As the madam of Pramisburg’s most prominent pleasure house, Alma had her own rules for survival. Before her stood three naked virgins, the oldest sixteen, the youngest thirteen. Age aside, each boasted a statuesque figure, delicate features, and the vibrant allure of youth—slender waists that could be encircled with one hand, tempting even Alma to pull them close.

  Beside the girls stood a beautiful boy: six feet tall, lithe, with golden cropped hair framing a face both handsome and seductive, appealing to all genders. What truly caught her eye was his unusually large manhood, making even this seasoned madam’s heart skip a beat.

  She suppressed her reaction, nodding approvingly. These four were prized acquisitions, fetched from Bell Province’s capital at great cost and favors. Any one of them would rise to top-tier courtesan in a high-end pleasure house—worth the drain on her savings, given her monopoly over Pramisburg’s entertainment district.

  “Dress and follow me,” Alma instructed, cautious. “No staring, no speaking, no listening. I’ll tell you what you need to know. Forget anything you see or hear that doesn’t concern you. This is Pramisburg, not the Capital. Here, cannibalism isn’t illegal. Lose your life through carelessness, and don’t blame me.”

  The four exchanged nervous glances, shrinking inwardly. Given a choice, they’d rather work as lowly attendants in the Capital than risk their lives here.

  The carriage departed the pleasure house, its unadorned exterior belying the power of its occupant—Pramisburg’s most influential madam.

  Upon arriving at the mansion, Alma paused, ordering the escorts to stay put. “Say you’re here to visit the lord if asked.” She took a deep breath, adjusting her cleavage for effect, then entered the hall with a practiced smile.

  Arno sat on the lord’s throne, the golden banners overhead rustling in the breeze. The solemnity of the hall stifled Alma, accustomed to decadence. She curtsied, breasts straining against her dress. “My lord.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Arno nodded, his aura calm yet imposing after recent bloodshed. “I’m not like other nobles. I don’t look down on commoners—including you, Alma. I’m offering you a chance to rise above.”

  Alma raised her eyes slowly, filtering his words. “Tell me how I may serve, my lord. I’ll do all in my power.”

  Arno smirked, waving dismissively. “No need for fear. You know Lord Theron, the Minister of Military Intelligence?”

  Theron, a Count overseeing the empire’s spy network, held power over life and death. Even in remote Pramisburg, his name carried weight.

  At her nod, Arno continued, “Serve me as Theron serves the emperor. I’ll grant you his status.”

  Alma realized he wanted intelligence. She already ran an informal network—her courtesans overheard secrets, which she traded with madams in other cities. But her operations were passive; she sold information only when buyers came to her.

  “Don’t refuse yet,” Arno pressed, eyes gleaming. “If I return to the Capital, your business could expand empire-wide. Status, wealth—all within reach. Refuse, and someone else will take your place. I protect my own, not strangers.”

  A carrot and a stick. Alma smiled weakly. Loyalty meant surrendering the empire she’d built from a trafficked child to madam. Yet the promise of nobility—crushing past scorners underfoot—was tempting. With her youth fading, this might be her last gamble.

  In a flash, she knelt, accepting her fate.

  “From today, I need eyes on everyone in Pramisburg,” Arno ordered. “Recruit beggars, drifters, gamblers. I’ll seize the south district gambling dens for you. Soon, you’ll rule the city’s entertainment trade.”

  Alma rose, lighter now. The south district’s wealthy patrons spent recklessly; those dens were goldmines. Protected by Arno, she no longer feared the guilds or mercenaries backing them.

  “Lord, I brought a small gift,” she said, knowing he’d accept.

  After final instructions, Alma left, her step brisk. At the door, she warned the 4 people, “You serve the lord now. Displease him, and you’ll end up in the mines.”

  They shuddered—mines meant a fate worse than death.

  Only at dinner did Arno realize the “gift” was the four people. He kept them, as sending them back would insult Alma, ignoring the chief maid’s and Blair’s knowing looks.

  I’m not that kind of man, he wanted to protest. But words died on his lips.