My Femboy System
Chapter 27: In Light of Insanity

Chapter 27: In Light of Insanity

The wreckage stretched across the Blackrush Stretch like a torn artery—raw, steaming, and grotesquely human. Snow drifted lazily over the scene, settling atop the mangled bones of steel and wood. The firelight danced across shattered glass and smoldering corpses, casting cruel shadows that flickered like specters waltzing to a funeral dirge.

It smelled of ruin—burnt iron, scorched oil, and that unmistakable, rich perfume of blood. Thick and metallic. Lingering. It clung to the roof of my mouth like the taste of a sin too foul to confess.

I stood at the edge of the devastation, where the snow had turned to ash-muddled slush, my coat shredded at the sleeves, my shirt stiff with drying blood. One heel of my boot had snapped off, and I’d walked lopsided through the wreckage without noticing.

My hands were stained red to the wrists. My hair, once artfully tousled, now stuck to my cheeks in matted strands. I looked like a ghost of myself—some tragic figure carved from soot, ice, and regret.

And I was silent.

Not the kind of silence I wore like silk during scheming or seduction. Not the poised quiet of performance.

This was the silence that came before collapse.

A silence built on too much death, too many choices, too many eyes that no longer opened when you called their names.

Aurel knelt not far from me, cradling a boy in his arms—one of the youngest survivors. His breath came in short, shuddering gasps, each one catching on grief he couldn’t fully name yet. Blood smeared across his cheek.

His hands trembled as he tried to hold still for the child’s sake. Miko stood tall nearby, shoulders squared—but his eyes, oh gods, his eyes. Too wide. Too hollow. He looked like someone who had heard the world’s worst secret and wouldn’t dare to unknow it.

Aurel had screamed when he saw the aftermath. He had cried, shouted, tried to pull more from the wreckage than his body could allow.

But me?

I hadn’t made a sound since we climbed out from the shadows.

Not a word.

I’d moved like a ghost—helping the wounded, guiding the shaken, counting heads, whispering the necessary lies to keep the bones inside their skin. I kissed brows, offered my flask, told them the worst was over, though I knew it wasn’t. The mask held. Just barely. It always did.

Now, twenty-six souls huddled in the snow behind me—survivors. The only ones left. Some limped. Others stared at nothing. One woman refused to release the hand of her dead husband, even as his fingers grew cold in hers.

I turned toward them, slowly, as though waking from a fever dream.

"We’re headed for Ventri," I said, voice hushed but steady. "I hope to arrange sanctuary at the Velvet Cathedral. My people will meet you on the road with food, blankets, and warmth."

It sounded rehearsed. Like someone else’s line in a play I didn’t audition for. There was no silk in my voice, no wine-soaked purr or venom-laced grin. Just bone. Just a hollow rhythm of sound that passed for authority.

A man stepped forward—grey-haired, hollow-eyed, with the kind of weary dignity that made you ache to look at him. A merchant, maybe. His voice was hoarse. "Is it... truly safe there?"

I held his gaze and let the lie be soft. "Nowhere’s truly safe," I said. "But it’s safer than staying out here I assure you."

Aurel wiped his face with the back of his hand and gave a firm nod. "We’ll take the low paths. The cliffs are too unstable. I’ll guide them."

I just nodded silently.

He lingered, eyes searching mine. "Come with us."

"I’ll catch up later. I refuse to let this business go unfinished."

"But—"

Aurel didn’t push further. He just stepped in and hugged me, sudden and fierce. Like he was afraid that if he waited, he’d lose the nerve. I held him for a second or two and then he was gone again, directing the wounded like a soldier who’d learned too fast what it meant to lead.

Miko lingered longer. "You tried to save them," He said quietly, his voice thin as wind through broken glass.

I let out a bitter breath, eyes fixed on the burning wreckage. "No. I tried aiming for control. It’s not the same."

He didn’t reply for a few short moments. "What got us here was someone else’s cruelty. What happens next? That’s still yours to shape."

My throat caught on something I didn’t have words for. I turned, finally meeting his eyes.

"You’re not going with Aurel?"

He shook his head slowly. "I’ll go wherever you go."

The words sat between us, warm despite the snow. No ceremony. No plea. Just certainty.

He turned away then, giving me space. "I’ll go look over our supplies."

And then I stood there.

Alone once again.

I found myself wandering through the mangled carcass of a railcar, snow hissing softly against the hot metal. My boots crunched over broken glass and cinders. A twisted pane of window caught my reflection—a ghastly smear of kohl, blood, and disbelief. A thing made of shadow and silk gone ragged.

And then...I laughed.

Quiet at first. Then louder. A rasping, hollow laugh that turned into something jagged and wrong.

"Gods," I whispered, pacing through the wreckage like a lunatic. "What the fuck am I?"

No answer. Just the soft whispers of the wind.

I picked up a shattered lantern, spinning it idly between my fingers. The cold metal bit my skin. I hummed a half-forgotten tune—a Velvet Court drinking song, one sung while stealing kisses and wallets. I missed that version of myself. The dazzling sinner. The harlequin. The bastard in crimson who turned survival into a show.

But maybe...it had always been a show.

A costume stitched from trauma. A mask painted with glitter to hide the rot beneath.

"You should have saved Elias," I murmured, voice cracking. "You should have stopped Vincent. You should have never let yourself live."

I fell to my knees beside a blackened bench, head bowed. My hands shook as I touched the hilt of my dagger. A slow, shuddering breath dragged through my lungs.

"Everyone sees a madman with a smile," I whispered. "But what do you see, Cecil?"

Still, no answer.

So I reached inside my coat and pulled out my pen.

Simple. Elegant. A relic, humming faintly with power. Divine luck, they called it. But I had begun to wonder if it was something more. Rather I knew it deep in my bones.

"Vincent has his watch," I said softly, to no one. "And I have this. He bends time. I bend fate. What are we, if not opposing instruments in someone else’s myth?"

The wind howled through the twisted iron bones of the train.

And something inside me stirred.

Not clarity. Not forgiveness.

Resolve.

Mad, bitter, brilliant resolve.

I rose.

"I am Cecil Valen!" I said to the wreckage, voice gaining strength. "High Priest of the Velvet Court. Patron Saint of debauchery. Theatrical menace. Lust incarnate. And I refuse—absolutely refuse—to let Vincent Lacona write my final act."

My laughter came back, brighter now, twisted like wine through silk. My fingers danced over the pen like a conductor at a symphony.

"I will not crawl back into the dark. I will not wear my shame like a crown. I’ve done that before, and it bored me senseless."

The snow fell harder, as if the heavens tried to mute me.

I opened my arms to it.

"I am mad, yes—but only because the world made me feel sane when I was dying."

I spun once, dramatically, cloak flaring behind me.

"And if I must go to Ventri, where masks are currency and lies taste like honey, then so be it. I will waltz into the lion’s den with a grin and a curse. I will seduce truth from liars and blood from saints."

I walked from the ruins, boots crunching. Blood on my coat. Firelight in my eyes.

The wind howled. And I howled with it.

"Do you hear me, Vincent? Do you see me, oh great Maker of the heavens?" I called out to the night. "I’m coming. And I will not come quietly. I will not be still. I will not be kind."

A pause. A breath. Then, almost gently:

"I will be beautiful."

Miko stood just a ways away, smiling faintly at my newfound resolve.

And with that, we vanished into the snow-covered hills, my laughter echoing like a hymn for the damned.

I would follow Vincent Lacona into Ventri despite the risks. I would solidify my Court’s influence within the city. I would learn the secrets behind the stopwatch and my pen. And when the time came, I would dance with madness once more—this time with purpose, fire, and deep, passionate love.

Because for the first time in years, I refused to hate myself.

And that made me unstoppable.

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