It was dawn. Morning struck as beautiful as ever, the spring breeze flowing gently through the town as if washing away the filth and horror of the night before, offering hope to continue one more day in this world of despair. Yet, strangely enough, though the world was often painted as a place of suffering, there were many who welcomed the new day with joy. Those who had slept soundly through the night, who were eager for the morning—to build their hopes, earn their keep, and bring something back to their loved ones.

As the sun rose higher, its golden rays crept through the window. Ariana, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, pulled open the curtains, letting the warm light flood her small room. She stood there for a moment, breathing in the fresh air. She was a beacon of joy in this weary world—her smile infectious, the kind that could bring warmth to anyone's heart. The room was modest, on the second floor, with just one bed, a simple wooden table and chair, some well-worn books, and a candle lamp that still flickered faintly from the night before.

She folded the bedsheets neatly, her hands moving with care, before heading to the wardrobe. The room was small but cozy, and it suited her just fine. Picking out her clothes for the day, she made her way to the washroom. When she emerged, freshly dressed and carrying with her the soft scent of lavender, a bright smile lit up her face. She could already hear the clattering sounds from downstairs—the familiar sounds of Mr. Barracks beginning his morning routine at the pub.

The Barracks Bar, a humble two-story tavern, was quiet in the mornings. The real action came at night, when the townsfolk flooded in for drinks and laughter. But in the early hours, it was just Ariana and Mr. Barracks, going about their business, cleaning up the remnants of the previous night's mess.

Ariana skipped down the stairs, her steps light and cheerful. "Good morning, Mr. Barracks!" she called out as she entered the main floor. The old man was behind the counter, polishing a mug, the sunlight catching on his graying beard.

He looked up, chuckling warmly. "Oh ho, you're up early this morning, aren't ya?"

Ariana smiled brightly, her voice full of energy. "What do you mean, Mr. Barracks? I'm always up early! You know that!"

He chuckled again, shaking his head. "Ahh, always the morning worm, aren't you? I'll admit it's lovely to see that smile of yours every morning. Brightens up the whole place, it does."

Ariana gave him a respectful bow. "I'm really thankful to you, Mr. Barracks, for letting me work here and giving me a place to stay. Truly, I'm grateful."

The old man waved his hand dismissively, a playful grin on his face. "Ah, stop that, would ya? If it weren't for you, how could I be smiling like this every morning, eh? You bring a warmth to this place. And don't think I don't know it—the bar's fuller every night 'cause of you. Half the town's jealous I've got the prettiest lass working for me!"

Ariana blushed, laughing softly. "Oh, you're just being kind. But... who's jealous, exactly?"

"Old man Salim, for one," Mr. Barracks said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You should've seen the look on his face when he found out you're working here. Nearly spilled his beer!"

Ariana giggled. "Old man Salim? He's always so sweet to me! What could he be jealous of?"

"Sweet? Bah! That old codger hasn't paid his tab in months. Always coming in for a beer and never settling up. Stingy as they come!"

The two of them burst into laughter, the warm, easy kind that fills the room and makes it feel like home. As the atmosphere settled into its usual cozy rhythm, Ariana grabbed a dusting cloth and began wiping down the tables while Mr. Barracks disappeared into the back to clean the dishes.

From the back room, his voice called out, "Hey, Ariana! I reckon it's about time you learned how to make the Barracks' special dish. What do you say?"

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Her heart leaped with excitement, her voice rising with joy. "Really?! You're going to teach me your signature recipe? Oh, I'm so happy!"

Mr. Barracks, with his short, stocky build and graying beard, had lived alone for years, running his pub in quiet contentment. But ever since Ariana had come to town, his life had found new light. She was young, full of hope, and her smile could brighten even the darkest corners of his old pub. She had come to the town with a single goal in mind—to save enough money to buy her little sister a gift for her coming-of-age ceremony. And now, she was about to learn the pub's most beloved dish, the one that kept the townsfolk coming back night after night.

But just as she picked up the cloth, ready to rush into the back room with excitement, the front door swung open with a loud thud, the hinges groaning under the force.

Ariana froze, the cheerful atmosphere evaporating in an instant. Mr. Barracks stepped out from the back, his face darkening as the door slammed against the wall, a sudden and ominous presence filling the room.

As the sun's warmth filled the pub, the atmosphere shifted abruptly. The door creaked open, and one by one, a group of thug-like men entered the tavern, their heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor. They came in silently, yet each carried an unspoken threat, the kind that sends a chill down the spine. There were five of them, maybe six, each more intimidating than the last. Some held iron pipes, others brandished knives or brass knuckles. Their faces were hard, etched with scars, their bodies thick with muscle. But what made them more unnerving was the identical mark they all bore—a half-cross tattoo on the backs of their necks, barely visible beneath their collars. A symbol of something. Some organization, some gang.

Ariana and old Mr. Barracks froze the moment they entered, the warmth and laughter draining from the room. The air became thick with dread. Barracks, usually full of cheerful banter, now stood silent behind the counter, gripping the cloth he'd been using to polish the mugs. His eyes darted nervously to Ariana, who stood beside a table, her smile vanishing as her hands began to tremble.

At the head of the group was Jackal, the biggest of them all. His broad shoulders barely fit through the doorway, and he stood with the confidence of a man used to getting his way. His cold eyes scanned the room, locking onto Ariana. With a nod, he ordered two of his men forward. "Grab the girl," he said, his voice low, but the menace in it was unmistakable.

The men moved swiftly, but Mr. Barracks, fueled by fear and instinct, acted faster. He reached under the bar and pulled out a worn wooden axe—his tool for chopping wood in the nearby forest. Without hesitation, he launched it at one of the approaching men. The blade caught the thug in the side, not a deep cut but enough to send him stumbling back, blood flowing from the wound as he fell to the floor, screaming.

Jackal's eyes blazed with fury. "You old bastard!" he snarled, taking a step forward. "Stay out of our way! We came for the girl!" His voice boomed through the pub, the walls seeming to shake with his anger.

Barracks' voice trembled, but he stood firm, gripping the axe tightly. "Why do you need her?" he demanded, his words strained but defiant. "She's my niece, working here to make a living. Leave her be!"

The lie spilled from his lips, but it didn't matter. He knew these men, knew the mark they bore. The townsfolk whispered about them, about the one they served—the Lord, the one no one dared cross. Barracks was powerless against them. But still, he couldn't let them take her. Not Ariana.

Jackal sneered, his patience wearing thin. "Don't fool me, you old fart. We know you don't have family. She's not your niece." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a growl. "Stay out of this, or you'll face the wrath of the boss."

Mr. Barracks swallowed hard. His hands shook, but he kept the axe raised. He glanced at Ariana, who stood frozen, her face pale with terror, her mouth sealed in panic. He could see it in her eyes—she was paralyzed, unable to comprehend what was happening. Jackal barked another order to his men, and again they moved toward her. But Barracks wasn't ready to give in. Not yet.

With a surge of desperate energy, he swung the axe again, striking another one of Jackal's men and sending him crashing into the wall. Blood splattered across the floor as the thug crumpled, clutching his arm in pain. But there were too many of them. Barracks stumbled back, his breath coming in heavy gasps. "Stay back!" he shouted, his voice hoarse with fear. "I'll take your heads off if you come closer!"

The men paused for a moment, but only a moment. They weren't afraid. Jackal, now thoroughly tired of the game, gave the signal. "Everyone, get her."

They moved in like a pack of wolves, surrounding the old man. He swung the axe again, but his movements were slower now, and one of the thugs grabbed him from behind. The others pounced, and before Barracks could react, a heavy pole struck him hard across the head. He staggered, his vision blurring, and fell to the ground, his body limp as blood poured from his wound.

Ariana screamed, her voice piercing through the chaos. She had tried to run, but they were faster, stronger. One of the bulkier men caught her by the arm, hoisting her onto his shoulder like she was nothing. She kicked and struggled, but it was no use. They had her.

Mr. Barracks groaned, barely able to lift his head, blood staining his graying hair. Jackal knelt beside him, his voice low and mocking. "You old fool. She offended the Lord, and you know what happens to people who offend him. You're risking everything for a girl who isn't even yours."

Barracks' heart pounded, confusion filling his mind. Offended the Lord? How? Ariana was innocent, a kind girl who brought joy to everyone she met. But the moment Jackal mentioned the Lord, something shifted in Ariana. Her face drained of color, and her body went still. Memories of that day—memories she had buried deep—rushed back with a force she couldn't stop. She had tried to forget. Tried to move on. But the nightmare had found her again.

She tried to speak, to call out to Mr. Barracks, but no words came. She could only watch as Jackal stood, wiping his hands on his shirt, smirking as if nothing had happened. "Consider yourself lucky, old man," he said, his voice dripping with false kindness. "We're leaving you with your life. But if you cross us again, we'll burn this place to the ground. You and your little bar won't stand a chance."

He motioned to his men. "Let's go, boys. The boss is going to give us a nice fat bonus tonight." Their laughter echoed through the room as they dragged Ariana out, her screams growing faint as the door slammed shut behind them.

"Mr. Barracks!" she cried, her voice breaking as they carried her away. "Please, wake up! Mr. Barracks!"

But the old man didn't move. He lay there on the blood-soaked floor, his mind slipping into unconsciousness as the pub fell silent once again.