When noon was drawing near, Miquella finally had a break. This time, his plate of food was somewhat more decent—enough to satisfy his hunger and restore some strength. It was certainly better than what he had been given the night before.
That was the difference between a worker and a beggar. Before, he had only been given a glass of water, the scraps of a broth, and a piece of hard, stale bread. Now, he had a glass of water, a little real broth, and bread that, while still hard, was not as old—perhaps only from the day before. On top of that, the portion was larger, almost what an adult would eat in a normal meal. Even so, he could not afford to enjoy it calmly. Though he did not understand the language, he could tell the innkeeper seemed to be rushing him to finish and return to work.
Wasting no time, he ate quickly, driven both by hunger and by the urgency of continuing his chores. This job, unworthy of someone like him though it was, at least served one purpose: observing and learning about the people of this world. If only he understood their language, he might gain valuable information for his situation.
The rest of the day passed simply, though exhaustingly. There was work here and there, especially at noon. Then came a short break, during which he could not help but fall asleep. By evening, when the tavern filled with its largest crowd of the day, he resumed his work. At the very end, once the customers left, he was given a second meal, at last able to breathe again.
His body was worn out, his eyelids heavy. It had been a hard day, not only because of the work but also because of the constant stares… and the attempts to touch him.
His appearance, though childlike, was captivating, almost like a figure drawn from a work of art. He possessed a beauty impossible for ordinary mortals, which was not necessarily a good thing. Every gaze fixed on him, and the hands that reached out to him became countless. The first time it happened, he had felt fear, but luckily, no one ever touched him. The innkeeper shouted something and seemed to threaten the customers, who, for some reason, feared him. They stopped halfway. It happened again with every new customer. In the end, Miquella was drained—not only physically, but mentally as well.
With nothing else to do, he returned to the storeroom to sleep.
The second day was much the same, except for one single detail that changed everything: his ring.
The morning began in the same way. He woke, washed, and worked, waiting for the arrival of customers—some of whom came early. While serving tables, he drifted into thought. After some food and rest, his confidence, his mindset, and his goals were returning. He was no longer merely a helpless child, but a prince with great plans for the future.
However, as he gathered dishes, he once again heard customers speaking about him—or at least, that was what he thought. Frustration welled up inside him. Not understanding the language meant losing valuable information that might help him figure out where he was or what to do next. And it was that thought, that desire, that triggered the change.
All of a sudden, he felt something torn from him. The energy he had stored vanished, leaving him weak once more. A chill ran through his mind. He did not notice it immediately, for the dizziness was so intense he nearly collapsed, dropping all the dishes he carried. He did not even realize blood was dripping from his nose.
The dizziness soon passed, but the weakness returned with force. He was once again a fragile, fearful child… but something was different.
As he stumbled back toward the kitchen, he began to hear words that had once been completely incomprehensible, but now, somehow, carried meaning. It was strange—fragmented phrases, scattered words he could grasp, while others remained a mystery.
He looked around, starting to associate words with the people who spoke them. Their voices, which had once been only noise, now conveyed broken messages—some familiar terms mixed with many still unknown.
This was a pivotal moment in his journey. Though weakened, Miquella pushed himself to continue the day with his newfound comprehension. There was much to think about—especially the reason behind this phenomenon. But now that he could understand, even if only 10% of the speech around him, he had a new goal: to learn.
It was a grueling day for someone barely strong enough to walk. Weakness was no trivial matter, nor was the sense of inferiority that came with it. But in the end, when he collapsed in the storeroom, a simple smile lingered on his face. Small, but carrying a profound meaning.
By the third day, his strength had recovered a little, and his mind was sharper. The innkeeper's instructions were now clearer, and his work improved considerably. Moreover, with his body in better shape, he was able to pay attention to the customers' conversations, and little by little, he felt that more words were unlocking through association. He still did not understand the language perfectly, but the idea that such a day was not far off began to take shape in his mind.
He understood some things—for instance, that people referred to him as "the elf" or "the elf boy." And with the customers who often reached out their hands toward him, he finally realized what it was that the innkeeper always shouted at them: "Look, but don't touch!" His beautiful appearance had sparked a peculiar attraction among those strange, filthy, intimidating men—and over time, he noticed that many of them mistook him for a girl.
Miquella's presence seemed to have boosted the innkeeper's business. Hearing the customers' comments and noticing the increase in clientele, the man had decided to slightly raise the prices from the second day onward. However, Miquella also understood that, even though the innkeeper was helping him, he saw him primarily as a valuable asset. That became even clearer the following day.
His clothes were filthy, and with no spare change, he couldn't wash them without spending most of the day naked. Over time, the grime had built up to the point where brushing was no longer enough; it needed a deep wash.
That day, the innkeeper, driven by the hefty profits he had made and the customers' remarks, made a decision: he ordered Miquella to wash his clothes. Miquella had no reason to refuse, so he undressed without hesitation. It was the first time he revealed his true gender, and although the innkeeper seemed mildly surprised, his reaction was negligible.
In the end, the man gave him another garment—though calling it a garment was far too generous. It was a set made of thick leather straps that barely covered the essentials. As soon as Miquella put it on, he immediately understood what kind of outfit it was. It covered his groin and then split into two straps that rose to his collarbones, leaving most of his body exposed: his legs, arms, part of his hips, torso, and back. The leather was tight, but instead of concealing, it seemed designed to highlight what it left uncovered—and what it didn't.
It was no royal attire. Even some prostitutes dressed with more modesty. To attend customers dressed like this made the purpose painfully clear: Miquella was the attraction, the jewel of the inn, the cherry on top that guaranteed more customers would keep coming. The innkeeper, it seemed, had embraced certain ideas from the visitors, allowing him to be dressed in such a way—though fortunately, the rule of look but don't touch still remained.
For anyone else, this would have been an unbearable humiliation. But Miquella kept his composure, his expression serious. It was not yet the time. Day by day, he could feel his body growing stronger. Perhaps he would never recover the full strength he once possessed, but he knew that eventually, he would gather enough to face this world head-on.
The following days went by slowly, alternating between his original, white and immaculate robe and that medieval, erotic attire. He only wore it a couple of times, but the feeling of discomfort persisted. Being treated as an object, a trophy, a simple display… was something he could not reconcile with.
...
And so the night came, with Miquella still working, dressed in his white robe. It was no longer as immaculate as the day he had arrived, but it still held a certain air of purity, something that contrasted sharply with the squalor of the place and the ragged clothes of the peasants around him.
But something in the air didn't feel right. There were eyes on him, heavier than usual. A group of men, in particular, hadn't stopped watching him since they arrived. Like others before them, they tried to approach, but pulled back when the innkeeper's warning was given. Still, their eyes never left him.
Hours passed, and while the other customers left, they remained. Some of the brazen stares turned into whispers among them, into low chuckles that chilled his blood.
When no one else was left in the inn, it was time to close. Miquella was cleaning the tables at the back when the men approached the innkeeper. They spoke in low voices and dropped a pouch onto the counter. The metallic clink of coins filled the silence.
Miquella couldn't hear everything they said, but he managed to catch a few words: first, the same warning the innkeeper always gave, then the sound of a larger pouch hitting the wood. The man responded in his gruff voice.
"He's a boy."
The men merely laughed. There was a brief exchange of words and, in the end, the innkeeper pocketed the pouches.
A chill ran down Miquella's spine. The dread became unbearable when two of the men came toward him. He tried to move, to head toward the door with any excuse, but he never had the chance. Rough hands seized him tightly, preventing his escape. There was no gentleness, only brutality. They lifted him up and slammed him face down onto a table, pinning him down with ease.
He tried to lift his head, his voice choked in his own despair. His eyes searched for the innkeeper. But that man, the one he had served day after day, just kept wiping his cup with his filthy rag, not even bothering to look up.
The sting of betrayal burned inside him. It wasn't that he had expected anything from him, but watching him turn away in indifference, slowly retreating into the back room without sparing him a single glance…
The laughter of the one who seemed to be the leader pulled him back to reality. He felt fingers clutch at his tunic, yanking it up to his back, exposing him. The sound of trousers hitting the floor twisted his stomach.
Fear tangled with hatred. Humiliation pierced his chest like a dagger, but above all, rage blazed in his veins. He knew what they meant to do. He knew he had been sold. He knew what was about to happen.
But he would not accept it. He could not accept it.
For an instant, his mind drifted, clinging to any thought to escape the nightmare. "If only it were Ranni… or my sister…"
Tears streamed down his face. His body trembled—not from cold, but from helplessness.
Then, pain tore through him, a searing burn that scorched him—but it wasn't the pain he had expected. His finger… the ring he wore glowed as though heated to red-hot. And with it, his hatred exploded.
A scream of fury and despair erupted from his lips, and with it, a tongue of fire roared out of his body. The blaze surged violently, devouring everything in its path. The leader and the man pinning him were consumed instantly, engulfed in a fire that not only burned—it devoured.
Chaos broke loose. The others let go of him at once, screaming in horror as they watched their companions wrapped in flames that clung to their flesh as though alive. The wood of the tavern began to crackle, the fire racing up the walls and ceiling, spreading like a beast unleashed from its cage.
Miquella collapsed to the ground, pain lashing through his left arm. He looked and saw his skin—ashen gray, shriveled, as though something within him had been consumed along with the flames. But there was no time to think.
He had to run.
Struggling to his feet, he bolted. He dashed through the burning tavern, dodging the flaming bodies of the men trying in vain to smother the fire devouring their comrades. He didn't look back. He refused to see if the innkeeper was still there, if the inn that had been his residence for a week was now crumbling into ashes.
He only ran… the river… it was his only escape.
He reached the bank, heart pounding frantically in his chest. Without hesitation, he hurled himself into the icy water. His body convulsed at the freezing plunge, but he did not stop.
He had to keep going. He had to escape.
...
He didn't get far. His strength was utterly spent. He couldn't gauge the distance—perhaps only four kilometers, maybe more—but the inn was no longer in sight, and the voices of those men had long since faded.
He tried to haul himself out of the river, clutching the bank with his one working hand, but his body wouldn't obey. His left arm, though it had regained its normal color and appearance, was still a dead weight, as though it no longer belonged to him. He fought to move, to at least roll himself out of the water, but it was useless.
And yet, he left the river.
Not by his own will—but because foreign hands pulled him firmly to safety.
Exhausted, vision blurred, he lifted his head with effort to see his rescuer. She was a woman of plain, even rough appearance: short, unevenly cut hair, thick eyebrows, a small wart on her nose, and calloused hands from hard labor. Her clothes were humble, worn but clean.
The water in his ears distorted her words, but through the haze of exhaustion, he caught fragments:
"… precious… creature… what… happened?… beautiful… now… fine…"
He had no strength to resist as the woman held him gently and helped him walk toward a small settlement. It could hardly be called a village—just a scatter of houses, irregular in their construction.
As they staggered forward, he noticed the basket of wet laundry by the riverside. She had been washing when she found him.
And now, without asking a single thing, she was taking him with her.