Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air was heavy, thick with the scent of rot and blood. It clung to her like wet cloth. Shadows pooled in every corner. Only the tremor of torchlight broke them—faint and flickering far down the corridor.
Chains hung from hooks like silent threats, their metallic clink echoing whenever the heavy doors opened.

She pressed into the smallest space she could find—a hollow between broken crates and a leaning pillar. Her breath was ragged. She tried to disappear, arms tight around her knees, the thin shift stuck to her damp skin. Every sound—footsteps, murmur—made her whole body jolt. She learned to hold her breath until her lungs burned as guards passed close, their voices sharp and cruel.

But hiding never lasted. Rough hands always found her, tearing her from the shadows, dragging her as she kicked and clawed—but it didn’t matter. They didn’t care. No one ever cared.
When they were finished, she was left like a discarded rag. The chill seeped back into her bones as she lay on the cracked stone—silent tears streaking her dirt-stained cheeks. Her body trembled—not just from pain, but from something deeper she could not name.

She had been here for as long as memory stretched. No faces of parents lingered in her mind, no sound of a mother’s lullaby or father’s voice. Only this place: the stench of fear, the sound of heavy iron doors, the sight of others being dragged away, never to return. She did not know what waited beyond those doors, but she knew it devoured them whole.

Lying on the floor now, cheek pressed to the grit, she stared into the darkness of the corridor. Somewhere down there, someone sobbed softly—just another voice waiting to vanish. Her tears dried on her skin, leaving her hollow. But inside that emptiness, something moved. A coil of heat. Tight and quiet, winding deep around her fear. It stayed when everything else left. It waited.
She could not stop shaking. Could not stop breathing fast, as though each breath might be her last. Trembling with every noise she heard, she turned again, facing away from the corridor. Every echo of boots, every scrape of chains, let her hold her breath. Lingering. Observing.
Sleep came like a thief: sudden, merciless. One moment, she curled on unyielding stone, shivering; the next, darkness engulfed her. This was not rest—no solace, only a void shattered by feverish fragments. Chains clanged in the distance. Screams thinned and stretched. Even in dreams, she could not escape.

Her eyes snapped open. The world was dim and jaundiced with torchlight. For a heartbeat, she thought herself blind, the darkness so complete—but pain battered her awake. Her body throbbed, rigid from the floor, her throat sandpapered dry. She barely stirred before the sound came: the clang of iron and the thunder of boots charging toward her cell.
Her breath caught. She scrambled backward on hands and knees, heart hammering, nails scraping stone. But there was nowhere left. The walls pressed close, and the door open.

Two men filled the doorway, shadows stretching long and thin across the floor. One reached for her with a hand big enough to cover her whole arm. She twisted, tried to run, but they were faster. Fingers like iron clamped around her wrist, hauling her forward until her knees left the ground. Her cry tore free without her meaning it to, high and sharp, echoing down the corridor.

They dragged her into the torchlight, bare feet scraping against stone, her shift catching on the jagged floor. The corridor loomed, lined with iron doors like silent watchers.
She fought like a wild animal, teeth bared, heels slamming the floor as two men dragged her by the arms. She twisted, clawed, kicked, her voice hoarse from screaming.
“Hold her,” a robed figure snarled, as if she weighed no more than a sack of grain. “I am holding her!” the guard grunted, wincing as she bit his wrist. Blood welled before a hand yanked her hair back, snapping her head against stone. Stars exploded behind her eyes; the fight stalled just long enough for them to pin her.

They slammed her onto the slab. Cold iron cuffs snapped around her wrists and ankles. She writhed, shoulders arching, fury driving her to lift off the slab, but the restraints only bit deeper.
“No!” she shrieked, voice raw. “Don’t—don’t touch me!”

The high priest—hooded, pale, smile never reaching his eyes—approached, cradling a glass vessel. Inside, liquid seethed, black-green with embers swirling. The chamber’s glow bent toward it, as if the blood itself drank the air.
“This one will hold,” the priest said, his voice echoing off the walls. “She is strong. Her body will not fail us.”
She shouted, yanking against her bonds until the metal scraped her wrists bloody. Panic and helpless anger flooded her mind, rising with every futile effort.
The priest only laughed. He gestured, and a smaller acolyte stepped forward with the tools: long iron needles, tubes, clamps.

The first needle sank into her arm. She screamed—not from pain, but from what followed: the liquid sluggish, burning, forcing its way beneath her skin. A second needle drew her blood out, crimson flowing into another vessel, as though the cult meant to replace part of her. It was fire and poison, ice and acid in her veins. Her back arched, cuffs biting so hard she thought her bones would snap.
She begged, she cursed, she cried—each word breaking as the fel blood coursed through her. Her veins lit up, glowing beneath her skin, as green fire raced through her body. She felt it—claws tearing, reshaping, corrupting, filling.
The priest leaned close, his whisper slicing through her sobs. “Do not resist. Let it in. Become what you are meant to be.”
She spat in his face.

It cost her—he struck hard enough to split her lip—but she didn’t stop thrashing. She fought until her muscles gave out, until her body seized in tremors, until the burning was too much to scream through.

Her vision blurred. She saw the ceiling warp, shadows crawling where they shouldn’t. Saw her own hands straining against the cuffs, veins glowing like brands beneath the skin.
Somewhere in the haze, she realized the crying had stopped. She was still making noise, but it wasn’t her voice anymore. It was a guttural, feral sound that shook even the acolytes back a step.
Then she froze, the fight draining from her limbs. Her body trembled, twitching in small, broken jolts under the crushing weight of pain.
When at last they unstrapped her, she crumpled onto the floor, gasping, her arms still glowing faintly in the dim light. She curled in on herself, shivering, lips trembling, exhaustion and numb despair suffocating any remaining hope.

Chapter Text

Dread thickened the air, night stank of smoke and old blood—a warning as she was dragged through corridors.
In the sleeping quarters, she crouched in the corner, heart pounding fast. Fourteen years as a prisoner sharpened her senses; she knew when guards were drunk, steps unsteady, something changed. Tonight was no different. Torches dimmed, and two guards left to check the cells.
Her cell.

Days ago, she feigned weakness—limp body, dull eyes. They believed her, loosened her handcuffs. Now, skin raw from picking the lock with bone, she was free. Her captors hadn’t noticed yet.
Footsteps echoed closer. She pressed herself into the shadows, every muscle taut. Her ears caught their voices before her eyes did.
“…waste of effort, if you ask me. Number Seven’s got too much fight. Better off selling her to the pits.”
“Nah. You've seen the numbers she pulls when the blood’s up? The cult’s invested. She’ll either break or she’ll serve.”
Their laughter scraped over her like a blade.

The fel stirred, curling in her veins like hot smoke, whispering promises—strength, power, freedom for blood. She clenched her jaw and breathed. Not yet.
The door opened. One entered, tall and lean with a cudgel, eyes sweeping the cell—didn’t see her at first. The second, bulkier and reeking of cheap ale, followed.
She moved.
She lunged from the shadows, slammed her shoulder into his gut. He staggered; she snatched the cudgel and swung hard into his jaw. Bone cracked. He collapsed.
The second man bellowed and charged, hands clawing for her.
Not this time.
She ducked, struck his knee with the club—a horrible sound as he went down. Dropping the club, she grabbed the knife from his belt.
His eyes widened. “No! Please, wait—”
She didn’t.

The blade slid beneath his jaw; hot blood spilled over her hand as his words choked out. His body twitched, then stilled.
She froze, chest heaving, staring down. The fel surged—a rush begging her to keep going. Her hands shook, torn between giving in and stopping. She forced herself to breathe.
She would not become the thing they wanted her to be.

She turned to the first man, groaning with his broken jaw. Steady, angry, she finished it quickly, slit his throat, and took his cloak, heart pounding under stolen cloth.
She slipped into the corridor, every step quick and silent. Far-off shouts bled through the stone, but none neared. Cool night air drifted in, edged with the scent of pine and promise.
The cult had branded her VII. Had tried to chain her, beat her, break her.
But now she was gone. She felt the first breath of freedom cut through the haze. She would never be theirs again.

*

She ran.
No map. No plan. Just instinct to escape—feet pounding earth, breath tearing, branches whipping past. The woods deepened; she didn’t stop, ignoring blisters, icy air, buckling legs. She crawled, then rose again.
She didn’t look back.
Eventually, the trees thinned, and the ground slanted down toward a stream. She stumbled to it, dropped to her knees, and collapsed onto the bank, chest heaving. The water crept beside her, mirroring the final scraps of light above.
Everything throbbed—her feet, her back, her ribs, where faded bruises lingered. But the silence was solid. No footsteps pursued her. No orders snarled. No fists tightening at her…
Just the sound of water and wind.
She lay there, forehead on her arm. Her heart still hammered like it hadn’t realized she was out. It was over.
It was finished.

*

The fire burned low. Alone, she stared at the brand on the inside of her left wrist— VII, inked deep. Her other hand trembled on a jagged knife.
If she cut deep enough, she could take the hand, the number, the memory. The thought consumed her. Her pulse hammered in her ears, breath harsh as she pressed steel to her wrist. She could almost feel the blade sliding down, bone cracking, blood rushing hot—freedom paid in flesh.
Her grip tightened, trembling hand, knuckles white. The blade bit, a sting sharp enough to make her gasp. Do it. End it. Take it off.
But she let the blade slip away, flung it from her with a hissed, “Coward.” She couldn’t—not like this. The number lived in her marrow- Severing a hand wouldn’t cut away the past.
Slowly, she tore cloth into strips and wrapped her hand. Bandages hid the mark—a small mercy.
The fire faded to embers. She sat, hunched, bandages stark against her skin.
Her eyes drifted to her wrist. Even unseen, she felt it—burning beneath the wrappings, whispering what she was. Her fingers twitched; the knife lay at her feet, dull in dying light. She hated her weakness, hated herself for letting it go.

Wind stirred ashes. Night pressed close. Each sound set her spine tight. Every branch’s crack or leaf’s sigh—she heard boots in all. Voices curled through the trees. The priest’s smile burned behind her eyes.
No one came.
She did not sleep. Couldn’t. Her body was leaden, but her mind spun, snagging on each sound, each memory—the faces of the guards. The green fire under her skin, waiting.
Hunger savaged her gut, raw and punishing, but she refused it. Nothing left to want—not hunger, not hope, not mercy. Only bone-deep ache, and fire she couldn’t silence.
By morning, the fire was ash. Cold bit through her shift as she pulled to her feet, legs trembling. Her bandaged hand throbbed with every beat. She stared at it, feeling the weight she could not cut away.
Then she turned from the ruin of her camp: no trail, no sign, nothing left for them to follow.
The woods opened endlessly before her, shadows and fog curling like fingers. She walked in, not looking back. She would go deeper, further—far enough their whispers couldn’t find her.
And if the past followed, it would bleed for every step.

Chapter Text

Hours later, the trees began to thin. The ground softened under her bare feet, sucking mud, clutching at each step. The air changed—sharp, wet, carrying a sound that tugged at her like a hook.
Water.
She stumbled toward it, half-blind with thirst. Broke through a wall of reeds and saw a river sliding black through the fog, its surface slick as oil.
Her knees gave before thought could stop them. She fell hard, palms sinking in cold mud, and crawled the last stretch like a beaten dog.
Then the water was under her hands, cold and painful. She put her arms in, scooped up water, and drank until her throat hurt. It tasted like metal and something rotten. She drank again. And again, until her stomach hurt and she felt sick. She spat into the river, shaking.
She crawled under a fallen tree and pressed into the hollow beneath, breath tearing ragged in her throat. The ground was wet, stinking of mold. She curled small as she could, mud soaking her shift, and listened to the wind drag claws through the branches above.
Sleep took her by inches, black and jagged. In dreams, the priest smiled.
Morning came gray and cold, covering her in wetness. She woke up stiff, her bones aching badly. Her stomach hurt now, empty and painful.
She searched the riverbank first. Found cattail stalks, pale and tough—bit into one. Bitter slime coated her tongue, gagging her, but she chewed and swallowed, clutching her gut as if she could hold the sickness down.
She couldn’t. It came up in a hot rush, burning her throat. She spat bile into the mud, shaking until her teeth clattered.
She tried again. Chewed bark this time, spat it out splinter by splinter.
No food. No fire. No one is coming.
By dusk, the cold felt sharp. She dug a space under some roots and pulled dead leaves over herself like a blanket. The wetness made her shiver, and her teeth chattered. Her fingertips turned blue.
When she finally slept, she dreamed of chains. The chants. The hands. The green fire burning her veins.
She woke screaming into the night, a sound that ripped her throat bare. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth, heart hammering. Listening and waiting for boots in the dark.
None came.

The next day was worse. Hunger made her weak and dizzy. Her legs gave out twice as she walked. The bandage on her hand came loose, wet with pus and blood. She looked at it and wondered if it would kill her before the cult did.
Then she saw it—a shape tangled in the roots ahead. A hare, stiff and half-rotted, its eyes gone to black pits.
Her gorge rose hard. She turned away—then turned back.
Her hands shook as she reached for it. Flies scattered in a whining cloud. She gagged at the stench, but her nails dug in, tearing fur, then skin, then flesh.
She ate on her knees, ripping strips of cold, rank meat. The taste made her gag until her body heaved, but she forced down what she could before the sickness won.
When it was over, she crouched in the reeds, shaking, blood on her lips and shame curdling in her gut. She wanted to scrub her mouth raw. Wanted to tear the hunger out of her belly and fling it into the river.
Instead, she curled up small and shook until dark swallowed the world again.
Days blurred after that. She moved when she had to, dragging her body through mud and fog, hugging the river like a lifeline. She learned the sound of carrion crows meant meat, even if the meat crawled with maggots. Learned moss was softer than stone when her legs gave out. Learned the cold could make a body forget its name.
She tried to make fire once, with stones she found. Sparks died in the damp, leaving only the stink of smoke and her raw-throated sobs. She slept in ashes anyway, because they felt warm in her mind.
On the fourth day, she heard voices. Real ones, not the whispers in her skull. She dropped flat in the brush, heart clawing at her ribs.
Two men, trudging the trail by the river. Their packs were heavy. She saw bread crust in one, dry and curling at the edges.
She waited until they passed. Waited longer, until her breath burned her throat. Then she crawled from the grass and ran to what they left behind: a scrap of cloth, a heel of bread.
She seized both, clutching them like gold, and bolted into the trees. Ate on the run, choking as she chewed, crumbs turning to ash on her tongue.
When it was gone, the hunger still howled, but softer.
She kept moving after that. Roads glimmered through the trees now and then, but she stayed to the shadows. People meant eyes. Eyes meant chains.
Still, the sound of gulls reached her one night—a cry carried on salt wind. She smelled the sea and followed it, legs shaking, until the fog tasted of brine.
Somewhere beyond lay ships. A way out.
If she could live long enough to find it.

*

Each step was hard. Mud dragged at her feet. The cold sank into her bones. Trees thinned and twisted, then gave way to pale hills in fog—no path, no road—just black water in holes and rain on dead grass.
Her clothes clung to her, stiff with old dirt and blood. Her ribs ached. Every breath hurt.
Days blurred. Night trapped her, cold biting deep. She walked through pain and a buzzing head. If she stopped, she would freeze. Then the whispers would find her.
Sometimes she heard them anyway, twisting from the fog, honey-smooth and insidious, the priest’s voice coiling through her bones like wire.

Come back. Come back, and we'll make it right.

She pressed her palms against her ears until her skin bruised. It didn’t stop. The noise lived under her ribs now.
The forest faded into lush green beneath a gray sky, with fences, stone walls, and chimney smoke. The scent was sharp—bread baking, fat sizzling in a blackened pan.
She froze among hedgerows, heart clenched with longing and fear. The lanterns burned in the distance. Voices drifted—men calling, a dog barking, wagon wheels squealing on wet ruts. The sight gripped her with both yearning and terror. Life she never knew, just out of reach.
Her stomach cramped, folding her in half. Her throat burned for clean water, for food untouched by flies.
She almost stepped forward. Voices snapped her back. She saw soldiers—steel flashed, blue tabards slick with rain. Going to them meant capture—being dragged back to those she had fled.
She slipped away before the torches could catch her shape in the hedges.
South of town, the road widened through flat, wet land. She stayed off it, moving through tall grass and dark water until she couldn’t feel her feet. Geese screamed above. Wolves howled. Each sound made her tense, but she pressed on.
Days later, at sunset, the sky was deep purple and red. The moon, a thin crescent, hung low in the sky. She smelled salt and tar. She followed the scent past hills to wet ground and rocks, the earth covered in green water. Her legs shook.

Then she heard it—Gulls, wheeling white against the stormy sky.
Her knees gave way as relief and exhaustion battled for control. She dragged herself up the rain-slick ridge, fingers clawing at the mud, until she finally saw it.
Water stretched endlessly. Sails dotted the horizon, and a forest of masts pierced the clouds.
She slid down the ridge, skidding through muck, breath tearing in her chest.
The harbor sprawled in crooked lines—docks jutting into dark water, ships heavy with cargo, gulls shrieking overhead. Lanterns glimmered in the fog. Voices barked. Boots thudded. Ropes groaned in protest.
She crouched low, weaving between crates and shacks, every nerve strung tight. Blue-coated soldiers prowled the piers, eyes sharp for trouble. Her breath snagged. Panic coiled in her chest.
Keep moving. Stay small. Stay nothing.

One ship loomed nearby, its paint flaking, a ragged green banner with a grinning face and crossed sawblades fluttering. The figures aboard—thin, sharp-featured, quick with their words and patchwork coats—were strangers to her.
Not human. Not like the priest or guards. Not like anything she’d seen.
That didn’t matter. She couldn’t tell if it was better or worse.
All that mattered was the yawning cargo hold.
She had to slip aboard, disappear before eyes or rumors or hunters could seize her. Escape was all that mattered; every step fueled by hunger for freedom.

*

She moved before thinking, slipping from shadow to shadow, breath sawing, until the gangplank pitched beneath her. Her pulse thundered as she reached the ship and slid below deck.
Dark swallowed her. She groped past crates until she found one big enough to crawl inside. Lid loose. Her heart hammered.
She waited. And waited.
The ship jerked. Boots hit the floor. Voices shouted, some low and rough, others high and sharp, their words strange. Waves battered below. Menethil and the land were gone.
She’d made it.
It didn’t last.
The lid yanked away in a burst of light and cold air. Small but strong hands pulled her out, flinging her across the deck. Her back hit wood hard; stars burst. Voices shouted above.
“What the hell’s this?”
“A stowaway?”
“No—look at it! Ears like knives, face like death!”
More voices mixed, sounding strange. Shapes appeared: some short, some very tall, one big with tusks like blades. Not human. Or were they? She couldn’t tell. The world spun, full of strangers with bright eyes and sharp teeth.
Fists shoved her down, knees cracking on the deck. Sea spray lashed her cheeks, stinging split lips.
“Over the side,” someone spat. “Before it spreads plague.”
“Or slits us in our sleep!” another barked.
Hands hauled her up and shoved her toward the rail. Black, endless water churned below. She fought like a wolf, nails raking and throat raw with sound.
“Enough!”
The word sliced through the din. Small boots clattered on planks. The circle broke as someone shoved through, shorter than the tall shapes but moving like the deck belonged to him. Green skin burned in the glare, a razor grin splitting wide beneath eyes bright as gold. Something smoldered between his teeth, sending out smoke that twisted like a living thing.
He crouched, coin-bright eyes narrowing as they dragged over her mud-slick skin and sharp ears. His grin deepened.
“Dead weight’s bad for business,” he said, his voice low and quick, like steel scraping stone. Smoke curled from his grin. “Tossing it out? Waste of hands we can use.”
“She’s feral!” someone snarled.
“Good.” That grin widened, yellow teeth flashing. “Feral works cheap.”
He leaned closer, ember between his teeth flaring bright.
"Here's the deal, sweetheart." His voice was slick and cold. "You work, you live. Decks don't scour themselves. You steal, brawl, stall..." He jerked his thumb toward the sea. "Sharks gotta eat too."
She stared at the sea, chest heaving, spray cold on her face. For a breath, she thought of letting go. Sink quiet and cold.
Then she bared her teeth and spat blood at his boots.
He laughed, the sound sharp as a blade biting wood. “That’s the spirit.”
He snapped his fingers. Rope bit her wrists, rough and unyielding. They dragged her over the deck toward the hatch, her bare feet streaking red across the boards.
Not free. Not safe. But moving. The land and cult were gone. Only the ship and the unknown lay ahead.

Chapter Text

The ropes seared her wrists as they dragged her below deck. Shadows lurched with the ship's sway, lantern-light bleeding yellow across slick boards. The air stank of tar, bilge, and spice. Voices rattled around her, grating and sharp, words tangled rough in her ears.
Then came the buckets.
The cold hit her hard. She jerked back, ropes digging into her skin—another wave crashed before she could move away. Salt stung her through her clothes, sticking to her bones. Hands pushed her forward, rags scraping her arms, rough as rope.
“Hold it still!” someone barked.
“Plague’ll spread if we don’t scrape it clean!”
She thrashed—wild, snapping teeth, nails clawing for skin—and this time she didn’t stop. A sound ripped from her throat, low and raw, and the ropes strained, dug deep—then tore.
Fibers split with a whipcrack.
She ripped free.
The world blurred—cold and motion. She swung hard, all whipcord and fury, and sent someone sprawling with a grunt. Another reached for her—she hit him too, fist glancing off a jaw with a jarring crack.
“Hell’s teeth!” someone shouted. “The ropes—!”
“Grab it!”
“Don’t let it loose!”
They crowded around her. Boots kicked her ribs, a fist hit her stomach so hard she almost passed out. She fell to the floor, breath gone, arms and legs too heavy to move. Her strength left her as quickly as it had come, leaving her shaking and soaked.
A bucket hit her head. Another came, cold water soaking her hair and running down her back. Hands held her arms and shoulders while rags scrubbed her skin. They cleaned her roughly, scraping mud and blood from her, hitting dirt from her clothes. Her teeth shook with every push. She growled once more—barely a sound—and fell against the floor.
When they finished, the deck gleamed with dirty water. She slumped in the corner, hair plastered to her skull, water running down her back. Breath tore harsh through her teeth.
A bundle hit the planks with a slap—a shirt too big, trousers stiff with salt, a length of rope for a belt. One of them spat.
“Captain’s gonna hear this.”
Another snorted, breath sharp with fear. “Saw what it did? Snapped hemp like thread.”
No words to her. No mercy. Just the slam of boots on steps as they left her in the flickering dark.
She stared at the heap, muscles trembling, every inch of her throbbing like a struck nerve. The ship groaned around her, water whispering against its skin like distant laughter.

A shadow lingered—a tall one. Broad as the doorframe, tusks gleaming like ivory sickles, his skin dark as seasoned wood under lamplight. His hair hung in ropes over his shoulders, catching glimmers of gold from the swinging lantern.
He crouched slowly, his weight a whisper on the boards. In his hands: a rag and a clay pot that steamed faintly.
“Easy now,” that deep voice rolled low, rough but not cruel. Words bent strange on his tongue, but the tone… the tone was soft as warm earth.

He reached for her wrist, slow enough to warn her. She jerked anyway, like a struck dog.
“Ya fight,” he rumbled, tusks flashing when his mouth curved—not sharp like the others’ grins, less teeth and more calm. “Good. Fight keeps ya breathin’.”

The pot clinked as he set it down. A smell rose sharp and green, edged with spice—not rot, not blood. Steam coiled like ghosts. He dipped the rag, wrung it out, and reached again. This time, his grip caught before she could pull away, firm but not biting.
Heat pressed to her torn wrist. Pain knifed up her arm and stole her breath in a hiss.
“Burns now,” he said, steady as the tide. “Better later. Ya don’t want rot settin’ in, eh?”

She stared, eyes slitted through the tangle of wet hair, heart hammering like a snared drum. She didn’t know all the words—but the sound… it wasn’t like the others’ sharp-edged barbs.
He clicked his tongue low, like scolding, as he reached for her other arm. “Stay still.”
She froze as his fingers worked. Calloused, careful in their own way, peeling the filthy bandage free. The smell rolled sharp and sweet, and he hissed through his teeth.
“Bad,” he muttered. “Real bad.”
The wound was open and wet in the light. He did not react. He washed it with something that burned, then put bitter herbs on it that made her eyes sting. She breathed hard, but made no sound. She refused to.
As he wound fresh linen tight, the cloth scraped across her forearm—exposing skin the grime hadn’t fully claimed. Ink coiled there, black and curling like a brand half-buried by filth.

He paused. Just a breath, but long enough that she felt the weight of his gaze shift. His thumb brushed once, rough against the edge of the mark. Then it was gone, swallowed under linen.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “Dat’ll hold,” he said, almost to himself. “If ya don’ tear it open again.”
He rose like the dark uncoiling, his shadow swallowing the lantern glow. At the door, he paused and jerked his chin toward the tub.
“Sleep here,” he said. “Warm, dry. Tomorrow…” That grin hooked sharp, but not unkind. “Tomorrow ya scrub, little wolf.”
Then he was gone, the boards creaking under his weight, leaving only the swing of the lantern and the whisper of water against the hull.

Silence pooled thick, broken by the groan of timbers and the muffled slap of waves. Lantern-light swung, painting boards in amber and shadow. The air was damp and rank—tar, oil, and sour bilge water.
She sat where they left her, legs tucked under, skin stretched tight over her bones. Water dripped from her hair, soaking the floor. Every muscle hurt—not from cleaning, but from days of running and from hunger.
The bundle was a few feet away, lying against the wall. She looked at it, breathing hard, then crawled over. Her fingers struggled with the cords, nails breaking on the knots. The cloth was dry and rough. A shirt—coarse, gray, smelling of smoke and salt. Pants stiff with dried salt, seams white and hard. A rope to tie them shut.

She pulled the wet cloth off her skin. It stuck to her until she tore it away with a rough sound. Her breath showed in the cold air. The air stung her, and she shivered, teeth chattering. She put on dry clothes quickly, breathing hard as the fabric rubbed her arms. The clothes felt heavy, pulling at her shoulders, but warmth slowly returned. It was enough.
A thump—wood clattering across the deck. A bowl skidded to a stop, half-full of gray, greasy water. Beside it slumped bread, hard as stone, crust split with sharp cracks. No voice. No face. Just a door slam, sealing her in the dark and stillness.
She didn’t wait. Didn’t think.
She grabbed the bowl. It hurt her hands as she pulled it close, breathing hard. The water tasted like wood, warm and old, but she drank it all, her throat finally feeling better. The bread was hard, hurting her gums. She tore it apart with sore jaws, swallowing pieces that scratched her throat. She did not care about taste. She ate it all, hands tight around it.

When it was gone, she curled over the empty bowl, breath sawing in and out, crumbs clinging to her lips. Her stomach cramped, and a whimper escaped before she killed it. She crushed her fists to the boards and held on until the ache eased to a low hum.
The lantern rocked, shadows swaying across the walls. Her hair stuck to her cheeks, slick with brine. She pressed her forehead to the boards. Her breath came rough and shallow. For a while, the world was only wood, salt, and the dull throb of blood in her ears.
Above, the ship groaned as waves struck like muted drums. Voices drifted faint through the planks—sharp, quick, carrying to the high deck where the air smelled of wind and rope.

*

The captain leaned on the rail, cigar clenched between his teeth, eyes narrowed against the glare cutting through the fog. His grin, thin and hooked, never reached the cold gleam in his stare.
“She tore clean through hemp,” one man said, voice tight. “Snapped it like twine.”
The captain's ears twitched. Smoke curled from his mouth as he spoke without looking up.
“Ya sure it wasn’t frayed?”
“Frayed don’t throw a man to the deck, boss. It—she—damn near broke Korrin’s jaw.”
The grin widened, slow as oil. At last, he turned, coin-bright eyes pinning the speaker still.
“Huh,” he said softly, almost like a laugh. “Ain’t that somethin’.”
He tapped ash over the rail and watched it vanish into gray. “Keep it fed. Keep it breathing.” A pause, then his voice dropped, all grin gone, steel in the dark. “And keep your damn fingers out of its chains. We’ll see what she’s worth at port.”

Below, the lantern flickered once, as if the ship had drawn a breath.
For two days, they left her in silence—save for grunts and boots delivering hard bread and bitter water. She ate like an animal, crouched over scraps, sleeping curled against the wall—feral, half-starved. When the trembling eased, they hauled her out.
Scrubbing decks. Buckets and brine. Salt ground raw into her cracked knuckles, wounds screaming with every rag push. The sun beat down from a sky bright enough to sear her eyes after so long in the dark. Voices jeered—it works fast for a plague rat, keep it busy or it’ll bite.
She kept her head down. Hands moving. The planks blurred until her arms burned, the ache swallowing thought. Better this than chains. Better this than whispers in the dark.
She would endure. Until the next shore rose from the sea.

Chapter Text

She worked because they demanded it. Movement was easier than stillness, easier than letting her thoughts catch up. From sunrise until lanterns swung low, she bent to the ship’s will: rag in hand, arms elbow-deep in brine, shoulders straining at salt-and-blood-soaked ropes. By midday, planks scorched her palms; by dusk, they froze her numb. Still, her hands never paused.
At first, her body fought back. She moved cracked and half-mended, clumsy and hollow. The deck shifted under her even when still. A copper tang lingered; iron bit every swallow. The crew shouted when she dropped a pail or a knot slipped. She gave nothing back—not a glance, not a word. Head down, she pressed the rag harder, lungs scraping raw.
By the second morning, her grip steadied. By the third, her arms didn’t ache. By the fourth, she climbed before being called. Her hands and feet found their place as if made for it. Her body grew tough in rough gray clothes. Shoulders set, her shape hardened under sun and salt. She moved quiet and quick, her whole body shaped by work.
And they noticed.

The men who had hauled her up like carrion watched now with narrowed eyes. Words cut low, traded in tongues she half-understood. "Not right," a voice spat, thick with vowels from a southern coast. "Shouldn’t be breathin’, after what we hauled up." Another muttered, voice low and tight. "Plague rat’s got iron in its bones," someone grumbled from the mast. A sharp laugh answered.
They never spoke to her. Boots clattered around her. Hands thrust tools, ropes snapped her way. Orders barked sharp. She obeyed, silent as stone.

But being quiet didn’t mean she couldn’t hear. She picked up more than they thought. She figured out their strange, suspicious words. Danger. Not normal. Be careful.
Sometimes she noticed their hard stares. She looked away quickly. It wasn’t fear that kept her quiet now. It was something deeper inside her: the need to survive, to hold on until they reached land.
She climbed the rigging when told, her bare feet gripping the ropes while the wind whipped her hair into black ropes. She scrubbed until the planks shone like wet glass. At night, she curled in the dark. Salt crusted in her lashes. Muscles sore from work. The sea’s endless voice muttered through the hull.
She never spoke. She never smiled.
But her strength came back fast.

*

The call came as the sun sank low, turning the sea to hammered bronze. She was coiling sodden rope near the foredeck when sharp, quick boots, too light for any human sailor, struck behind her.
“Boss wants a word.”

The voice allowed no choice, and she felt a prickle of anxiety as two crewmen—one wiry, sharp-faced; the other broad, with knuckles like stones—closed in. A shove sent her stumbling, the coil thudding to the planks. She caught herself, jaw tight with resolve, and walked as they prodded her spine, her chest tight with wariness.
They pushed her to the back of the ship, past barrels wet with salt water and crates with strange markings, to the cabin at the back. Smoke slipped through the cracks in the door, moving in the light.
Inside, the heat hit her. The air was heavy with the smell of oil, tobacco, and something sweet and rotten underneath.
He sat at a scratched-up table, boots spread out on it, cigar between his teeth. His grin stayed thin and sharp, but his stare held her in place, heavy and hard.
He didn’t look at the men. “Close it.” The door slammed, and their boots faded, leaving only the hum of the sea and the faint hiss of burning tobacco.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, smoke curling from his grin. “So.” The word rolled like oil, slick and low. “You’re a quiet one, eh?”
She said nothing. Stood barefoot, shoulders squared in a coarse gray shirt, hair hanging in wet black ropes. Her shadow stretched across planks. It trembled in lamplight's sway.
“Not shy, though.” His gaze slid, sharp as a gutting knife, from her feet to her hands, up corded muscle that work had carved in days. “Snappin’ rope like string. Tossin’ men bigger’n you. Ain’t seen strength like that in a slip of a thing. So tell me.” He tipped his head, flicked ash into a tin. “What are ya?”
Nothing. Not a twitch. Chin low, breath shallow, eyes fixed on tar stains spreading like black wings.
He chuckled, low and mean. “Not human, that’s for damn sure. Ears like blades, eyes like storm glass. Ain’t no elf I ever saw either—or if ya are, somethin’ chewed ya up and spat out sideways.”
Still no word. Just silence stretching taut as a sail in full wind.
He stood up, his boots hitting the floor hard. He wasn’t big—not by any measure—but he carried himself like a blade drawn in silence, circling her with the patience of a shark. The air felt tense, full of smoke and something cold. He stopped on her left side.

“Well, well.”
She stiffened as his fingers caught her wrist, a ripple of unease flashing through her. He lifted it into the lamplight. No bandage, just salt-scoured skin, and there: VII inked in bold black strokes.
The captain’s grin went wolf-wide. “Pretty little mark ya got there.” He traced the edge with a thumb, callus rasping over her skin. “Bet this means somethin’. Bet someone’s lookin’ for ya.” His voice thickened with greed. “Bet they’d pay real nice to get ya back.”
Her breath hissed through her teeth, both anger and fear flaring up. She wrenched free with a sharp twist. He didn’t flinch or raise a hand as she stumbled back, eyes flashing under wet hair, her body tense and ready to react.
He just laughed, deep and easy, like a man hearing coins in his head. “Oh, temper.” He laughed again, as if handed gold instead of defiance. “Good. I like that.”
He stubbed the cigar on the table and leaned close, smoke and salt clinging like oil in her nose. “Ya got two choices, sweetheart. Work till we make port… or go swim with the sharks.“ He jerked his thumb toward the hatch, toward the black water grinding along the hull. „Either way, I’ll get mine. Understand?”

Her jaw clenched till her teeth ached. Not a word.
The grin lingered, sharp as a gutting hook. “Good talk.”
A sharp whistle, and he snapped his fingers without looking at the door. It swung wide, and two silhouettes who were waiting outside filled the gap, steel winking low on their belts.
“Put her back to work,” his voice went flat as hammered coin. “And keep your damn eyes on her.”
Hands grabbed her shoulders. They marched her into the red evening, where the sky glowed and the deck moved under the endless sea.

Chapter Text

The sea narrowed between cliffs. Wooden walls stuck to the rocks, crooked walkways piled up into the fog. Lanterns shone gold in the gray, swinging over water covered with oil. Chains creaked where old ships hung from the pier like empty shells.
Then the noise: goblins shrieked over crates, sailors bellowed curses, parrots screeched gutter words overhead. Metal clanged. Dice rattled like bones. A mandolin fought a drunken tune.
She stood at the rail, fingers hooked over salt-slick wood, wind hot on her face. Barges crawled like beetles, ropes whipped, gulls dove at the stink of fish.
“Move, sweetheart.”
The voice was rough in her ear. Fingers grabbed her arm, hard and strong. The goblin grinned around a chewed cigar, smoke curling from his teeth like steam. His hat shaded his eyes, but the look underneath was hungry for money.
“Gotta stretch those legs, eh? Big day ahead.”
He led her down the ramp, his boots loud. Heat hit her bare feet on the dock: sun on water, burning her head. Crowds pushed in—humans, green-skinned creatures with sharp grins, a massive figure with enormous tusks. Voices mixed in many languages.
She stumbled after him, thin frame jostled between crates and salt-stiff nets, gray shirt loose on her like a ragged sail. He cut through chaos like a blade, dragging her in his wake. “Keep up,” he snapped, cigar bobbing. “Don’t make me look like I can’t handle my own cargo.”

The word made her gut twist. Cargo.
The tavern hit like a fist. Heat and noise pounded the planks. Smoke curled between lanterns that swayed in the rafters.
The goblin didn’t slow. He pushed through a knot of bruisers and gamblers, steering her to the back booth. There, a figure sat, lean and poised, all edges and power. Cigar smoke curled around a grin that gleamed like gold.
“Baron Revilgaz,” the goblin said, tipping his hat low as they stopped.
Revilgaz didn’t stand. He didn’t have to. He looked in charge, calm, and sure. His coat was velvet, dark as ink, with threads that shone in the light. His fingers tapped the table, rings shining red and green like wet stones.
“Well, well.” His voice purred like a saw through silk. “Look what the tide dragged in. Thought you were rotting under some Freebooter’s hull by now.”

“Not a chance, Baron,” came the easy rasp behind her. The goblin’s grin stretched wide as he jerked his chin at her. “Got somethin’ better than salt and salvage this run. Strong as an ogre, quick on her feet—snapped my best ropes like thread.”
Revilgaz looked at her, his stare sharp and steady. He noticed the sharp lines of her face, her thin body under stiff clothes, and her ears sticking out from messy black hair. Then, slowly, his eyes moved to her wrist.
Black ink curled stark against pale skin: VII.
One brow arched, just enough to twitch the scar near his temple. “Pretty mark.” His tone was soft, almost idle, but his eyes were all teeth. “Means somethin’, don’t it?”
“Means coin,” the goblin cut in, voice tight with eagerness. “Someone out there’ll pay to get this one back. Or pay to keep her off their trail. Either way, we’re sittin’ on a fat purse.”
“Skarrik…” Revilgaz drawled the name slowly, as if savoring it. “You always did sniff out the shiny things.”
She said nothing. She stood rooted, fists curling at her sides, every muscle taut as wire.
Revilgaz leaned back, his rings shining as he put his hands together. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. Worth checking out, though.” His grin grew as he looked at Skarrik. “But if you want to do business in my port, Captain, you give me my share. Or you don’t leave with a ship.”
Skarrik’s grin held, but sweat slicked his brow. “Wouldn’t dream of cheatin’ the Baron.”
Revilgaz flicked ash from his cigar, his eyes sliding back to her like a coin spinning slowly. “Keep her close,” he said. “Close, but quiet. Last thing I need is blood in my streets if she gets ideas.”
Her stomach twisted. The words were clear, even through the accent and smoke. Keep her close. Quiet. These were chains you couldn’t see, but they were still chains.
Skarrik’s hand clamped her arm again, steering her toward the door. “Hear that, sweetheart?” His grin gleamed, all blade and bite. “Worth gold. Sweet news, eh?”
The roar of the tavern swallowed his laugh as he dragged her back into the blistering heat of the dock.

Skarrik’s voice cut through the noise, close to her ear. He talked like someone who loved to hear himself—fast, slick, sharp words tumbling out. Certain words lingered, heavy with greed: profit, contacts, Baron’ll cut me a deal, gold, sweetheart, piles of it. His laugh was rough, thick from the cigar clenched in his teeth.
She didn’t answer. Didn’t even twitch. He didn’t care. He wasn’t really talking to her—he was talking to himself, feeding the hunger that burned in his eyes when Revilgaz said maybe.
They turned down a narrow walkway hanging over dark water, boards bending under crates stacked as high as her shoulder. The light was harsh on the wet boards, shining up from the harbor below. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
Noise pressed from every side. Boots hammered boards. Goblins clattered past, hauling kegs, curses sparking as they jostled for space. A parrot shrieked overhead, wings scattering dust from rafters. Something small and fast—a rat or worse—bolted across the planks at her bare feet.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. She just walked where Skarrik pulled her, moving with loose-limbed obedience. Every nerve screamed to break free, to snap that iron grip and disappear into the crowd, but there were too many.

Too many.

She looked over the crowd. Every face looked dangerous: knives on belts, pistols hanging low, eyes bright and narrow under hoods and hats. Many hands could grab her before she could run. And she wasn’t sure—not sure if the spark inside her would help when she needed it, or fade away and leave her helpless at their feet.
Not here. Not yet.
So she walked, chin low, ears tuned sharp for words that mattered. Snatches bit through the noise—goblin slang curled around gold, threats dressed up as promises, deals struck with grins too broad to be anything but teeth.
They climbed a stair that zigzagged up the cliff face, boards nailed crooked and groaning under their weight. Wind tore at her hair, hot and heavy with salt, and she caught her breath on the third landing—not from the climb, but from the sight.
Booty Bay spread out below, busy and full of people. Walkways twisted like webs, ropes swinging in the sun. Ships sat low under patched sails, their sides black with tar and age. Smoke from cooking fires made the air hazy, curling between masts and the sharp cliffs. Beyond, the sea turned green as it crashed against the rocks, sending foam high into the air.
She drank it in with eyes that never stopped moving and counting steps and gaps and lives between her and the dark throat of the open water.

“Like it?” Skarrik’s voice slithered against her ear, grinning through the words. “Pretty, ain’t it? All this brass and blood, sweetheart. Every coin here sings for me. And soon as I cash you in—hoo.” He spat smoke to the side, laughter rasping out low. “Gonna be sittin’ so pretty, they’ll carve my name on the damn dock.”
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t give him a word. She let him talk. Let him drown in the sound of his own promises. Her eyes stayed on the rails slick with salt, the ropes swaying like serpents, the glint of knives at strangers’ hips. Her pulse beat slow and laborious, steady as a drum under her ribs.
She went along with it because just being tough wasn’t enough; you needed to strike at the right time. Chains, whether real or not, only broke when the people holding them stopped watching.
The door he dragged her to sagged on its hinges, paint blistered white by salt and sun. He shoved it open with a boot and hauled her inside.

The room was a box, cramped and airless. Four walls of warped planks pressed in, a cot hunched in the corner, and a lantern swung slowly and drowsily from a fraying rope.
“Home sweet home,” Skarrik crooned, spinning her loose with a flick of his wrist. “Don’t get too comfy. Business moves quick ‘round here, and you—” he grinned, teeth yellow-white in the lantern glow—“you’re the shiniest damn thing I got.”
He tipped his hat back, then jerked his chin toward the door. A shadow filled it—a brute with shoulders like barrels, arms hanging heavy as anchors, tusks gleaming under a jutting jaw. His eyes rolled once toward her, then fixed on Skarrik.
“Don’t let her outta your sight,” Skarrik said, grin hooked sharp. “If she so much as twitches, break somethin’ that ain’t pretty.”
The brute grunted. His bulk settled against the doorframe like a wall with breath.
Satisfied, Skarrik stepped out, boots fading down the steps, his laugh curling up like smoke until the roar of Booty Bay ate it whole.
She stood where he left her, boards icy beneath her bare feet, breath measured against the heavy heat. Her gaze drifted from the cot to the wall, tracing the cracks that spilled thin ribbons of gold from the dying sun.
And she began to map again.

Every hinge. Every nail. Every shadow in this rotten little cage.
Because the moment the jaws opened, even just a crack, she would run.
And this time, no one would drag her back.

Chapter Text

Night fell slowly, the red light slipping through the slats before it turned to black. The room was hot; the heat was trapped under the bent floorboards. Every creak in the walls sounded alive. She held back a shiver, feeling danger just outside the door. Outside, Booty Bay never slept—it was loud and rough. Voices went up and down like waves, laughter was harsh, and music stumbled under the noise of mugs crashing together.
She curled up on the cot, back against the wall, knees pulled close, eyes locked on the crack where the lantern made lines of light on the floor. The big man stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his jaw hard. He didn’t speak or blink. He just stood there, making the air feel heavy.
Noise came through the cracks—Skarrik’s voice below, smooth and sharp, standing out from the noise. Words were slurred and mixed with accents she barely understood. Some words were clear: Buyers. Tonight. Price doubled.
Her stomach twisted. Her heartbeat was slow as she looked over the walls, checking every hinge and shadow. She waited for something to go wrong. But the big man didn’t move.
She lay down when the lantern burned low, her eyes open in the dark, her muscles tense until the morning light slowly filled the room.
At last, she closed her eyes with a deep breath.

Boots hit the boards. She snapped awake, though she hadn’t slept. The door swung wide, light slicing the room like a blade.
'Stay alert and listen,' she thought, resolve threading through her tension. 'Know your enemy, slip away when they least expect.'
The big man moved before she could react—a large hand grabbed her arm, pulling her up roughly. Her bare feet slid on the floor as he dragged her through the door into the bright morning light.
Booty Bay was bright and noisy, heat rising from the docks in visible waves. Skarrik waited, his thumbs in his belt, his cigar held tight, his eyes looking mean.
“Faster than I thought,” he rasped, voice thick with triumph as he fell in step beside her. “Turns out someone out there’s real sweet on havin’ you back. Or puttin’ you in the ground. Don’t matter to me. Money’s money, and the price they’re payin’? Pretty enough to make a goblin blush. But here's the catch, darling, there's a rival crew sniffin' around, and if we don't make our move by midnight, this whole deal is dust.”
He let out a rough laugh, quick and sharp, then spat gray ash to the side. His grin grew wider as he grabbed her shoulder, guiding her down the hot boards toward the tavern.

She walked where he pushed her, silent, eyes taking in everything—the crates, the crooked ladders, the coils of rope near the rails. She counted every possible escape, every gap she could use. Her fingers touched something rough—a frayed rope end, hard to see.
The tavern stood ahead, its lanterns still swinging from last night’s fight, smoke coming through bent boards, the air full of the smell of alcohol and sweat. Skarrik’s grin grew wider as they reached the steps.

Perfect.

Her heartbeat slowed as she looked around the room. Men leaned over cards. Sailors stood by the posts, holding mugs in rough hands. Goblins crouched on ledges, counting coins with big grins that didn’t reach their eyes.
She let her body go limp, feet dragging behind her. She looked through the crowd, noting where people stood, counting visible knives, and quietly weighing each danger against any slight chance she had.
Then she lurched—sharp, sudden—crashing into the bulk of a sailor braced against a beam. Her shoulder cracked into his ribs, grog spilling down his chest and soaking his linen.
He froze. Blinked once. Twice. Then a bellow ripped loose, booming like cannon fire.
“You little wretch—” His fist slammed down, the mug breaking on the floor. Ale sprayed everywhere, shining on the bent boards. For a moment, everything was still—knives flashed, even if you couldn’t see them. Someone gasped. Boots scraped. Chairs slid back. Voices rose, curses flying.
She felt it—excitement rising inside her, lips starting to form a small smile.
This was it.
His punch hit the post where her head had been, wood breaking into pieces. She ducked down. The room exploded into chaos—chairs sliding, mugs spinning, voices shouting.
Fighting broke out everywhere. A card table flipped over, coins flying across the floor. A bottle broke against someone’s jaw, liquor and glass falling. Fists hit bone. Boots stomped. Goblins climbed up the rails, shouting bets as a troll broke a chair in half and threw it, breaking a lantern and sending sparks into the air.

She moved with the crowd, staying low and fast, feet slipping through spilled ale. Her shoulder hit a sailor’s ribs—she ducked. She stepped aside as a goblin jumped at her, breathing hard. Hands grabbed her sleeve—she pulled hard, breaking free as another person crashed into the fight.
A snarl ripped through the din—raw, jagged. Skarrik.
He pushed through the crowd, teeth clenched, eyes angry. His voice was rough and loud. “You rotten little—” His hand grabbed her arm tightly.
She pulled away, pain shooting through her. The fight made it hard to breathe. His face was close to hers, spit flying as he spoke. “Think you can trick me, sweetheart? Huh?” He pulled her toward the door, pushing through the fighting, dragging her along.
Her heart hammered in her chest, every muscle coiled and ready to spring.
Not chains. Not again.
She shoved her elbow back, striking him. Skarrik yelled as his grip loosened. She didn’t wait. She broke free and ran.
The door flew open, sunlight bright, heat rising quickly. Booty Bay was loud—gulls screamed, boots pounded, and waves roared with angry voices.
She ran down the steps, her bare feet slipping on the hot boards, past crates that broke apart. Something crashed behind her. Shouts filled the air. Skarrik’s roar got closer—

The fight raged behind her. Ahead was the dock—sun bright, water shining green. She ran, boots hitting the slippery boards, shouts loud behind her.
Skarrik’s voice ripped through the chaos: “Grab her!”
She didn’t look back. She just kept going, lungs burning and eyes on the edge. The water below was cold and dark, waiting for her.
One breath. Then she jumped.
Boots pounded above and voices shouted across the water. She took a breath and went under again, legs burning as she kicked hard. The current pulled her quickly into the swirling water, away from the dock, away from Skarrik, away from everything that trapped her.
Behind her, his roar filled the air, angry and helpless. He didn’t jump. The sound followed her as the current pulled her under, and the sea covered everything else.

Skarrik marched up the boards, looking furious, spit flying with every word he shouted.
“You let her go!” His boots slammed hard enough to rattle nails loose. “You stood there like a damn post while she jumped! Do you know what she was worth? Do you—”
Revilgaz didn’t rise. He didn’t flinch. He lounged against the rail as if the world weren’t screaming. The sea stretched bright behind him, like a pane of molten glass. One hand hung loose at his side. The other rolled a cigar between two fingers, its ember a single, steady glow.
“Skarrik,” he drawled. The name slid smooth and sharp, like silk over steel. “If you’re gonna bark, do it somewhere my boots aren’t.”
Skarrik’s fists knotted white, jaw snapping as he spat, “You could’ve stopped her! One word. One—”
“I could’ve,” Revilgaz cut in, quiet enough to choke the rest of the sentence dead. His eyes lifted, green and sharp under the brim of his hat, and pinned Skarrik like a nail to rotten wood. “But I didn’t. Wanna know why?”
Skarrik froze mid-breath.
The Baron’s grin curved slowly, like a blade drawn lazily from its sheath. “Because you were sloppy. You thought you could spin me, cut me out while you lined your greasy little pockets. You think I don’t smell a double-cross before it’s cooked?”
He tapped ash into the sea. The gray dissolved into green foam as he went on, his voice soft and tightening like a noose.
“If I can’t close a deal clean, Skarrik… no one closes it. And if she were half what you claimed, you’d have kept her on a tighter leash.”
The last word cracked sharp, as clean as a whip in the heat.
Skarrik clenched his teeth. He was full of rage, but Revilgaz just leaned back. Smoke from his cigar drifted in the sunlight.

“Now,” he murmured, his thumb hooked in his belt and his voice low and steady, “are you going to keep standing there, making that ugly face in my port? Or fetch me something worth the air you’re breathing?”
Silence filled the air. Skarrik clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. He spat on the boards and turned, his boots stomping away, never looking at the water.

Revilgaz watched him leave, a thin grin on his face. Then he looked back at the waves, eyes shining under his hat. He searched the water for any sign, but saw only sunlight on the waves.
“She might drown anyway,” he muttered, so quietly only the gulls could hear. Ash fell from his cigar and disappeared into the green water below.

Chapter Text

The sea closed over her. The world stilled. Cold slid through her bones as the tide spun her, leaving her weightless. Salt burned her lips as she gasped, water flooding her throat.
She thrashed, legs flailing in endless dark, arms slashing frantic paths through the water. Her lungs knotted, ravenous, clawing for air.
Above, light blurred to a pale smear before vanishing altogether.
Fear twisted inside her, cold and steady. Her chest burned for air as the water pulled her down. Just moments ago, she had fought the current, but now her limbs sank, heavy as anchors.

Move.

The word cut through the fog. She obeyed. Her legs kicked hard, arms stretching until her fingers scraped something solid—a jagged rock. She clung to it and hauled herself forward, lungs burning for release.
At last, she broke the surface, gasping as sunlight hit her eyes. Sounds returned: gulls screaming overhead, waves crashing against stone. She dug her nails into the slick ledge and pulled herself free of the undertow.
The sea lunged again, slamming her against the rock with such force her shoulder went numb. She gripped harder and climbed, teeth clenched, until the foam frothed far below and the water could no longer reach her.
She collapsed onto her side, coughing up saltwater. Each breath was harsh and painful.
The sky spun, bright and endless, sunlight shining across the water and making her squint. Ahead, a wall of jungle waited at the horizon, thick with heat and hidden sounds.
She crawled toward it, dragging herself by the elbows, lungs rasping with each breath until leaves finally closed in around her, swallowing her into green.
When darkness folded around her, she let it take her. For the first time in days, she surrendered to sleep.
When she woke, heat greeted her. Sunlight striped the earth by her cheek, warmth sliding into her bones and easing the ache.
The air was full of life: wet roots, thick plants, and bright flowers. Insects buzzed, birds called, and somewhere in the distance, water flowed.

Her throat scorched with thirst, parched and desperate for even a drop of water.
She pushed up on trembling arms, the world tilting green and gold. Roots curled around her ankles, vines brushed her shoulders, yet she kept moving, step by step, until the foliage split and the light turned silver.
A stream wound through the dark, clear as glass, stones glimmering beneath its skin. Tiny fish darted quick and bright in the shallows.
She dropped to her knees. Cold water curled against her wrists as she bent forward, lips breaking the surface. She drank deep, clean mouthfuls that slid through her like breath itself.
When her thirst eased, she leaned back, palms trailing in the current, watching ripples scatter into shadow, silver and shifting.
She ate what she found: berries, sharp and bitter; figs splitting under heat. Their juice stained her lips, soothing the gnaw in her belly.
By dusk, when the sky turned gold and purple, she climbed. Bark scraped her fingers, branches raked her arms, but she did not stop until she reached a place where the leaves wove into a roof. Through the gaps, stars kindled in the dark.
Below, voices floated up, mingling with the shine of metal. Shapes moved between the trees, spears catching the moonlight—trolls, drifting like ghosts.
She curled tight against the trunk, breath locked shallow, and waited until their murmurs faded into the rustle of leaves.

As days blurred together and her body adapted, strength threaded back into her limbs. She learned which vines bled water and which roots to chew. Mud became armor against biting things, and she scored tree bark to map her paths, carving a language only she could read.

Her steps grew softer as she learned the signs: the stillness that whispered danger, the trembling leaves that promised fruit to come. At night, she climbed until the ground fell away and the canopy opened to a scatter of stars. From her perch, the jungle stretched endlessly, black and breathing, and she stared into it without fear.
The sea vanished from her mind—the chains, the hands that forced her under. None of it mattered now.
The jungle closed in around her, vast and alive, until it felt like part of her. Fear faded, replaced by something fiercer. The wild echoed her secret with every rustle of leaves. She moved quietly and quickly, and when hunters crossed her path, they never saw her. They only found empty snares, footprints lost to rain, and the uneasy sense of being watched.
In troll camps, voices coiled low around fires, stories told of a spirit haunting the green, a phantom that stole under starlight and vanished like smoke. Once she listened from the trees, crouched in the cradle of branches while sparks spun into the night. She watched firelight paint their tusks gold and beads glint red in the dark, then slipped away before their fear sharpened into questions.
For a while, the wild was enough. It fed her, taught her a silence keener than any blade. But as months passed, the green pressed in, its hum filling her veins until stillness itself became a cage.
One morning, mist curling pale along the roots, she rose with a dull ache in her limbs and walked. She did not know where the path led, only that it would not circle back.

Heat thinned as she climbed north. Gold bled through the green; patches of dying leaves fluttered like torn silk. The air cooled, grew drier, and the wild’s music faded to creaking branches and the harsh caw of crows. She crossed rivers by balancing along trunks slick with moss, letting icy water press against her shins, and slogged through marshes where mud clung and stained her legs in ropes of silt. She avoided open roads where wagons crawled heavy as beetles, though sometimes she shadowed them, holding her breath and keeping her steps soft as mist until they halted for the night.
From them she learned new things: the grit of coal smoke, the tang of iron, the jingle of coins exchanged. Fear smelled different on men who never saw her—acrid, pooling beneath sweat and leather.
She once found a body in a ditch, throat cut, purse untouched. She took the knife, boots, and bloodstained cloak, wearing them until they wore out and no longer kept her warm.

Storms crashed down, wild and merciless. She huddled beneath tangled roots or in the mouths of caves, shivering through nights that bit with frost. Still, she pressed onward, every step a silent rebellion against the world that tried to break her.
She traveled through the Pass, where the wind howled. She passed moss-covered towers with damp stones and walked roads where no birds sang, only wolves waited in the shadows, their eyes shining in the dark.
North drew her thinner, sharper, but not empty. Strength now ran through her like a second pulse. One night, smoke curled between the trees in the blue-gray coil of a campfire, voices cracked low against the hush.
She slipped through the brush, each step carefully placed to avoid snapping branches, and crept until the fire’s glow reached her boots. A camp sprawled ahead—canvas tents sagging with damp, a wagon hitched to a dozing mule.
No guards. No eyes for the shadows.
Clothes steamed on a line strung between poles: coarse linen, a roughspun tunic patched at the elbows, a pair of trousers. She crouched near the line, counting her breaths while she waited for a break in the laughter by the fire. When mugs clinked and voices rose, she darted forward—one step, two—snatched the fabric, tore it free, and vanished before the firelight betrayed her absence.
The stolen clothes hung loose, smelling of smoke. They hid the wild part of her, softened her edges—enough to pass, at least in the half-light, so long as no one looked too closely.
The green lay far behind her now. The air clung with dampness, and trees arched overhead like ribs closing in. Their branches tangled against a sky blurred gray, while mist crawled low to coil around her boots. Shapes stirred at the edges of sight—shadows stretching before slipping away.

*

Night weighed on the woods. Mist crept between the trees, hiding roots and branches in a pale shroud. Her fire was small, only a faint flame under the canopy, hidden behind a fallen trunk. It spat and hissed as damp sap seeped from the wood, and smoke drifted into the darkness where no stars shone.
She crouched by the fire, knees drawn in, knife across her thighs. The blade caught the flicker, glinting with a dark stain. Nearby, meat dangled from a low branch, its shadow long in the firelight.
The fire's warmth gilded her scars. Light illuminated the mark carved deep in her skin: VII, blurred by years but never erased.
She stared at it. The lines were inked deep, stark as bars. Once, it meant chains. Once, it meant she was owned.
Her thumb traced the edge slowly while the fire murmured. She knew she should hate it, and part of her did. But now, it was not just a wound. It was a story, a hard truth that would not disappear from her skin.
Words slipped from her lips before her mind could catch them.
“Vi,” she whispered.
The word landed softly, almost lost among the trees. It sounded strange, plain, and new, but honest. Short. Firm. Something no one else could change.
She repeated it, this time with more force, letting the fire catch the sound.
“Vi.”
The night kept the word. The leaves stayed still. The darkness gave no reply. But inside, she felt something settle, steady and sure, as if a weight had finally found its place.
She wasn’t nameless anymore. With that certainty, she left the woods behind, her steps carrying her through mist and silence toward the distant lights of the village.

*

The tavern was busy and noisy. Damp air, brought in by boots and cloaks, filled the room, contrasting with the cold. Shadows gathered away from the firelight. Lanterns behind the bar cast a dull orange glow on old boards, highlighting slick wood from spilled ale.
She stood by the far wall, hood down, listening as people spoke around her. Hunters exchanged stories over drinks, often mentioning superstitions and dangers in the woods. She listened carefully and learned from what she heard.

“Oi.”

The voice caught her attention. A big man with a ledger under his arm and a quill in his other hand motioned for her to come over. His beard was streaked with gray, and his eyes were pale as he scrutinized her, like a butcher inspecting meat.
“You’re the one asking for work.” Not a question. His gaze flicked to the knife at her hip, damp stains darkening its hilt. “You’ll get coin if you’ve got a name to sign.”

For a moment, silence stretched thin. She felt the mark's weight under her sleeve, the old name coiling at the edge of thought, rusted and bitter. She left it there.
Slowly, she straightened. She pushed her hood back just enough for her eyes to catch the light, cold and steady.
“Vi,” she said.
Her voice was flat and sure. The name was just one syllable, spoken with finality.
The man blinked, then etched it onto the page. “Vi. Fine.” He slid a slip toward her, corners curled, ink still wet. “Wolf culls. South wood’s edge. Bring proof.”
She took it without a word. His eyes lingered—curious, maybe—but she turned away before he found more.
As the door closed behind her and the mist swallowed her steps, the name stayed with her.
Vi.

Chapter Text

Years passed. She became the knife people reached for when they wanted something done quietly. Duskwood’s hunters whispered of a girl with a hood pulled low. A blade, too sharp for her years. She tracked wolves as easily as men. She spoke little, only enough to strike a price. Her silence was heavier than most threats. Whispers followed her—feral, cursed, half-elf, half-something worse. She never corrected them. Fear was a cloak worn better than steel.

She learned to read people the way she once read the jungle: wandering eyes meant weakness, tight lips meant lies, twitching hands on belts meant danger. She moved between taverns and camps, never staying long, never giving anyone time to ask her name. The knife spoke for her.

Coin passed through her hands. Rarely did it stay. She traded it for food, a bed when the cold bit deep, or a berth on a wagon to the next town. Faces blurred. Jobs bled together. Men begged. Men spat. Beasts howled under the moon. Blood washed off in rivers or rain. It always returned the next night.

By eighteen, she drifted to border towns and outlaw camps, where survival meant a low head and steady blade. She brawled for coin, hiding her strength behind skill. Precision replaced frenzy. Every strike counted. Every kill was clean.
Sailors taught her dice and curses. Pirates taught her to balance on shifting decks and spot knives. She fought in mud and rope bridges, slept lightly among thieves. The world shrank and widened one job at a time. Her skills took her to every shadowed corner of the Eastern Kingdoms.

She became sharper. Faster. Hunger no longer thinned her body. Now she was lean with muscle built from years of chasing, fighting, and surviving. Scars traced her skin like a second map: faded marks on her arms, pale lines on her ribs, and two deep ones over her right eye that drew stares from anyone who looked too closely. Most people didn’t. She made sure of that.
She kept her hood low, shadows hiding everything but her eyes. A rough cloth covered her mouth and jaw, enough to keep questions away. It was safer to blend into the crowd than be a girl whose past showed on her skin.
The wars brewing in the north meant nothing to her. Banners rose. Banners fell. None of them had ever lifted her from chains. She stayed clear, working in the margins where loyalty was measured in gold and survival in silence.

At twenty-one, hardened by years that carved her lean and scarred, she moved through crowds of mercenaries and traders with purpose. Booty Bay drew her back at last, its chaos suiting her—the din, pressing bodies, and wild noise that smothered thoughts she didn’t want to face. Everywhere she looked, rogues, smugglers, and sea-scoured pirates traded coin and blood with careless ease. Among them, she was just another shadow, unseen yet sharper for it. Work came easy enough: guard a caravan, silence a loose tongue, see cargo delivered without too many questions. The pay and the fights were steady, and nobody asked about her past. All she needed was noise, movement, a blade at her side, and the safety of being no one.
But Booty Bay was no home—it was ground she could claim, and this time, she walked it on her terms. A few nights later, in the crush of the tavern, her path bent again.

The place roared with life—boots striking planks, mugs crashing together, dice clattering across warped tables. Vi stood at the edge, alert, every sense sharpened by suspicion. She watched the crowd from beneath her hood, a cup resting untouched before her. Drinking wasn't the goal. Tonight, she listened for signs, for trouble or opportunity—her kind of solace.
Her patience was rewarded—a thread of voices cut through the clamor, catching Vi’s ear as intended.
At a table near the bar, two goblins hunched over a tattered parchment. Their sharp words carried above the din, clipped and urgent as their fingers jabbed at lines of ink.
“I’m telling ya, Ratchet’s where we want to be,” the first insisted, voice taut with certainty. “Gazlowe’s hiring right now, paying twice what we ever see here in Booty Bay. We’re wasting away, and he’s offering real gold.”
The second barked a laugh, nearly spilling his ale. “Twice the coin ain’t good if you wind up dead. You know the kind of work he posts: guarding caravans, fighting through the Barrens, watching over nervous merchants. Half the crew doesn’t make it back alive.”
“Yeah, but the ones who do?” The first leaned in close, lowering his voice. “They return loaded—hazard pay, fair shares, real days off. Gazlowe pays straight and treats his crews right. If you survive, you make enough to matter. Who else in this dump gives you a shot like that?”

Laughter cut through the tavern noise, mugs clashing in a rough, careless toast.
Under her hood, Vi’s ear twitched. She let the words sink in, eyes lowered to the scarred grain of the table. Ratchet. Gazlowe. Hiring.
Her drink remained untouched. The chaos dulled, voices blurring until only one name lingered: Ratchet.
The goblins discussed routes through the wilds and offered pay that sounded too good to be true. Vi shifted, her hand brushing her knife. For her, another city offered more than escape; it meant purpose, risk, and a chance to shape her own future.
By the time their talk returned to numbers and boasts, her choice had settled. Their words gave her direction.
North. To Ratchet.

*

The ship creaked into harbor, sails snapping overhead. Vi stood at the bow, hood low, salty wind tugging her cloak. Ratchet waited ahead, rough but full of life.
Buildings clung to the shoreline. Rough-hewn. Crooked. Patched with boards and tin, but solid. Smoke bled from forges and cookfires. The docks bristled with ships: pirate cutters, squat barges, one vessel scarred black from fire.
Goblins darted across the planks, moving quickly and efficiently. Their voices rose, barking orders, trading coin, swearing in many tongues. Humans mingled—sailors, merchants, mercenaries—faces lined by sea and sun. Two orcs hauled crates from a barge, tusks gleaming as they grunted.
Vi stood as the gangplank slammed down, watching. She’d learned in Booty Bay never to step off first. Never be too visible. She let the crew rush out, then followed when the crowd thinned, boots hitting the dock with a thud.
The place was busy and loud, everyone moving with purpose. Shouts, slams, and the jingle of coins all followed a steady rhythm.
She sauntered. Not weaving or hurrying. Eyes drifting without settling anywhere long. Fingers brushed the knife at her belt. She marked exits, alleys, the sun’s angle, and gulls circling fishmongers by the stalls.
Vendors hawked wares along the pier: dried fish like gray ribbons, cheap rusting weapons, brass trinkets polished to shine. A woman bargained harshly over grain. Goblin children darted past. Laughing. Pockets bulging with what they’d stolen.
She paused near a forge, heat blistering her face as sparks flew into the air. A goblin hammered steel, sweat coursing down his brow. No one gave her more than a glance. She preferred it that way.
Ratchet wasn’t Booty Bay. Here, she saw the chance for more than survival—maybe even belonging or a future. It felt organized. Focused. Fair, maybe, for a port town.
She took a slow breath and let the air settle. Tar, smoke, and salt filled her senses. Here, the air smelled of coin, not chains.
Her lips pressed tight, not quite a smile but something close.
This was the kind of place where she could disappear or start over.
Vi moved off the pier and into the town proper, her cloak brushing the dust, her eyes sharp and restless.

Unaware, she was already on the path that would draw her into the orbit of the goblin whose name lingered in her mind, and toward a purpose greater than coin or survival.

*

Not long after stepping off the docks, Vi found herself facing a new crowd. The tavern was crowded and noisy, filled with conversation and the creak of old beams. Lanterns hung unevenly, their dim light lost in humid air. Sailors, smugglers, mercenaries, and others vied for attention. Tankards clashed, dice rolled, and a brief fight ended in laughter.
Vi entered quietly, hood low and mask secure. The pungent odors of ale, sweat, and smoke pressed in. She moved efficiently, her feet light and quick through the crowd. Her scarred brow caught the light before she slipped into shadow, scanning the room with mismatched eyes.
No one looked twice.
She slipped to the wall, leaning on a broken barrel deep in the shadows. She listened, picking out fragments of conversation.
“…hiring steady!” a goblin’s nasal voice rang sharp over the din. He stood on a stool near the bar, mug sloshing dangerously as he waved it for emphasis. “Gazlowe’s the one to watch now— he’s buildin’ this port bigger than Booty Bay could dream. Any who’ve got strong arms or sharp steel can earn themselves steady coin.”
A few jeers followed, but not enough to drown the certainty in the goblin’s tone.
Vi moved closer, lowering her hood further. She waited for the goblin to notice, then spoke.
“Where?”
The goblin faltered mid-swig, ears twitching. “Eh?”
Her voice rasped from disuse, but it carried enough weight to cut through the tavern’s chaos. “Gazlowe. Where do I find him?”
For a moment, suspicion tightened his grin. He squinted, studying the hood, the scars, the eyes glinting faintly in the lantern glow. Then he shrugged, tossing back the dregs of his drink. “Workshop by the harbor. East pier. Place crawls with workers, hammers ringin’ day and night. Can’t miss it.”
Vi gave a single, sharp nod—no more words.
She left before the goblin could respond, slipping through the crowd. The door closed behind her, cutting off the noise and leaving only the sounds of the sea and piers.