The Women of the Feast
The air inside the Feast was heavy, thick with the cloying scent of cheap jasmine oil, pungent tobacco smoke, nameless alcohol, and sweat. It hung in the room like a decadent shroud, choking the breath from any who entered. High above, a thick layer of dust muted the glow of a massive chandelier, but even its dim, filtered light cast a strange, salacious aura over the red velvet furniture and faded tapestries. This place was not so much a pit of hopeless despair as it was a gilded cage of seductive danger and debauchery—a market where even despair itself was traded at a premium.
Slithering through the heavy silence of the room, a voice crept out like a snake. "Hey, hey. Did you hear? A newbie just came in."
The whisper carried a tantalizing bait, instantly catching the ears of those dying of boredom. "Really? Finally, some entertainment? Where is she?"
Miren, a human woman leaning against a faded silk cushion while playing with a cheap glass-bead bracelet, lazily raised her head. Her eyes, half-lidded and weary as if she had already experienced everything the world had to offer, flickered with a spark of genuine curiosity at the new topic.
"Look over there. That girl huddled in the corner, quiet as a dead mouse."
The moment the words left her mouth, every eye in the room snapped to the corner like iron filings drawn to a magnet. Cigarettes were stubbed out, glasses were set down, and whispering lips fell silent as everyone turned their heads in unison. Their sharp, probing gazes flew across the room like shards of glass, embedding themselves all over my body.
"Holy shit."
The first to react so blatantly was Bruka, the dwarf woman. Her coarse brown hair was piled messily on her head. She chugged from her bottle before scanning me from head to toe with a vulgar, calculating gaze, as if sizing up merchandise at a market stall.
"Damn! That old hag of a Madame really hit the jackpot this time, didn't she? Look at that skin—it's practically pure silk. This isn't just high-grade; she's the absolute top of the premium line!"
At Bruka's booming voice, Elberta, the cat-beastkin who had been dozing nearby, twitched her feline ears and cracked one eye open. Deciding it was nothing of concern, she closed it again.
Miren, brushing her faded blonde hair back with an irritated flick of her wrist, studied me closely from the corner of her eye and spoke in her characteristically relaxed, lazy tone.
"No kidding. Look at that sharp nose and those tightly pressed lips. She practically reeks of luxury. But why is she sitting there as stiff as a mummy? Has she not realized where she is yet? Or is she just so traumatized that her soul's left her body?"
Miren tapped her temple with a finger and clicked her tongue. Her eyes held a mixture of pity and lingering curiosity. "We get girls like that sometimes when they first arrive. They just completely snap."
The quiet, gentle voice belonged to Sia, the half-elf. Her pale green eyes hadn't wavered from me for a second. Her gaze was a mixture of awe and fluttering excitement, as if she were beholding a beautiful, pristine statue for the very first time.
"We've seen it before, haven't we? The ones who just stare into space all day without uttering a single word. When their grip on reality suddenly snaps, they end up like that. It's like their soul flees first to escape the pain. She's so... beautiful, she almost doesn't seem like she belongs in this world."
The last part was barely a whisper to herself. Sia blushed slightly and lowered her head.
"Tsk. Fair enough," Bruka snorted. Her chuckle carried the weary resignation of someone who had witnessed this scene countless times, laced with a tiny, bitter drop of sympathy.
"Who cares if she was some pampered princess or a stray dog rolling in the gutters? They just toss you into this sewer and tell you to survive. It's a miracle anyone keeps their sanity."
Just then, Areli, the elf who had been sitting like a shadow in the corner of the room, slowly rose to her feet. She wore a faded but expensive-looking silk gown. Approaching with elegant, measured steps, she knelt gracefully before me. Her translucent purple eyes stared coldly, as if trying to peer straight through my soul.
"Where did you come from?" Areli's voice was as soft as a harp's string, yet it carried an undercurrent of sharp, unmistakable wariness.
I did not raise my head. I merely focused on the cold sensation of the teacup in my hands, its contents having long since gone cold. A bead of condensation rolled down the porcelain, tracing the curve of my finger. The silence in the room grew heavier, pressing down on us.
"Your name?"
"Luciel."
The voice that slipped from my lips was strangely clear. At the sound, the ambient noise of the room seemed to freeze for a fleeting moment.
"Luciel. A noble name," Areli murmured. "Then, Luciel, can you at least tell us where you came from? Or... how you ended up here?"
"You don't need to know." I replied, flat and concise, my eyes never leaving the teacup. My voice held no emotion whatsoever. Only a cold, detached indifference.
"Ha, what is this now? Some new concept? Or has she actually lost her mind?" Areli let out a dry, incredulous laugh. The cynical smirk on her lips sharpened.
"Well, her mouth works fine, and she's got some nerve. But something's off about you. You don't smell like anything. No scent of blood, no dirt, no tears. You're too clean. Like an eerie doll fresh out of a mannequin factory." She furrowed her brow and leaned back.
"Damn... the Madame really scored a prize this time. Scent or no scent, with a face like that, it's only a matter of time before the clients start lining up. They're going to lose their minds over her. Hell, even I'm drooling a bit! Bwahaha!" Lahara, the half-orc, plonked herself down on the floor and laughed boisterously. Her voice was rough and gravelly, but it held no real malice.
"With a mug like that, she'll have a queue out the door. Ten clients on her very first night, easy!" She boasted, slapping her own forearm. At her blunt, simple admiration, a few of the other women nodded in agreement.
"But that's exactly the problem, Lahara. And I'm saying this because she clearly doesn't know a damn thing." Miren let out a deep sigh, picking up the thread. Her eyes held a mixture of warning and pity. She softened her gaze as she turned to look at me.
"There are always perverts who go absolutely feral for a fresh, untouched piece of meat. Especially among those high-paying bastards who strut around with deep pockets—they're obsessed with the filthy fantasy of being a girl's 'first.' If you get caught by one of those monsters, you'll be torn apart like a dog. Body and soul, they'll leave nothing of you."
I didn't miss the way her eyes clouded over, momentarily lost in some horrific memory of her own. It seemed every woman in the Feast carried her own deep, festering scars.
Bruka patted my shoulder again, a bit firmer this time. Her touch was rough, but strangely, it carried a clumsy sort of encouragement.
"Hey, newbie! Listen to me and listen well! When you go out there for the first time, don't think about anything else—just grit your teeth, brace your core, and endure! Don't even dream of fighting back! It's better to lie there like a corpse. That's the only sure-fire way to survive this place with at least a few pieces of yourself intact!" Her voice cracked slightly at the end, and she turned her head away with a muttered curse.
"..."
Slowly, very slowly, I raised my head. I studied the faces of the women surrounding me, one by one. Though they belonged to different races, carried different pasts, and harbored different wounds, a shared shadow of despair and resignation hung over their faces like a heavy mask. Their eyes were the eyes of those who had already surrendered far too much. Insignificant wretches. In my past life, I wouldn't have deigned to spare them a single glance.
"Thank you."
My voice, low but crystal clear, instantly doused the noisy room in a freezing silence. It seemed they hadn't expected me to react like this at all.
"Where on earth did you learn to speak like that? You sound... just like a queen from an old fairy tale." Sia asked cautiously, her eyes wide. Her pointed, half-elf ears seemed to twitch with curiosity. She still couldn't tear her gaze away from me.
"Was she... really a noble lady? Or maybe a maid from some fallen house?" someone else ventured a quiet guess.
"Nah, it's different from that. She's weirdly, fucking arrogant. She literally just said 'thank you,' but somehow it makes you feel like shit. Like she's looking down on us from some high-and-mighty throne... It's kind of absurd, honestly." Bruka muttered, crossing her arms and tilting her head. Her sharp instincts had picked up on it.
Miren turned her gaze back to me, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on her lips as she smoothed over the tension. She seemed intent on breaking the awkward atmosphere with her usual easygoing charm.
"Well, whatever the case, welcome to the Feast, Luciel. This place is crawling with girls who are a little broken or carrying some tragic baggage, just like you. From now on, none of that past shit matters. Whether you were a princess or a slave..."
She paused, looking straight into my eyes. Her gaze was deep and dark, but strangely, I felt a faint sense of kinship buried within it. I deliberately brushed that feeling aside.
"So don't be too scared, but don't expect anything either."
"And from this moment on, nothing else matters. Princess, slave, or whatever the hell you were before—it's all gone. Just do whatever it takes, by any means necessary, to survive. You drag yourself through one day at a time. Got it?"
I quietly brought the teacup to my lips and nodded slowly. The tea inside was ice-cold and bitter, but strangely, that cold bitterness pricked my hazy mind like a needle, sharpening my senses.
"Yes."
They do not know yet. They have no idea who I once was. That my empire, a towering monument built over centuries, and everything I ever owned had been swept away in a single, godforsaken game of chance.
And so, I—the absolute sovereign who once ruled the world—have been reduced to a debt-ridden whore.
But mark my words. Every single one of you. The women in this room, the filthy men who will soon seek me out, and even those arrogant Constellations who cast me down into this gutter.
One day, without fail, you will all kneel at my feet once more, weeping and begging for mercy. When that day comes, in the presence of my absolute authority, I will make you learn the true meaning of terror.
Until then, I will breathe, I will watch, and I will wait in this hell.