Ivory watches the knights leave from the side of the road. She is transfixed by how strong the head of guard looks as she waves to the public, with her armor strewn in gold. Her stance is that of a brave warrior’s who has explored much of the land. Ivory hears her name is Lilith from a passerby. She wishes she could be like her. She wishes she weren’t weak. There is no merit in being unable to save oneself, or another.

It is when Ivory turns and readies herself to go back inside the brothel’s walls, that someone shoves her onto the road. Whether the gesture holds purpose or was merely an accident is unclear to her, however, this doesn’t change that fact that now, Ivory has interrupted their send off, and is left to face the ground in shame, surrounded by judgmental glares, in the middle of the road.

She mumbles an apology that she is sure no one hears before she steps back up again, and runs into another street. Her heart is beating like mad in erratic rhythms when she finally stops, with one palm flat against the heirloom covering her chest, that rises and falls, in rapid movements, alongside her frantic huffs.

Ivory’s eyes widen. She is able to forget about the villagers, who stared at her like she did not deserve to live, but interrupting something as sacred as wishing the guard luck—the people who protect her country—is taboo.

She takes a deep breath. A wooden carriage rushes past her as a merchant shouts at potential clients in the market before her. It’s been too long, Ivory realizes. She must return, or they will notice she is missing.

The child Ivory once was chants in her heart, and sings songs of adventure—ones that invite her into doing the unthinkable. Running away. Not going back. Not listening. Never seeing that place again for as long as she lives.

Leaving Aglia. Travelling, like Lilith does. Like the guards do. Like she has always dreamed of doing.

Ivory clears her throat. She reaches for her jaw to hide golden strands behind her ear. Then, she steps into the shadows of the narrow street once more. Soon, she is in front of the brothel.

There is no one. Her shoulders fall slightly with a certain kind of relief, because she will not be abused in the hour that follows. That will be later. For now, Ivory still has the freedom of choice. Of being herself.

She enters by the back door and heads directly for the kitchen. The chef’s shift starts in less than two minutes, but it’ll be enough to gather a few things, at least.

With bread, butter, and some fruit hidden beneath the skirt of her uniform, Ivory dashes up to the rooms where the prostitutes lie in wait for their next clients. One by one, Ivory knocks at their doors, hands over the food, and apologizes because this is all she could get them today, and it is much less than usual.

Their replies all bring tears to her eyes.

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“Don’t worry about it. Take care of yourself before anything else.”

“Thank you for always doing this despite the risk it poses for you.”

“Please, don’t apologize, you already do so much, dear.”

“Thanks, Ivory, they don’t feed us enough in this damned place.”

As swiftly as she had snuck in to their quarters, Ivory returns back to hers. The room is tiny, like a closet. It stinks of mold mixed with the stench of blight that exudes from her bedframe. If only they had thought of putting windows that could be opened here, perhaps the reek wouldn’t have been such an issue. Yet, as always, Ivory coughs without fail upon entering a world she despises. Home.

She presses her palms to her lips. The men here don’t enjoy suffering, unless it is the silent kind. There is blood in her hands when she brings them away from her mouth. It’s the fifth time this month. Ivory doesn’t remember it being ever this bad. But she cannot tell a soul. They would not have mercy. They would not send her to a healer. She would end up like her mother, kicked out onto the streets, left to die between dark alleyways and the grueling winds of winter. And there would be no one to bring food to the others anymore. The maids don’t do this. They only want the money, and then they want out.

They don’t care about the people.

But Ivory is different. She does not view the women here as filthy like society does. Perhaps, because her mother was one of them, though mostly, Ivory is sure it is because the women have been nothing but kind, gentle souls, when they raised her.

She coughs again. She grabs at the crystal hung around her neck—a heirloom of her late-mother. However, Ivory’s blood grows cold once she wraps her palm around an empty space.

It’s gone.

Her eyes widen.

It disappeared.

A crow flies past her lone window—a minor speck of glass stuck within these walls. Ivory checks her pockets and pats down the places where she had hidden the food, but… still nothing. “Shit,” she hisses under her breath as the floorboards creak with the rising of her figure, the opening of the door which frees her from the curse of the terrible air her room contains, yet throws her into another problem all entirely.

She runs down to the kitchen.

Sure enough, the necklace is there, though not in the spot Ivory would have hoped it to be.

The brothel’s owner holds it up. It dangles from the tip of his fingers that pinch the old rope which somehow still manages to keep together after all these years.

“Give it back, please!” Ivory tells him. “I dropped it when I returned earlier today. It’s—”

“We know what you’ve been doing, Ivory.”

Two men grab her by the elbows. Ivory is too weak, too frail to fight back.

“In fact,” the owner smiles, “we’ve been searching for the culprit for quite a while now.” He grabs her chin. He forces her to look him in the eye. “Do you know how expensive it is to feed the lot of you along with our guests, you little bitch?”

“You do not feed them,” Ivory spits. “You starve them!”

She barely feels the slap that lands against her face. Strangely, it is the pain which settles in her cheek seconds after that stings twice as much.

“Give it back,” Ivory mutters again, with her head hung low. “Give it back, and you’ll never have to see me again.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” The owner scoffs. He tugs on her hair from above. “You were fired from the moment you overstepped the boundaries we set for you.” He pulls on her hair again. She winces. He leans in, until she can smell the ale that has mingled with his breath. “Tell me, Ivory, do you know what we do to people like you?”