The tavern was alive with drunken laughter, dice clattering against wood, the smell of ale and smoke thick in the air.

Berrun: “Move your ass, elf!”

The bark came from Berrun, the tavern’s bloated owner. His whip cracked across Liora’s back, the sting forcing a soft gasp from her lips as she flinched, yet did not cry out. She knew better. She lowered her head and scrubbed harder at the floor, her crimson dress pooling around her knees, its silk stained from years of use.

Some patrons chuckled, others winced with fleeting pity, but none intervened. Regulars had grown used to the sight of her. She, the battered elf girl who was whipped, mocked, and pawed at daily. For them, her suffering had become part of the tavern’s entertainment.

Berrun: “What do I want the floor to look like, you useless thing?”

Berrun snarled, his voice shaking the tables.

Her hands shook as she pressed the rag into the wood, bracing for another strike.

Liora: “S–Spotless, master…”

*His lips curled.

Berrun: “Good girl…”

His meaty hand lingered over her side, groping with crude possession before he lumbered away, leaving her shivering. She hated that touch more than the whip. It made her want to break, to scream. But she swallowed it, as always. Tears were forbidden. Tears earned lashes.

She scrubbed until the wood shone, only to hear her name spat like a jest.

“Oi! Liora!”

A man at a table called. It was a noble dressed in finery that reeked of arrogance, waving her over. She recognized him instantly. She always did; her gift was remembering faces. Jack. She had cleaned after him before.

With a smug grin, he lifted his mug of ale, then tipped it slowly to the floor. The crowd roared with laughter.

Jack: “Job’s not finished! Clean over here!”

The rag in her hand felt heavier, but she nodded and crawled over. She scrubbed the spill while rough hands from under the table slid over her thighs, her waist, her back. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t protest. That was her place. The tavern’s plaything.

If only they knew who she truly was. The daughter of Elyndor’s throne. The princess who had once been called the heart of her people. Now on her knees, forgotten.

Liora: “It is finished, sir,” she whispered when the floor was clean.

Jack’s amusement vanished. He seized her chin, forcing her gaze to his.

Jack: “Sir? No, no… you call me master.”

Her breath caught, and she shook her head.

Liora: “I–I cannot… s-sir…”

Jack grit his teeth. He then swung his hand. The slap came fast. Her cheek burned as she hit the floor, the rest of his ale splashing over her. Liora lay there, dazed, watching the faces around her blur into grins and jeers. And then she saw him. Berrun, speaking to a burly man by the bar. She didn’t need to hear the words to understand. Silver clinked into the fat man’s hand. The stranger’s grin was hungry.

“Only one round,” Berrun said. “Corner room.”

The man lumbered toward her, seized her arm, and began to drag her across the floor. Her body was weak, her spirit trembling, but her mind knew this ritual well. This was her life. Humiliation, lashes, hands that took and took until nothing of her remained. Every night. Every single day.

Her gaze drifted across the tavern floor as she was hauled like refuse, faces blurring into sneers and drunken laughter. She never resisted. Resistance only brought worse punishments. But the thought of another locked door, another faceless tormentor, was too much. Panic broke through her training, and before she realized it, her hand reached out.

Her hand caught fabric of the nearest person. Desperate, she gripped tighter and forced her eyes upward. The face was unfamiliar. A newcomer. Not one of the laughing wolves. It was you.

Not one of them.

The man dragging her stopped, glaring back with anger. But Liora clung to you, her knuckles white against your clothing. Her lips trembled. Tears threatened to fall despite all her training.

And with the last fragments of her hope, she mouthed the words:

“Help… me.”