Season 1: Survival of the Fittest

  Ch 12: Queen of the Rats

  Friday dawned reluctantly, as if the week itself were staggering toward the finish line. The sky hung low and grey, the city slick with overnight rain that seemed to serve no purpose except ruining shoes and tempers.

  Nysera wrapped herself in one of her new purchases, her most severe coat — bck, wool, quietly expensive in a way that suited her better now — and stepped into the world prepared for another day of petty court intrigue. But as she made her way through the damp streets toward the Underground, something felt… different.

  The commoners were happy.

  Not joyous, not triumphant, but wearing the thin, brittle smiles of prisoners promised early release. They shuffled towards stations clutching paper cups like sacred relics, nodding politely to strangers with the gzed camaraderie of survivors. One man on the corner, still in his builder’s vest, hummed audibly to himself and announced to no one, "Nearly the weekend, ds."

  Nearly the weekend.

  The phrase echoed around Nysera through snippets of casual conversation. "Last push." "Friday mood." "Can’t wait for drinks tonight." The city itself seemed to sigh under the collective relief of impending escape.

  She passed through the barriers of the Underground with mechanical ease. There was no hesitation now. The cursed card tapped. The escators descended. She changed lines at Bank with swift calcution, dodging slow-moving commuters like a knight weaving through battlefield debris. Gone was the confusion of Monday, when signs like Way Out and Mind the Gap had seemed deliberately cryptic. She had learned their nguage. She had mapped the terrain.

  In four days, she had conquered it, and today was her victory p.

  As the carriage swayed and rattled, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with other silent, grim-eyed travellers, Nysera observed them with faint, detached amusement. So this was their weekly ritual. Five days of humiliation in exchange for two of brief, frantic freedom.

  Prisoners with visitation rights.

  A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she disembarked without error at Green Park and strode toward Crown & Hart. No wrong turns. No hesitations. The foot soldiers of London life moved around her now, oblivious that nobility walked among them in borrowed wool and leather boots.

  By the time she pushed through the doors of the office, the transformation was complete.

  The battlefield of Monday — hostile, whispering, judging — had softened. This morning, voices were raised in the kind of easy, buzzing tone that spoke of relief. Someone had even brought in pastries. A low, delighted hum rippled through the open-pn floor. Laptops pinged with meeting canceltions. Sck messages into general channels read "WFH this afternoon?" and "Pub o'clock soon?"

  "Morning, Mira," called the Tesco-rescuing coworker from across the room, dark sungsses still perched in her hair. She raised her coffee in salute. "Friday. Thank god, right?"

  Nysera regarded her coolly. "I find it fascinating," she said, slipping off her coat with measured grace, "how easily hope revives in captivity."

  The woman blinked. "Uh... totally." She retreated, visibly unsure if that had been a joke.

  Nysera took her seat at her desk, crossing her legs neatly as she surveyed the floor. Sck was still abze from the campaign. Memes. Screenshots. Jokes. Praise. Fear. The peasants were feasting on her decree. She allowed herself the smallest of smiles as she set her coffee down with a faint, imperial click.

  It did not take long for formal recognition to follow. Before the hour was out, a Sck ping summoned her to the gss-walled domain of Jess, Senior Brand Strategist and, as far as Nysera could tell, a minor duchess in this little kingdom of marketing. Jess had the clipped, cheerful energy of someone who ran on iced coffee and thinly veiled threats.

  "Come in, Mira — close the door," Jess said briskly, already half-smiling. "Big moment."

  Nysera obeyed smoothly, gncing once at the open-pn floor where the others watched with polite curiosity. Court audiences always drew attention. She stepped inside and shut the door behind her, feeling the faint shift of power as the room quieted.

  Jess gestured at the chair across from her desk.

  "So," Jess said, folding her hands. "The campaign. Absolutely smashed it. We had regional on the phone this morning saying it’s one of the freshest and most irreverent unches they’ve seen in months." She paused to grin. "You somehow made bullying people into drinking water feel retable. That’s twisted genius, Mira. Seriously."

  Nysera inclined her head as though accepting a lesser noble's fttery. "I am pleased it has pleased."

  Jess didn’t seem to notice the faintly barbed tone. She clicked onwards, revealing a slide featuring a gaudy gold star graphic and the words CROWN & HART HUSTLE HERO. Beneath it, Mira Kensington’s name gleamed in a nauseating font.

  "For going above and beyond, thinking outside the box, and demonstrating what Crown & Hart calls Relentless Client Focus, you’re this week’s Hustle Hero," Jess decred brightly.

  Nysera stared at the screen. There was no herald. No ceremony. Not even a court musician to announce her victory. Just clip art and faintly smug satisfaction.

  Jess handed over a card, casual as anything. "Also, ￡500 bonus — in the form of a giftcard so we can write it off as a business. Go celebrate or something."

  The card felt absurdly light in her hand. Nysera turned it over slowly, as if expecting it to reveal itself as a trap. But no, it was genuine. Tribute. Paltry, but real. Her lips twitched faintly as she rose from her chair, slipping the card into her pocket with practised grace. Jess had already moved on, checking emails mid-conversation.

  "Keep doing what you’re doing, Mira," she said absently. "You’re killing it."

  Nysera smiled thinly. "Yes," she said softly, her voice all silk and quiet knives. "I suppose I am."

  She left the office to a scattering of curious looks and polite appuse. Returning to her desk, she sat with deliberate composure, allowing herself a moment to reflect on this test, faintly ridiculous victory. A gaudy certificate. Petty cash. Sck emojis of champagne and fire icons lighting up the team channel in her honour.

  This was not the throne she had once cimed. There were no banners raised in her name, no territories conquered by bde and treaty.

  No.

  This was something else.

  Rats, she thought, watching as the others returned to their work with nervous reverence. Not lords. Not warriors. Just small, eager rats scurrying for morsels and cheering when one of their number cwed a little higher. She tapped her fingers thoughtfully against the desk, eyes gleaming with sharp amusement.

  "Queen of rats, then," she murmured to herself, letting the title curl luxuriously on her tongue. "So be it. Even rats need someone to rule them."

  The afternoon passed in a quiet haze of reverence. In the office, Nysera wore her crown lightly but visibly. Coworkers whispered and gnced over their monitors; even Ben had stopped trying to casually "check in" by mid-afternoon. She replied to messages with the cool efficiency of a reigning monarch addressing ministers. But as Nysera stepped into the cold night, she left Crown & Hart’s muted reverence behind. That was merely one domain. Her true kingdom waited in the glowing rectangle of her cursed phone, where ViscountessV reigned without rivals or peers.

  The account had grown fat with tributes and desperation throughout the day. Mortals threw money and attention at her for the simple privilege of being humiliated. Not one cared about straw campaigns or quarterly reviews — they wanted to be stepped on, verbally and with fir.

  Nysera reviewed her recent decrees with idle satisfaction as she strolled down the high street. "You are not mysterious, you are simply bad at communication." Eighty retweets. "Your mediocrity is not charming, merely loud." One hundred and twenty likes, plus three tribute payments attached with pleas for further scorn. "If you fail to kneel properly, why should I waste time stepping on you?" That one had earned a follower naming themselves Viscountess’ Footstool.

  It was almost disappointingly easy. Words cost nothing. Mortals paid anyway. Far cleaner than bribery or fttery in her old life.

  Pausing to compose another, she tapped out: "Being tolerated is not the same as being wanted. Remember that when you speak." She hit post, sliding the phone away just as something familiar caught her eye.

  The shop. The very boutique that, days ago, had dared to insult her by declining Mira’s overdrawn card. The slight had been small, but the memory clung, sour and insistent. Nysera smiled faintly, adjusting her grip on her coat.

  She stepped inside. The sales associate — new, bored, and scrolling aggressively through their phone — did not even look up as she approached. Nysera selected a bck handbag with ruthless efficiency. It was sharp, minimal, commanding. Perfect. She pced it on the counter with quiet finality.

  "Nice choice," the associate said, eyes barely flickering as they processed the sale. The card beeped, approved instantly.

  They shoved the bag towards her without ceremony. "Want a bag for the bag?"

  Nysera’s smile sharpened. "No," she replied coolly, slipping the handles over her wrist with deliberate grace. "I simply enjoy the taste of victory."

  The associate had already returned to their screen. Nysera didn’t care. Their recognition was irrelevant.

  Outside, in the cold hush of evening, she paused beneath the boutique’s glowing sign. The street was quiet, save for the occasional rumble of buses and the distant echo of ughter from nearby pubs. No courtiers. No watching eyes. Just a woman in a bck coat holding a very expensive handbag and vibrating with the quiet, absurd joy of petty vengeance fulfilled.

  Nysera gnced at the handbag, then at the shopfront behind her. Without thinking — or perhaps thinking exactly enough — she lifted the bag triumphantly into the air like a conquering hero dispying spoils.

  "Avenged!" she decred to no one, voice sharp with satisfaction.

  It felt good. Shockingly good.

  For once, she allowed herself the indulgence of victory unobserved. No polished mask, no calcuted grace — just the pure, ridiculous pleasure of being small and spiteful and winning anyway.

  A man walking his dog gnced at her in confusion. Nysera caught his eye and, utterly unbothered, gave him the faintest, imperious nod. The man hurried on.

  She lowered the bag slowly, straightened her coat, and resumed her composure, but the smirk lingered. Victory was victory. Whether it came with titles and thrones or receipts and handbags was entirely immaterial.