The room Lyra was taken to had no bars, yet it was the most terrifying prison she had ever seen.
White walls. Immaculate sheets. A vase filled with fresh flowers.
Everything arranged to resemble a wedding chamber, disguising the brutality that took place inside.
The door opened. Lyra shrank back against the wall, her knees shaking.
A woman entered—tall, thin, dressed in silk worth more than the lives of all the elves in the ship's hold combined.
Deuse. The madam.
She seized Lyra's chin. Her fingers were cold, heavy with rings that scratched the elf's soft skin as she tilted her face toward the light, inspecting the merchandise.
"A pretty little thing," Deuse murmured with a professional smile. "But still shaking like a wild animal."
She released Lyra's face with a small shove.
"Don't worry, dear. You won't be seeing clients today. Arturo will take a few days to arrive and… prepare you."
The word lingered in the air.
"Prepare?" Lyra whispered, her voice breaking.
"To please men," Deuse replied, smoothing her dress. "Arturo will teach you what to do. And rest assured… he'll be slow. And firm."
The woman leaned in, whispering as though sharing a maternal secret.
"If he's in a good mood. And if you don't irritate him."
Deuse left, locking the door behind her.
Lyra slid down the wall until she collapsed on the floor.
The following days were made of pure, auditory terror.
Locked in the white room, Lyra listened as the brothel came alive each night.
She heard coarse laughter. The clink of glasses.
And worse than all, she heard the other sounds.
The rhythmic creaking of beds in neighboring rooms.
Muffled screams.
Crying that stopped abruptly, replaced by silence—or, more horrifying still, by forced moans.
Every time heavy footsteps paused in the hallway, Lyra's heart slammed into her throat.
It's him. It's Arturo. It's my turn.
One night, Deuse opened the door and dumped a bucket of lukewarm water and clean cloths into Lyra's arms.
"Room four. Go clean up the mess. The girl in there can't stand."
Lyra obeyed, her legs unsteady.
As soon as she entered room four, the smell of copper hit her. Blood.
An elf sat on the edge of the bed. Naked. Holding a sheet to her chest.
Half her face was unrecognizable. Her lip was split, swollen, bleeding freely down her delicate chin.
Lyra rushed to her, soaking the cloth in water, her hands shaking so badly she spilled drops onto the floor.
"What happened?" Lyra asked, cleaning the blood with excruciating care. "My gods—who did this to you?"
The elf slowly pushed Lyra's hand away. Her eyes were dry. Empty.
"This?" She gestured at her ruined face as if it were a wine stain on fabric. "Just a client who likes to be rough."
"Rough? He beat you!"
The elf shrugged. A mechanical motion.
"At least he brings me gifts. And Deuse lets me keep the less valuable ones." She touched a thin silver bracelet on her wrist, spinning it absently. "It's worth it."
Lyra stepped back, nausea rising.
That was the future.
Not the pain—but the acceptance of pain. The exchange of one's soul for a silver bracelet.
On the third day, the front door of the brothel opened in a different way.
Not like a client. Like an owner.
From a crack in the hallway, Lyra saw him.
An elegant man, though with the dirty elegance of someone who knew how to move through alleys when needed. Arturo.
His eyes were quick, restless—the eyes of a small, cruel predator. He smiled at Deuse, twirling a ring on his little finger.
"The new acquisitions?" he asked, his voice smooth and oily.
The air vanished from Lyra's lungs. Desperation crushed her chest. It was today.
Deuse sighed, sounding tired.
"They're upstairs. They need urgent training. That one from the auction—the big-eyed one—looks like she might bite the first person who touches her."
Arturo laughed.
"I like the biters. They learn to lick faster afterward."
He moved toward the stairs.
Lyra retreated into the shadows, panic blinding her.
"Wait, Arturo," Deuse called.
He stopped on the first step.
"What is it?"
"Not now. The house is full. We're short two girls tonight, and the main hall is chaos. The General is here with his entourage."
Arturo snorted, annoyed, stepping back down.
"General Aurelian? That man drinks for three and demands for ten."
"Exactly. I need all hands in the hall to serve tables. Even the new ones. I can't have you breaking the merchandise yet."
Arturo rolled his eyes, adjusting his collar.
"Fine. I'll go upstairs and sleep a bit. Long trip."
He glanced toward the top of the stairs, where Lyra was hiding, and smiled lazily.
"Wake me when the house closes, Deuse. Then I'll start the night shift with the girls."
"Done."
Arturo went upstairs, passing the hallway where Lyra stood, whistling softly.
He entered a room at the end of the corridor and shut the door.
The clock began to run.
Lyra knew: when the last glass was served, Arturo would wake.
"Hey, you!" Deuse appeared in the hallway, snapping her fingers in front of Lyra's face. "Stop shaking. Put this on. Now."
She tossed a thin, nearly transparent dress into Lyra's arms.
"You're serving the main table. And don't drop anything. If that man complains about you, I'll hand you to Arturo myself—early."
Lyra dressed with numb fingers.
She had two choices: serve the General or face Arturo.
Between the unknown monster and the man of ice, she was pushed into the hall.
The lights were too bright. The scent of perfume was sickening.
Tray in hand, she walked toward the loudest table.
Her hands trembled.
Her eyes searched for something safe—and found only predators.
Then she stopped.
The air froze in her lungs.
Seated in one of the highest chairs, surrounded by women and empty bottles, was him.
The man of ice.
But the ice had melted into something far more pathetic.
Aurelian, the "general," was visibly drunk.
His once impeccable posture had collapsed into arrogant sloppiness.
He laughed loudly, plucked a flower from a human woman's hair, and tried to stick it into his own, delighted by his reflection as the women laughed out of obligation.
Beside him, uncomfortable, sat the other one.
The gentle-faced cousin.
Elion looked like he wanted to disappear into the chair. He touched no one. He didn't drink with the same fervor.
"Elion!" Aurelian's voice was slurred, commanding. He pointed at the madam. "We need a special girl for you, cousin. Deuse, bring something… unique."
"No, Aurelian," Elion replied quietly, firmly, shame heavy in his voice. "I don't want this. Let's leave."
Aurelian ignored him. His drink-clouded eyes swept the hall until they landed on Lyra.
There was no recognition.
To him, she was just another piece on his board of amusement.
"Her!" Aurelian pointed, laughing. "You want that one." It wasn't a question—he had already chosen. "Deuse, bring that elf to my cousin."
Lyra's stomach twisted.
The man who had seemed distant and untouchable on the ship now revealed himself.
He wasn't merely indifferent to her suffering.
He consumed it as entertainment.
The madam shoved Lyra toward the table.
"She hasn't been prepared yet, General—"
"Doesn't matter!" Aurelian slammed the table, spilling wine. "That one. Bring her!"
The tray vanished into Deuse's hands.
Lyra's heart stopped.
She was pushed into the chair beside Elion. The gentle cousin sprang to his feet, blocking Aurelian's view, forming a small barrier with his own body.
He leaned in, whispering quickly when he saw her wide eyes.
"I won't do anything to you. Breathe. Calm down."
Lyra looked at him. She saw panic in his eyes, mirroring her own.
Then she looked at Aurelian. The General had already lost interest and returned to laughing at some crude joke, treating everyone around him like toys in his private party.
Slowly, the immediate terror gave way to a taut, vibrating tension.
Seated beside Elion, sheltered by his shadow, Lyra breathed for the first time in days.
Elion poured her water—not wine.
"You're shaking badly," he said softly amid the roaring party. "What happened? Did they hurt you?"
Lyra shook her head, her eyes fixed on the staircase at the back of the hall.
"Not yet," she whispered, her voice breaking. "But he's up there."
"Who?"
"Arturo." The name came out like poison. "He arrived today. He's sleeping. The madam said when the house closes… when you leave… he'll wake up. To 'train' me."
She looked at Elion and, for the first time, let the desperation fully show.
"Please… don't leave yet."
Elion went rigid.
He looked at the dark staircase. Then at Deuse counting coins at the counter. And finally at Aurelian, now dozing in his chair—useless and indifferent.
Time passed. The party began to die.
The lights dimmed.
The madam clapped her hands sharply to dismiss the musicians.
"We're closing, gentlemen! Night shift is about to begin. Those heading upstairs, follow your respective choices."
The sound of a door opening upstairs echoed through the emptied hall. Heavy footsteps in the corridor. Arturo was waking.
Lyra grabbed the edge of the table, the shaking returning in full force. She couldn't breathe.
Elion saw it. He heard the footsteps.
And his hesitation vanished.
When the bill arrived, Aurelian grumbled about the price of the wine, but Elion ignored him.
He turned to the madam. His voice no longer trembled. It wasn't the voice of a timid guest—it was the voice of a man who had made a decision.
"How much to free her?"
Even Aurelian stopped grumbling. He blinked, confused, trying to focus on his cousin through the alcoholic haze.
"What? Elion, don't be ridiculous—"
"S-sir…" the madam stammered, glancing at the staircase where Arturo had already appeared, adjusting his sleeves, ready for work. "She already has a destination. Arturo—"
"Name the price," Elion cut in, standing and placing himself physically between Lyra and the stairs. "Now."
"Thirty gold plates."
A stunned silence. It was robbery. The price of a lifetime of labor. Each gold plate was worth two hundred coins.
Arturo froze halfway down the stairs, his sly smile disappearing as he took in the scene.
Elion didn't look at the money. He pulled the heavy purse from his belt and threw it onto the table. The sound of gold striking wood was loud, final—ending the "clock" that had been ticking in Lyra's head.
"It's paid," Elion said, turning to her.
He held out his hand.
"Come. Now."
Lyra stood, her legs unsteady.
She looked at Arturo, frozen on the stairs.
At Deuse, clutching the gold with greedy hands.
And at Aurelian, swaying in his chair, laughing alone at his cousin's "madness."
As she left hell guided by Elion's steady hand, Lyra knew one thing:
He hadn't merely bought her.
He had saved her from the monster descending the stairs.
And Aurelian?
Aurelian had only paid for the wine—never knowing, and never caring, about the fate that had nearly destroyed her.