“Even the most vicious cruelty is adorned in the finest silks.”               – A forgotten casualty

  I remained silent—stunned, in truth. It had been years—centuries, perhaps—since I last heard the Old Tongue spoken aloud. The words resonated in my chest like a struck bell: precise, melodic, ancient. I studied the woman carefully, searching for the source of that nagging familiarity. From beneath her red bridal veil, a small smile curved her lips—as though my reaction amused her greatly.

  “You must forgive me, Alez,” she said, voice low and warm with mirth. “I simply had to meet you.”

  She knew my name. And what I was. How? No one in this world should speak the Old Tongue—not after the gods sealed its knowledge from mortals following humanity’s betrayal of the old religion. Even common fae knew the prohibition. Yet here she stood: no arcane residue of fae about her, only the clean, mortal scent of a pure-blooded human.

  Questions multiplied. Answers eluded me.

  “It seems you already know who I am,” I said, recovering my composure with a small, courteous bow. “Out of politeness, however, allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Alezander von Holms. You may call me Alez.”

  “Or The Hanged Man?” she interjected, amusement threading through her tone.

  “Precisely. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “I bear many names and titles,” she replied, tilting her head slightly so the veil caught the light. “But for personal reasons, I prefer those most fitting. You may address me as Madam, Milady, Lady Vermillion, Lady Blood, The Bride, the Miss Drenched in Red, the Bride of Blood, the Empress… and my personal favourite: Lady Crimson. So please—Lady Crimson or Miss Crimson will suffice.”

  “Those are quite the titles, Lady Crimson.”

  "Yes", she said with a soft laugh, “and before you enquire—yes, I adore dressing in this manner. It has earned me some… unsavoury nicknames.”

  “Thank you for the clarification, Lady Crimson. But I must ask—why ‘the Empress’?” Another tarot echoes. Coincidence? Or something more?

  “Oh, that?” She waved a gloved hand dismissively. “Youthful exuberance. I once thought myself grand enough to claim the title. Ah, the follies of younger days. Though I cannot deny the name has proven… fitting in recent years. Friends use it now in jest—and respect. But I will not bore you with details.”

  “It seems you have led quite the entertaining life, Lady Crimson.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Indeed. And I hope it remains so until I grow old and grey. Such noisy adventures would disturb my rest.” She paused, eyes glinting behind the veil. “Do excuse me for a moment. I wish to procure a drink—one I must prepare myself.”

  She glided toward the bar with unnerving silence—no residue, no sound of footsteps, no ripple in the air. Utterly aggravating. And utterly fascinating.

  I watched as she spoke quietly to the barkeep. He frowned in confusion, then nodded reluctantly. Bottles and ingredients appeared; he followed her instructions with careful precision. A blood-red concoction took shape—two glasses, one with a straw.

  My phone vibrated. Richard: Left the casino. Rendezvous? I replied, 'Still in the upper lounge. Speaking with a guest' 'Which one?' I asked a passing waiter. "2BH", he answered. I texted Richard the location and pocketed the device.

  Lady Crimson returned—too silently. I had not sensed her approach.

  “Apologies for the delay,” she said, offering one glass. “They lacked my preferred gin, so I improvised. I prepared one for you as well.”

  Both drinks were the same deep crimson—almost luminous, like liquid rubies. Enchanting. Hers had a straw; mine did not.

  I accepted it with a small nod and studied the surface. She stirred hers gently with the olive spear and took a delicate sip.

  I followed suit. The taste unfolded slowly: mellow at first—velvet fruit, faint spice—then a strong, lingering alcoholic burn. Like an elixir. Divine.

  “Oh my, Mr Alez,” she murmured, “if I had known you would enjoy it so much, I would have brought more.”

  Confused, I glanced down. My glass was empty. I had taken only a small sip. How?

  “Your confusion is rather amusing", she said, “but understandable. It took me years to perfect the blend. Sadly, you tasted only the imperfect version. This will suffice for now.”

  I was still processing the impossibility—how an entire drink had vanished without my notice—when she spoke again.

  “Do forgive me again, Mr Alez, but I must depart. We will meet again in due time. For now… the show is about to begin.”

  I turned to acknowledge her—and she was gone. The glass in my hand had vanished as well.

  Then applause rose from below. Confused, I descended the stairs.

  Guests had already seated themselves at tables. Masked waiters moved with choreographed grace, delivering course after course—platters of glistening meat, vibrant vegetables, and sauces that gleamed like blood under candlelight. I searched for Lady Crimson; my phantoms swept the room. Nothing. She had vanished completely.

  I refocused on the mission. The slave trade would begin soon—or so I assumed.

  Waiter traffic slowed. A masked man in chef's whites stepped onto the central stage. The room fell silent.

  “Forgive me, my esteemed guests, for the delay,” he announced, his voice smooth and theatrical. “The ingredients arrived late—our negligence. To make amends, the next hour’s meals are complimentary. And to express our deepest apologies, I present my signature dish, Porc Sacrificiel!”

  Waiters rolled out a covered trolley. With a flourish, he unveiled it.

  A naked woman lay arranged on the platter—an apple wedged in her mouth, skin glistening with oil. Surrounding her were cooked heads and severed hands, vegetables nestled among them like a grotesque garnish. She had been prepared as though she—and the others—were pigs.

  The room erupted in cheers—enthusiastic and appreciative, as though witnessing a rare delicacy.

  My stomach did not turn. My expression did not change. I had seen worse.

  But the realisation settled with cold clarity: we had misunderstood entirely. They did not serve people as slaves. They served people as cuisine.

  Humans.