Welcome to the Show

They say the rich get away with murder. In Graywatch, they don’t just get away with it. They sell tickets, cast illusions, and pipe it through polished obsidian mirrors while sipping wine steeped in widow’s tears. I woke up on the floor of that twisted theater, sprawled out like a tossed rag doll. First instinct was to play dead. Second instinct was to reach for the knife I wasn’t allowed to bring. Third? Assess the room, count the exits, and try not to punch anyone until I knew who was getting paid.

I kept my eyes mostly shut, just enough to let in the bare outlines. Room was circular, stone walls carved with swirling sigils that pulsed faint and reddish, like the place had veins and something beneath the stone was breathing real slow. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling, black wrought iron, glass teardrops instead of candles. No light came from it, but it watched anyway.

Two doors. One on either side. Identical. Probably trapped. Definitely locked.

I tilted my head just a fraction and looked down at myself. The dress was silk, pale violet, with little pearl buttons along the cuffs and lace at the throat. I would’ve laughed if my mouth didn’t taste like smoke and sorcery. Some tailor out there was going to a hell for this thing.

More importantly, the charm was still there. I reached slowly and touched the necklace around my neck, just under the high collar. Cold to the touch. Solid. Humming faintly with illusion magic, courtesy of Murk and a favor he was probably going to collect on next time I saw him. If I saw him.

The spell wrapped around me like a glamorous lie. From the outside, I was a wide-eyed slip of a girl, half-elven, maybe sixteen, with doe eyes and no muscle on her bones. Looked like I should be playing harp in a noble’s parlor or reading tragic poetry in a rose garden. But beneath the trick? I was still nearly seven feet of quarter-hill giant bastardry, scarred, and still sore from getting dumped like a sack of coal by men who didn’t notice I weighed twice what I ought to.

Not that I blamed them. They’d carried us in on stretchers, two at a time, tossed like meat onto the floor. No reverence. No recognition. Just another pile of carcasses. I didn’t get a look at them then. I hadn’t wanted to. I was too busy trying not to snap awake and strangle the one with the shaking hands.

They’d gassed me in the cab. That much was obvious. A thin purple mist from the vents, smelled like cloves and lavender. Classy. My head hit the cushion within seconds, but it didn’t stick the way it should’ve. Elf blood made me slippery when it came to magic. Hill-Giant blood made me stubborn as the hells. I was back before the carriage could pick up speed.

Now they were here. The other five.

I cracked my eyes open more and let the room settle into focus. We were all laid out in a circle like offerings to something old. The walls still pulsed. Somewhere above us, gears clicked. A clock? A watcher? Didn’t matter yet.

To my left, closest to me, was a goblin dressed like a gambling den had vomited on him. Red silk vest, green cravat, gold rings stacked like he'd robbed a corpse and liked the look. He breathed shallow, mouth half-open, fingers twitching. Bet he woke up counting cards in his dreams. That one was trouble… The slick kind.

Past him, sprawled like she fell asleep in the middle of murdering someone, was an orc-blooded woman. Broken tusk. Shoulders like oxen. Boots still laced. She hadn’t dressed for a party, she’d dressed for war and just lost the last one. She didn’t look like she was sleeping. She looked like she was resting between fights.

Third in the circle: an elf. High blood. Pretty like a painting, hair braided with gold threads and the kind of skin that had never seen dirt. Her dress wasn’t ruffled. No wrinkle, no stain. She hadn’t been thrown in. She’d stepped in. Voluntarily. Interesting. Either bait, spy, or mad.

Next came a boy. Human. Skinny, pale, with dark veins under his skin and eyes that fluttered behind his lids like he was dreaming through someone else’s memories. Magic clung to him like static, and someone had been keeping him sedated for a while.

The last one was older. Dwarf woman. Gray hair braided tight, cloak wrapped around her like a shield. She wasn’t unconscious. Just quiet. Her eyes opened just as mine did, and we locked gazes for a heartbeat. She didn’t flinch.

Neither did I.

So that was the cast. Five strangers, none of them armed, at least visibly, and all of them chosen for a reason. I wasn’t the only one with secrets. I just hoped I was the only one with a plan.

Somewhere above us, a soft whirring sound began. The chandelier flared to life: not with fire, but with a soft, glowing red light, like embers in a hearth too long untended. The walls responded, pulsing faster.

A voice followed. It rolled out from the stone like warm syrup across a rusted blade. Smooth. Calm. Practiced.

“Welcome, honored contestants… to the House That Hunts.”

No name. No origin. Just that voice. It echoed in all the wrong places in my skull.

“You have been chosen for your… qualities. For your stories. For your potential.”

The others began to stir. The goblin groaned. The orc-blood rubbed her neck. The elf sat up slowly, stretching like she had all the time in the world. The boy whimpered. The dwarf said nothing at all.

The voice continued.

“Survive, and the reward is yours. Two hundred gold crowns, enough to rewrite your life.”

Someone muttered something about that being more than enough to disappear forever. Someone else, probably the goblin, let out a low whistle.

“But there is only one victor,” the voice said, and now it shifted slightly. More metal in the tone. Less warmth.

“One survivor.”

A pause. A crackle of unseen power behind the words.

“To advance, you must pass through the rooms. Each room contains a challenge. You will not be told the rules. Magic is limited. Sabotage is… encouraged.”

The goblin sat up, blinking like a drunk owl. The orc was already on one knee. The elf checked her nails. I stayed flat. Breathing soft. Still pretending to come around.

“May your performance delight our patrons,” the voice finished.

Then silence. No applause. No further instructions. Just the throb of the walls and the sound of five strangers waking up in the hells, none of them knowing that I wasn’t one of them.

Not really.

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was the kind of silence that wrapped around the bones and settled in deep. The room breathed, if a room could do such a thing, and I had the sudden sensation of being watched: not by the others, but by the stones themselves.

The elf woman, all golden braids and sculpted cheekbones, didn’t speak. She just smoothed the hem of her gown and stared down the middle of the room like she was waiting for the help to arrive with wine and apologies. The orc didn’t waste breath either. She grunted, low in her throat, and began circling the perimeter, eyeing the walls, scuffing her boots against the seams in the stone. Her shoulders shifted like she was listening for something in the mortar.

I stayed low, half-curled and still pretending to come around. Better to let them forget me for a bit, let their guards down. Besides, I was curious.

The goblin, of course, was the first to crack. He pushed himself upright with a grunt and a grin, adjusting the lapels on his wine-red waistcoat like he’d just woken up in a brothel with complimentary champagne.

“Well,” he said, stretching his neck with a little pop, “this is one hell of a slumber party.”

Nobody answered. Not right away.

He blinked around the room, his grin twitching at the corners like it was nervous but trying not to show it. “No one? Come on now. We’re all friends here. Locked in together, mystery voice from above, possibly doomed... why not pass the time with a little polite conversation?”

Still nothing. The elf tilted her head just slightly and gave him the kind of look you’d give a stain on imported silk. The orc kept pacing, muttering to herself under her breath in what sounded like military cadence.

The human boy groaned, clutching at his temples. That was when I noticed the bracelets, two of them, one on each wrist. Slim bands of dull copper, etched with tiny glowing runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. Not his. The house’s.

He blinked rapidly, then whispered something unintelligible, soft and hoarse, more air than voice.

“What was that, kid?” the goblin asked, shuffling a little closer. “You got something to share with the group? A name? A conspiracy theory? No?”

The boy moaned again, shaking his head, then doubled over like the pain had gripped his spine and twisted. Poor bastard probably couldn’t tell left from right, let alone why he was here.

The dwarf woman shifted slowly into a sitting position, wrapping her arms around her knees like she was settling in for a long watch. Her eyes moved, small and sharp, but she said nothing. Just watched. Like she’d seen worse. Maybe she had.

“Well, since no one else is keen on being social,” the goblin said, offering a theatrical little bow that made his vest sparkle in the red glow, “let me start the introductions. Name’s Darrin Quell. Professional card player. Amateur poet. Lover of good wine, fast games, and expensive mistakes. Present company, I assume, falls into at least two of those categories.”

He looked around expectantly. The elf ignored him. The orc gave him a look that promised broken teeth. The boy just shook.

Darrin’s smile never dropped. “Don’t all speak at once. Anyone else remember their names? I’d like to know what to yell if we start running from a fire.”

The orc finally stopped pacing and muttered, “Brelga. That’s all you get.”

Her voice was rough, gravel rubbed in tar, but there was something steady in it. The kind of tone you only got if you’d seen a lot of fights and survived more than you should’ve. She went back to prowling the edge of the room like a wolf testing a fence.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The elf finally stirred.

“Miri,” she said, barely above a whisper. The name floated more than it landed, like it was meant to be carried by candlelight. “Miri Silkroot.”

Her eyes didn't meet anyone else’s. They didn’t need to. She was already judging every soul in the room. I could feel it from where I lay, she’d made up her mind about all of us and didn’t plan to waste breath correcting those conclusions. Her gaze lingered on Brelga for a beat too long. Then it slid toward me.

I sighed. No point stretching it out any longer.

I rolled onto my side and groaned like I’d just swallowed half a pint of spoiled wine. One hand went to my head, the other to my chest, checked the necklace again. Still humming. Still hiding. Good.

Then I pushed myself upright, letting the silk dress bunch awkwardly at my hips.

“Selena,” I said, rubbing my forehead like I was trying to force clarity into my skull. “I think.”

The goblin brightened. “Ah, lovely. A name with mystery. Tell me, Miss Selena, how did a sweet little thing like you end up in a cursed stone box with the rest of us reprobates?”

I squinted at him and gave a crooked grin that didn’t reach my eyes.

“Don’t remember much,” I said, letting the accent drift just a little, make me sound younger. “Black carriage. Funny smell. One hell of a headache.”

He nodded solemnly. “That’s the going tale so far. We all seem to have hitched the same ride. I don’t suppose you remember why?”

“Not a clue,” I muttered. “Except I could really use a whiskey.”

That got a reaction.

The elf’s mouth twitched like she’d bitten into a lemon. Her gaze slid over me again, recalibrating. Her fingers fluttered once at her throat, just a flick, like she wanted to summon a bell or a butler or maybe just the nearest executioner. A girl who looked like I did wasn’t supposed to know the taste of liquor, let alone sound like she missed it.

Darrin laughed.

“I like her,” he said. “Selena’s got spirit.”

“I’ve got a headache,” I replied, “and a feeling it’s about to get worse.”

The boy moaned again, arms wrapped around his knees, shaking now like the runes were crawling under his skin. No help there.

Brelga had stopped pacing. She was watching one of the doors now. Not going near it, but watching it like it might blink or grow teeth.

No one mentioned what we were all thinking. None of us knew where we were. None of us knew why we’d been brought here. None of us could remember a damn thing beyond that black carriage.

And the only voice we'd heard so far was the one that promised us gold if we survived... and nothing if we didn’t. The chandelier above us dimmed slightly, its glow flickering like a breath caught in a throat. I leaned back against the cold stone wall and studied the others again.

This wasn’t a game. Not really. It was a hunt. And someone in the house had already picked the scent.

Just when the silence started to feel like a second skin, something shifted in the air. A tingle worked its way across my scalp and down my neck, the kind of whisper you feel more than hear. Old magic, subtle and oily, like someone sliding their fingers under your collar without asking. I knew that kind of magic. The kind that didn’t knock first.

I looked up.

At first, there was nothing. Then the veil peeled back and the spell faded like breath off a mirror, revealing the thing that had been watching us the whole time.

It was an eyeball. Not part of a face. Not mounted to anything. Just a floating, disembodied eye the size of a grapefruit, pulsing with a soft violet glow. It drifted down from the high black rafters like a curious spider, its iris spiraling lazily as it came into view. It blinked once, wet and deliberate, and gave the distinct impression that if it had lips, it’d be grinning.

The elf recoiled slightly, nostrils flaring. The dwarf didn’t move at all, though I saw her eyes narrow. Brelga reached instinctively toward her hip like she expected a weapon to be there. Nothing but empty air and bad luck. The boy twitched again and pulled his knees in tighter.

That was when I got a better look at those bracelets.

They weren’t ornamental. No noble child wore matching copper cuffs etched with glowing runes unless someone was trying to keep the lid on tight. The runes pulsed in rhythm, soft and faint, as if the magic was whispering to itself. I’d seen them before, years ago, when a wild talent went nova in the alley near Cheapside and melted three city guards into slag before they could scream.

The Guild of Arcane Practitioners doesn’t like wild talents. Not because they’re dangerous, everything magical is dangerous, but because they’re unpredictable. You can’t control them, can’t file the right paperwork fast enough, and you sure as hell can’t predict when they’ll explode. So the Guild tags them, collars them, or sells them off quietly if no one’s looking too close.

Officially, the crown says all magic is welcome in the kingdom. Unofficially, kids like this one vanish without much noise. This poor bastard probably got handed over like a broken lantern. Still sparks inside, but no one wants to touch it.

I leaned back and watched the eyeball float lower, settling near the center of the room just above our heads. The iris twitched, spinning slightly, as though it were adjusting its focus. The goblin cleared his throat and raised a hand like he was about to ask a question in school.

“Excuse me, Mister Floating Eyeball Thing,” he said, grinning up at it. “Is this the part where you tell us we’re part of a noble social experiment, or are we just the unlucky chumps meant to die for someone’s pleasure?”

The eye blinked slowly, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then the voice returned.

It didn’t come from the eye. Not directly. It came from everywhere: from the walls, the floor, the air, from behind your ears and just beneath your ribs. Velvet and brass, rich with glee, the voice of a man who had been waiting for this moment for far too long.

“Ah, my precious little predators and prey, what a delight it is to finally make your acquaintance!”

The goblin mouthed “predators and prey” to himself, brows arching.

“I am your glorious host,” the voice continued, tone lifting like curtains on an opening night. “Your maestro of misery, your patron of panic, your celebrated ringmaster of ruin…”

There was a pause. A breath. A flourish unseen.

“You may call me… The Director.”

The eyeball pulsed once, brighter for a heartbeat.

“I hope you’re comfortable, though I sincerely doubt it. Comfort is the death of performance, and my dears, you are performers now. Artists in a theater carved of bone and whispers.”

Darrin blinked at that. “All right, I’ve been to weirder plays,” he muttered.

“Here are your stakes,” the Director cooed. “Simple. Elegant. Terribly inspiring. Only one of you will walk out of this house with your pulse still intact. That one will receive two hundred gold crowns and a title befitting their cleverness…”

“We heard this already…” Darrin started.

The eye turned and flashed bright for a second silencing him. Then it turned slowly, lingering on each of us.

“The title of…The Survivor.” The voice continued as though it loved the sound of of his own voice.

The word echoed like it had been etched into iron.

The goblin clapped twice, slow and theatrical. “Lovely. Really. Great delivery. Are there drinks at intermission, or is this strictly a ‘bleed and die quietly’ sort of engagement?”

The eyeball hovered lower, drifting just out of reach.

“Do we get any hints?” Darrin continued, standing now, arms spread. “Clues? A map? I’d even settle for ominous riddles. Come on, eyeball, throw me a bone.”

The eye didn’t answer. It blinked twice in a rhythm that felt… smug. Then it began to rise.

Not quickly. Not frantically. Just a slow, deliberate float, drifting upward into the shadows like it had made its point and didn’t need to stay for the critique. Its iris spun slowly, a final rotation that felt like a wink, and then it was gone, folding back into whatever magic had hidden it to begin with.

“Rude,” Darrin said. “I was going to ask about the house wine.”

I exhaled through my nose and rubbed the corner of my eye. The voice was still echoing in my skull. Survivor. Maestro of misery. Theater of bone. Whoever this Director was, he didn’t just like control. He liked performance. He wanted drama. Panic, betrayal, slow unraveling of nerves.

He wanted entertainment.

And that meant if we played it straight, if we followed the script, we were all going to die right on cue. I don’t do scripts. Not anymore. And I sure as hell don’t die on command. Not without punching someone through a wall first.

The chandelier’s glow had dimmed again, casting the room in a sluggish, reddish haze that clung to the stone like old blood that had never been cleaned properly. No one spoke for a moment, each of us sizing up the others with the kind of care that only comes when you’re trapped together and not all expected to make it out.

Then, as if she couldn’t let silence steal center stage, the elf woman stepped forward with the grace of someone who had never been told “no” by anyone who mattered. Her back was straight, her chin lifted just enough to give everyone a clear look at her disdain.

“It’s obvious,” she said, her voice the perfect blend of silken contempt and bored authority, “that this group is in desperate need of a leader. And since I am the only one present with the breeding and bearing fit for the position, I elect myself.”

The words hung in the air like perfume from a rotting rose.

I laughed. Quiet, low, slow. The kind of laugh that curls around the edges of a room like cigar smoke in a locked cellar. Then I pushed off the wall and strolled over to the nearest door, dragging my fingers across the rough stone as I went. The ironwood looked old, too old to still be solid, but something about it felt... patient. That kind of patience that waits with a grin, because it knows you’re going to touch the wrong thing eventually.

I leaned in close and examined the seams. No keyhole. No handle. Just a dark metal plate set into the center. It looked clean, polished even, and that made it suspicious as hell. I didn’t trust it. Could have been locked. Could have been a trick. Could have been the kind of trap that breaks bones just to watch them bend.

Behind me, Darrin shifted. I could almost hear him preparing a remark, probably with enough charm to make the elf wilt or slap him, maybe both. But before he got the chance, the dwarf woman stood.

She didn’t rise so much as unfold. One moment she was seated, quiet and steady, and the next she was upright, her feet planted like the ground had called her name. No flourishes. No warning. Just presence. That rare, immovable kind of presence that belongs to stone and time and war drums heard from under the mountain.

She didn’t speak loudly. She didn’t need to.

“Name’s Grandmother Edda,” she said, voice rough with age and iron, “and you’ll want to remember it.”

The elf’s brows lifted, already preparing some delicate rebuttal, but Edda didn’t give her time.

“This ain’t a parlor,” the dwarf said, walking forward with the weight of a century behind her steps. “And it sure as spit ain’t your debut ball. This is stone and blood and rules that ain’t written on parchment. And you are not the queen of this little pit, missy. You’re not even a duchess in a dying play.”

Edda stopped just short of her and looked up, just enough to meet her eyes.

“You’d do well to sit your silk-covered ass down and let your betters speak.”

The elf bristled, hands curling at her sides like she’d never been spoken to in such terms. Her mouth opened, something elegant and venomous about to roll off her tongue, when Edda moved.

Two steps. Swift. Precise.

Her hand cracked across the elf’s cheek with a sound that snapped through the room like dry wood under boot. It wasn’t the slap of cruelty. It was the slap of correction. It was the slap you get when your arrogance becomes a liability to the group. The girl staggered half a step back, eyes wide, one hand to her face where the red print was already blooming. Tears welled instantly. Of course they did.

Edda didn’t soften. Not for a second.

“That floating eyeball may think this is a game,” she said, her tone flat and final, “but it ain’t. This is life and death. They want us turning on each other. They want blood. They want chaos. They want the screams.”

She looked around the room, meeting each of us in turn.

“The moment we give it to them, they win.”

Her gaze returned to the elf, sharp and unwavering.

“So shut your tart little mouth and let those of us that know what we’re doing figure out how to walk out of here upright.”

The elf didn't respond. Not verbally. Just stood there, eyes glassy, fingers trembling against her cheek. She looked smaller now. Not in stature. In presence. Like the air had been knocked out of her pride.

Edda turned without waiting for acknowledgment. She looked to Brelga, who had stopped pacing but was still keeping her distance from the second door.

“You,” she said, pointing. “The one with muscle and half a brain still rattling in her skull. Go check that door. The one the girl’s not looking at.”

Brelga nodded once and moved toward the opposite wall with the same slow calculation of a soldier surveying a killbox. Edda’s voice cut through again.

“Selena,” she said, turning toward me.

I glanced back over my shoulder, half-smiling like the name still tasted wrong. Selena. Nothing original there. I wasn’t made for disguises, only for mayhem. Still, I nodded, keeping the character intact.

“Anything funny on your side?” she asked.

“Door’s too clean,” I said. “Too smug. Could be locked. Could be worse. I don’t know enough about this kind of trap to say for sure.”

“I figured,” she replied. “Not the sort of thing they teach in the nicer parts of town.”

She turned to Darrin then, her eyes narrowing slightly. She studied him like he was a dice cup with teeth.

“You’ve got the look of someone who knows how to get into places he doesn’t belong. Go help the orc. See what you can make of that door.”

Darrin gave a little bow, tugged the lapels of his vest into place, and sauntered toward Brelga with a wink that earned him a grunt. Not a friendly grunt, but at least it wasn’t a punch. Everyone was moving now. Falling into position like pieces on a board we hadn’t been allowed to see.

And I stayed quiet. Let it happen. Because I wasn’t ready to break character yet. I wasn’t ready to lead. Not here. Not yet. Let the old woman play general. Let the goblin poke at the doors and the orc growl at the walls.

I’d step forward when it mattered. And when I did, they'd know who I really was.