Page 78 of Fallen Nocturne

Thorn’s grin sharpens.

“The Painted Moth remembers those who violate hospitality and those who abuse those under its protection.” He walks toward the center of the main room. “It has a long memory.”

A deep tremor rolls through the floor. Glasses rattle upon the tables, and the chandeliers sway overhead.

It feels less like an earthquake and more like something vast stirring beneath us. The Moth itself seems to be coming alive.

Another shudder passes through the building. Wine ripples over the rims of the remaining patrons’ goblets, and the room falls silent.

The floor lurches violently beneath my feet. My hand fists in the front of Arescaine’s coat before I realize what I am doing. He doesn’t comment on it.

Instead, he shifts closer, bracing us both against the movement. His wings flare slightly behind him, creating a shield between me and a falling shower of dust from the ceiling.

For a brief moment, surrounded by chaos, I feel impossibly steady. Then the tremor passes. I release his coat and step back, heat creeping into my face.

“Ladies, gentlemen, honored guests,” the Auctioneer announces in his grandest theatrical voice. He spreads his arms toward the room. “The Painted Moth is closing immediately. Please exit through the main doors. The building is… redecorating.”

No one needs to be told twice. Chairs scrape backward as patrons leap to their feet. They seize cloaks, purses and whatever clothing they can reach before rushing toward the entrance. Within moments, the main room begins to empty as the guests pour out in panic.

“What are you going to do?” I ask, though part of me already knows.

“Justice for Petal. For every person who’s been hurt within these walls while I wait for the Fae King to come to his senses.” Thorn Vale looks at me. “He won’t. So I will.”

The Auctioneer raises his hands.

“Go,” he says. “Now.”

Petal grabs my arm. “We need to leave. When the Moth closes like this—”

The floor bucks beneath us. A section of the ceiling groans above us, and dust drifts down from between the carved panels.

Fleur peels away from us, her butterfly wings spreading wide, and begins moving back through the corridors. She trails something from her fingers as she goes, a fine shimmering dust that catches the light. It drifts behind her like pollen as she heads toward the private rooms.

“Fleur!” River screams.

“I need to make sure they can’t escape,” Fleur calls back, continuing to scatter the glowing pollen as she moves. The dust spreads across the corridor in a widening veil, sinking into the carpets and clinging to the walls. “Go. I’ll catch up.”

River catches Petal’s hand with one of his own and reaches for Arescaine with the other. The moment his fingers close around the vampire’s arm, he shudders. Fear flashes across his face, but he does not let go.

“This way,” River says, making himself hold on as he guides us toward the exit.

We run.

Behind us, the building begins to breathe differently. The walls contract on one side and expand on the other. Rooms fold inward like a hand closing into a fist.

But the path ahead remains wide and clear. The corridor holds its shape, guiding us toward the exit as though the Painted Moth is choosing who to release.

Deeper in, where Kharlis and the commanders had been led, the screams start.

The Painted Moth is collapsing inward. It crushes and compacts around the people trapped within its maze, killing them.

“Don’t look back,” River urges as we run. “Just keep moving.”

But I hear the grinding of stone and wood behind us. The screams end one by one until only the thunder of the shifting building remains. Then that fades too, leaving a terrible silence.

We burst through the main entrance just as the Painted Moth gives its final shudder.

Outside, chaos consumes the street. Patrons pour out behind us, some still clutching drinks, others half-dressed, all of them pushing away from the building as fast as they can.