “You speak only when she asks. Nothing more.”
He turned, rapped his knuckles sharply against the wall.
Once. Twice.
A deep female voice answered from within—low and annoyed. "What is it?"
He swallowed and swept the curtain aside.
The Mistress sat behind a heavy wooden desk stacked with coins—copper, silver, gold—each pile precise, each surface catching the lanternlight like a quiet promise or a threat. She was imposing: tall, broad-shouldered, solid in the way women are when they have survived and conquered. Glossy black hair framed a sharp, calculating face, and her dark eyes measured me the way a merchant weighs a rare gemstone—judging worth, flaws, and profit.
A velvet cloak draped over her shoulders, swallowing her silhouette and lending her a regal gravity in the dim room. Jewels flashed at her throat and fingers, stealing what little light there was.
“Why bring her here, Darrick?”
Her voice was silk drawn over steel—unhurried, unimpressed, already in command.
“She says she needs help,” he drawled. “Brother’s sick.”
The Mistress didn’t spare Darrick a glance.
Her attention stayed on me instead, cool and methodical—my face, my hands, the rigid line of my spine. Too straight. Too tight. Like a lie held together by will alone.
For a single heartbeat, the frost in her eyes shifted. Not warmth—something sharper.
Curiosity. Interest.
Hope surged in my chest, reckless and bright.
She’s going to help me.
I bet on it.