Smoke and Mirrors, Muscle and Truth

They say illusions are for liars and lovers, things meant to hide, flatter, or fool. Me? I never liked the damn things. Too many layers, not enough steel underneath. But sometimes even a bruiser like me has to play dress-up just to get close enough to break something that needs breaking.

The problem is once the mask comes off, people start looking at you different. Especially the ones that thought you were soft.

Thorne was staring. Couldn’t really blame him. Sixteen’s a strange age, too young to be a man, too old to be a boy, and too tangled up in hormones to know what to do with either. And I’d just gone from “fainting flower” to “walking warhammer” in the time it takes a pulse to skip.

The glamour was gone, peeled off like cheap paint in a storm. No more borrowed grace, no delicate illusion. Just me. Nearly seven feet of muscle, scars, and bad decisions, standing barefoot in a ruined gown that used to pretend I was somebody smaller.

And the kid? The kid was speechless. Eyes wide, mouth moving like he forgot what language was.

I sighed, brushed a lock of sweat-matted hair from my face, and crossed my arms, partly for effect, partly to stop myself from doing something stupid like apologizing for not being dainty.

"You gonna say something, or just keep looking like I walked out of your favorite bard's ballad?"

He blinked, swallowed, then sort of shook himself out of it.

“You’re... not what I expected.”

“Yeah. That’s a popular chorus.”

“I mean…” he struggled, hands flailing for words, “…you were all... graceful. Small. You had heels. Now you’re…” His gaze swept over me again, like he was afraid I might sprout horns next. “You’re... huge.”

“Thanks,” I said flatly.

“No! I mean. Not like bad huge. Just... different huge. Like a... goddess of punching things.”

That got a snort out of me. “I'll take that over 'damsel' any day.”

He glanced at the scuffed stone beneath our feet, toeing it nervously. “Why the disguise?”

“Because sometimes the only way to kill the wolf is to dress up like a sheep. Or in this case, a very expensive sheep.”

He nodded, quiet for a beat, then asked it, the question I knew was bubbling just behind his teeth.

“So... what are you really?”

I tilted my head, watching him.

“A mistake. A miracle. Depends on who you ask. Quarter elf. Quarter hill giant. Half trouble.”

“And beautiful,” he blurted.

There it was. The poor kid flushed so red he looked ready to combust.

I let the silence stretch a second too long. Watched him squirm. Then tossed him a lifeline.

"Kid, I’m flattered. But you should know I’m way outta your weight class. And age bracket."

“Right. Of course.” He looked like he wanted the floor to eat him whole. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve got eyes. Just make sure you keep ’em peeled for traps, not torsos.”

He chuckled nervously.

The tension broke like a fever. I ruffled his hair just enough to throw him off balance, then turned my attention back to the corridor. Business now. Blushing later. If we were both still alive for it.

I moved in to look over what was left of Baxtora the Mawbringer… and honestly, I didn’t know what in the seven piss-soaked hells that was supposed to mean. Sounded like something a drunk poet would scribble on a bar napkin before choking on his own ego.

The so-called hunter lay sprawled like a bad bluff in a back-alley dice game, folded in on himself with his blood steaming in the cracks of the floor. Whatever fire he’d carried in that chest of his was gone now, smothered under the weight of reality and a pair of calloused fists.

“Mawbringer, my ass,” I muttered, giving the corpse a nudge with my toe. Just meat now. Meat and regrets.

I stepped over him, barefoot, the chill of the floor whispering up into the cut along my ribs. His blade had found me at some point, guess I’d missed that in the flurry. The pain was dull now, heat and adrenaline turning it into background noise.

Then I caught sight of the dress.

Torn at the hip, scorched across the hem, and stained with a shade of red that wasn't part of the original design.

“Of course, shit…” I sighed. “Trixie’s gonna charge me double for trauma fees and bloodstain removal.”

Thorne knelt beside the corpse, hesitant. He reached out, fingers trembling, and pressed two fingers to the man’s throat, just beneath the leather collar that still radiated residual heat.

A pause.

Then, in a voice not much louder than a whisper, he said, “He’s... dead.”

I didn’t flinch. “It happens.”

His eyes flicked up to mine. I didn’t offer comfort. Just facts.

“You don’t start a fight like that unless you’re prepared to see it through. Or bleed out trying.”

Thorne looked away, jaw tight. There was still something soft in him, good, but soft. This place was going to grind that out if we didn’t get out fast.

I crouched beside the body again and gave it a once-over. The bastard might’ve died screaming, but he’d died heavy. Thick bronze gauntlets. Necklace with some kind of enchanted bone charm, still faintly humming with power. No coin purse, probably not part of the show. But on his belt, nestled between two throwing knives, was a key carved from blackened steel, shaped like a fang.

“Gotcha,” I murmured, plucking it free.

Thorne watched as I lifted the hunter’s blade, the one with the shifting metal teeth that still clacked and whirred like they hadn't figured out their master was gone. It was ugly, half weapon, half nightmare. Heavy in the hand and humming with menace.

“You gonna take that?” he asked, voice uncertain.

“I didn’t come in here planning to pick up souvenirs,” I said, weighing the blade in my grip, “but plans change.”

I slung it over my back using the hunter’s own strap and turned my attention to the far wall. Stone groaned, and with a sound like old bones cracking, a door shimmered into existence. No arch. No ceremony. Just a smooth iron-bound slab where there’d been blank wall seconds ago.

“Looks like someone wants us to keep moving.”

Thorne stood, brushing off his knees. He still looked pale. Tired. But there was steel under the nerves now. I could see it, same way you see a storm on the horizon, inevitable, and coming fast.

“Just one door,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Funny how the folks pulling the strings never offer choices when it counts.”

Before we moved on, I crouched by the corpse again and pulled one of the smaller blades from his belt. It was cruel-looking, curved slightly and meant for close work, the kind of thing you’d use when the screaming needed to be personal.

I turned it once in my palm, then handed it to Thorne.

“Here,” I said. “It’s not much, but it’s better than throwing sparks and hoping the wind’s on your side.”

He took it with both hands like it was made of glass. His fingers curled around the grip. Not elegant. Not trained. But there was something there. Potential. Raw and waiting.

I walked to the door and fit the fang-shaped key into the waiting lock. It turned smoother than it should’ve. Almost like the room was glad to be rid of us.

“Ready?” I asked.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Thorne didn’t answer right away. Then he nodded, once. Firm. I opened the door.

“I thought you were a fire-slinger,” I said, keeping my voice low, steady. “That thing you did back there wasn’t just a candle-flare.”

Thorne glanced at the blade, then at me. His eyes were still wide, but less fogged now. Grounded. The way someone looks after their first real kill.

“I thought I was fire too,” he said. “That’s what they told me when the orphanage burned.”

A pause.

“But then... when I saw that thing… when it came at you, I… I just... didn’t think. I threw something. And it wasn’t fire. It was lightning first, then a mage bolt after.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it for a week.

“I think... I think I might be more than one. Elementally. I heard one of the Sisters call it a scattergift once. Said it’s rare. Dangerous. Said I’d never learn control.”

I nodded, filing the word away.

“I’ve met ‘rare and dangerous,’ kid,” I said. “You’re not that. You’re scared. There’s a difference.”

He looked like he wanted to believe me. That was a start.

“Control comes later,” I added. “Right now? I need you alive. That means steel in one hand, magic in the other, and no hesitation.”

He nodded, clutching the blade like it was the last solid thing in a world gone soft. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am,” I muttered. “I work for a living.”

I moved toward the next door, but his boots stayed rooted. I turned and gave him a look. The kind that usually made lieutenants rethink life choices.

He just stood there, chewing on silence, eyes fixed on me like he was still seeing something that wasn’t quite fitting into place.

“What?” I asked, half growl, half sigh. “Let’s go.”

He shifted awkwardly, one hand coming up to scratch at his scalp like he was trying to claw a memory loose. “What should I call you?” he asked. “Salena? I think that’s what I heard but… everything’s a blur.”

His voice wavered, lost in the haze of too much pain and too many ghosts. “When I wear the cuffs and they’re turned all the way up… my brain just… short-circuits. Everything gets scrambled.”

I wanted to sigh. Maybe even give him a light slap to knock some sense loose like we used to do with rattled recruits in the Queen’s army. But he wasn’t one of mine. Not yet. No drills, no rank. Just a scared wild-talent kid dragging himself through a waking nightmare. And that kind of damage doesn’t take orders.

So I stuffed the impulse down and gave him the full look. No mask. No illusion. Just me, Lena Blackthorn, every inch of muscle and regret standing in a ruined dress and bare feet.

“Yeah,” I said. “The glamour’s gone. Not hiding anymore.”

Then I looked up at the ceiling, eyes narrowing. Didn’t need to see the stones move to know the bastards behind this were watching. I could feel them, out there, safe behind scrying glass and gilded coin.

So I raised my voice, not shouting, but sharp enough to cut through every viewing parlor in the damn city.

“You listening, you gutless little gods of silk and silver? Hope you’re placing your bets and sipping your wine, because I’ve got news. The name’s Lena Blackthorn. And I didn’t come here to play your game. I came to break it. Every twist, every trick, every one of you watching with your smug little grins, I will find you. I will name you. And when I’m done, you’ll be lucky if all I do is ruin your reputation.”

I turned to the boy, who was still frozen halfway between fear and awe.

“Let’s go,” I said, jerking my chin toward the door. “Show’s not over. We’re just getting warmed up.”

We stepped through the door. And hell opened up to greet us.

The chamber beyond was long and curved, lit by flickering blue torches that cast no warmth, only pale shadows. The air was thicker here. Damp. Not with rain, but with breath. Dozens of them.

Cages lined the walls, stacked two high and stretching into the dark. Iron bars, runed and rusting, and behind them… things. Creatures that had no business sharing the same air as gods or men. Some snarled with teeth that clicked like clockwork. Some slithered without legs. Some watched us with too many eyes, or none at all.

Thorne stopped cold.

Then came the sound. Soft at first. A hiss. A scrape. One cage door creaked open. Then another.

Then another.

All of them, in perfect rhythm, unlocking like a hymn of damnation.

Thorne swallowed. “Miss Blackthorn…”

I raised my fists. My knuckles cracked like distant thunder.

“Stay close,” I said.

Because whatever nightmare we’d just stepped into… it had claws, it had teeth, and it was waking up mean and hungry.

Then the voice slithered in overhead. That too-smooth tone that tried for cheer but carried a sour edge underneath. Like someone grinning while sharpening a knife.

“Welcome,” the Director purred, “to the Beastarium.”

The torches flared on cue. Cages groaned to open fully like reluctant coffins. The room smelled like wet stone, old blood, and something fouler still, like death had been left too long in the sun and started to enjoy itself.

“Ah,” the Director continued, practically giddy, “and to think we’ve drawn such exquisite company tonight. The Lena Blackthorn. Former sergeant in Her Majesty’s army. A veteran of the Northern Campaign. Tell me, dear girl, do your fists still whisper prayers to Crom when they break bone?”

That stopped me cold. He knew who I was. Not the fake name, not the glossed-over cover. Me. Lena. Blackthorn. Full-blooded, bare-knuckled, and recently fed up.

I didn’t answer him. What was the point? Bastards like him, they feed on reaction. I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure.

Instead, I turned to Thorne. The kid’s face was pale, his shoulders tight, but he hadn’t run. That counted for something.

“Listen, kid,” I said low and firm. “This is about to get messy. You stay behind me. If something slips past…anything, you stop it. Use the knife. Use your fire. Use your damn teeth if you have to. Just guard my back, and I’ll get you out of this in one piece. Got it?”

He nodded. It wasn’t brave, but it was steady. Good enough.

That’s when the first cage creaked fully open.

The things that came out weren’t natural. Not even close. Hunched forms with patchy fur and scales, jaws too wide for their skulls, eyes like hot coals floating in tar. Some walked, some skittered, a few slithered and clicked their mandibles like they were arguing over who’d get first bite.

Thorne edged closer, peeking around me, voice barely more than a breath. “What are they?”

“Ugly,” I said. “Some twisted cross between demons and… Hells I don’t even know. Bad dreams, worse decisions. Somebody’s idea of a ‘pet project,’ I guess.”

Another one snarled and bit at its cage mate. The Director chuckled overhead.

I tightened my fist and drew that weird ass sword, already feeling the blood in my arms start to hum with anticipation. “You know what I hate?” I said, mostly to myself. “Demons. Demons and desperate little men who think summoning hellspawn makes them dangerous. It doesn’t make them dangerous. It makes them stupid.”

A beast howled. One lunged against the bars, now hanging wide like open jaws. My whole body braced for the first charge.

“This is what my life is now,” I muttered, exhaling slow and grim. “I really need to rethink my career path.”

And then the room erupted. Just like I knew it would.

The blade felt wrong in my hand.

Too long, too loud. The sawtoothed edge of the late Baxtora’s murder toy buzzed faintly, like it still wanted to chew its way through something warm and screaming. I hated it. But hate don’t make a thing useless, and I knew enough to make it sing if I had to.

The cages groaned again, and the first four came skittering out like nightmares that had lost their way home.

One flew, or tried to. Leathery wings slapped the air as it twisted in lazy circles, no legs to land with, just a whip-like tail and a face like a cracked lantern. The second had no eyes, just a maw that split its skull in half, filled with teeth that seemed to breathe. The other two… I don’t know what they were, but their limbs bent the wrong way and their hunger came off them in waves thick enough to choke.

They didn’t charge. Not right away. They circled like they were figuring out the room. Figuring out me.

Behind me, I could hear Thorne’s breath catch. I didn’t have time to look back, just said over my shoulder, “Stay close, but don’t get clever.”

The first to lunge was the flier.

It dove with a shriek that rattled my teeth, but it was all speed and no control. I pivoted, brought the blade up hard from below, and met it mid-dive. The sword’s teeth bit in, chattered like laughter, and the thing split open like a rotten peach. Black ichor sprayed, hot and foul, painting my arm from shoulder to wrist.

The second came low.

Too fast. Mouth wide. Too many teeth.

I barely got the blade between us, and even then, it clamped down on the metal like it wanted to eat the damn sword. Sparks flew as its jaw ground against the edge. I didn’t fight it, just shifted weight, twisted the hilt, and drove the bastard’s own momentum down into the stone. I followed through with a boot to what passed for its throat. The sound it made on impact wasn’t fit for polite company.

The other two came in together, flanking me.

They weren’t smart exactly, but they weren’t dumb either. One jabbed low, the other went high, and for a second I thought maybe they were learning.

That was fine. I could teach too.

I dropped under the first, felt claws slice the air where my chest had been. Rolled, came up swinging, and let the blade bite sideways through a crooked ribcage. It stuck halfway. I let go, pivoted, and drove my elbow into the last one’s neck as it closed in. It staggered, I grabbed the hilt of the embedded blade, yanked hard and turned with it. The spin gave me just enough speed to finish the arc, and the final one’s head hit the floor before the body knew it was done.

Four down. All twitching. None breathing.

I stood there, breath steady but my ribs singing a protest, soaked in things I didn’t want to name. The sword hissed like it was pleased with itself. I wasn’t.

“Hell of a warmup,” I muttered, flicking gore off the edge.

Behind me, I heard Thorne’s voice, tight and awed.

“You… you didn’t even flinch.”

I didn’t answer. I just stared down at the bodies and wished I’d had my fists instead.

The bodies twitched around me, steam rising off the torn carcasses like the room was exhaling death. My arms ached, my knuckles sang a hymn of bruised bone, and the blade in my hand purred like a half-fed predator.

Thorne crept closer, wide-eyed and whisper-silent. The kid was holding it together better than I expected, but I could still feel the fear radiating off him in waves. Smart fear. Useful fear. The kind that kept people alive.

But the air shifted then: got heavier, hotter, like the room itself was holding its breath.

The torches lining the walls didn’t just flicker… they flared. A sudden bloom of brightness so sharp it cast everything into stark shadow. Flames stretched tall and hissed with glee, and one by one the remaining cages began to groan.

The sound was wrong. Bone-deep. Like metal trying to scream.

More doors slid open, slow and deliberate, like the locks were savoring the moment. The things inside moved differently than the first batch. Slower. Smarter. Watching.

I adjusted my grip on the sword.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Then the big one came. Its cage didn’t creak or groan. It parted like a stage curtain. A silent, theatrical reveal. Whatever was inside had been waiting. Planning.

It stepped out of the shadows, one clawed foot at a time.

Eight feet of stitched muscle and plated bone. Its head was all wrong, too many eyes and none of them human. No mouth, just rows of vertical slits that pulsed like gills, and a spine that didn’t so much bend as it writhed. Around its shoulders hung pieces of the previous contestants like trophies. Bits of cloth. A chain. A half-melted mask.

The smaller creatures shrank back, circling the edges like cultists around their god.

I heard Thorne suck in a sharp breath behind me.

The kid whispered, “What... what is that?”

I didn’t answer right away. Didn’t blink either. Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t built for fair fights. It was built for spectacle. Pain. Carnage. A master of ceremonies with claws and a grudge.

The floor beneath it cracked with every step.

I narrowed my eyes and dropped into a low crouch, blood still slick on my heels, the weight of the saw-toothed blade like a promise in my grip.

“I think the main event just showed up.”

And that’s when the director’s voice purred through the flames, smug and giddy as a cat fat on blood.

“Ladies and gentlemen… let’s raise the stakes.”

Then everything went dark but the flame and the grin on the monster’s face.