The wind tore through the meadow, carrying with it the wail of a newborn—a sound too small to survive in a world so vast. Each cry rose and fell like a plea, raw and unrelenting, as though the infant could sense the dangers lurking in the shadows, the same ones that had hunted its mother for too long.

A fire burned low against the darkness, its flames weak but stubborn. A woman sat close to it, her cloak drawn tight, shielding the tiny bundle in her arms from the bitter cold. Her movements were swift and precise, betraying a sense of urgency as she rocked the child gently, humming a lullaby that wove through the air. The melody was fragile but unyielding, a threadbare comfort against a night that threatened to swallow them whole.

The child's cries quieted slowly, reduced to soft, hiccupping breaths. Her eyes remained fixed on the fire, even as the flickering light danced across her weary features. The fire illuminated only part of her face—sharp, yet soft with fatigue—and a thin scar that ran across her cheek, barely noticeable beneath the shadows. Beneath the beauty of her face, there was a starkness, a weariness that came not just from the journey but from something more profound, from a life lived on the run, evading not just the chill of the night but the darker forces closing in around her.

Though dulled by exhaustion, her amber eyes held a fierce determination, a sense of something unyielding beneath the surface. Beneath the calm exterior, something was fragile, something waiting to break free—a fear that still clung to her like a shroud, barely hidden behind the steadfast resolve.

She glanced over her shoulder, the air heavy with the weight of what she knew was coming. A rustle in the wind—the sound of something too quiet to be natural—caught her attention. Her body stiffened imperceptibly, her grip tightening on the baby in her arms.

"You tread like a thief," she remarked, her voice soft but carrying a sharpness that could slice through the night. Her tone was calm, but there was an edge to it, one that only someone with the weight of a thousand untold stories could carry.

From beyond the circle of firelight, a figure emerged. His dark and heavy cloak slightly swayed as he moved, almost blending with the shadows as though he, too, were a part of the night. The firelight caught his face, chiselling it into something worn, marked by time and regret. His features were sharp and angular—hard to mistake, even in the dimness. His eyes were the only thing that softened the picture: dark, burdened by thoughts of days long past, and something more profound that he refused to acknowledge.

The man stopped at the edge of the fire's reach, hesitant to step forward as though the fire was a line he could not cross. His moral approach was unclear, as though he struggled between duty and desire between the woman before him and the life he had left behind. "And yet, you always know I'm here," he replied, his voice low, rough with exhaustion, yet carrying a faint thread of something—maybe sorrow, maybe regret, something almost imperceptible.

The woman's gaze never wavered from the baby in her arms. Her hands moved gently to soothe the infant's restless stirring. She adjusted her grip, carefully shielding the child, her actions betraying a protective instinct that ran more profound than any fear.

"You shouldn't be here," her voice softer now but no less firm. A flicker of something passed through her eyes, but it was gone before it could be read.

The man crouched by the fire, his gaze briefly flicking to the child before he reached toward the warmth. His hands trembled ever so slightly as they hovered near the flames. "I know," he murmured. "But I had to see... both of you." His eyes lingered on the baby, the faintest hint of sadness crossing his features before his mask fell back into place.

There was silence between them, thick and laden with unspoken words. The wind whispered through the grass, the sound barely more than a breath, while the fire crackled, sending sparks into the air like fleeting thoughts.

Then, the man spoke again, his voice low and rough, as though it hurt to push the words out. "Do you think it's worth it? A life traded for a crown?" His question hung in the air, heavy, desperate for an answer.

The woman's jaw tightened, though her hands never faltered in their rhythmic motion. She paused, considering the question, and her words were deliberate when she spoke. "It depends," she said. "On who's doing the trading."

His laugh was bitter, sharp, and quick. "And if there was no choice?"

Her gaze snapped to his, a fire flickering in her amber eyes. "Then it's not a trade," she said, voice firm, cutting through the air like a sword. "It's theft."

The man's expression softened, the weight of her words settling heavily between them. He looked away, his gaze drifting over the meadow, over the distant hills that hid the dangers the woman had fled from, the dangers he had yet to face. His mind turned, the echoes of battle far away but near enough to feel the sting. The war had bled the country dry, had ripped through everything they once knew, and now it had torn them apart.

A distant thunderstorm rang across the sky, warning of a far-off storm. The man's eyes darted toward the sound, his hand moving almost instinctively toward the hilt of a blade tucked beneath his cloak, an ever-present reminder of the world he had chosen—though not one he had ever wanted.

"They'll be searching," the woman said, calm but edged with an undeniable warning.

"They always are," he replied, the weight of his duty pressing down on him like a stone. He straightened, the burden of his rank heavier than any physical weight. His eyes lingered on the child, and for a brief moment, his expression was unreadable, the conflict inside him simmering. "Take care of him," he said, his voice thick, the words an unspoken plea.

The woman didn't respond, her attention wholly on the child, her every movement a silent promise.

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The man rose slowly, his every movement deliberate and heavy with reluctance. His hand lingered by the fire, but he didn't touch it. Without another word, he stepped back into the darkness, swallowed by it as quickly as he had been born into it.

The woman's humming resumed a soft lullaby in the night, her voice wrapping around the infant like a blanket, final, fragile protection. Above, the stars shone faintly, indifferent as ever, watching with eyes that had seen far more than they cared to.

The fire sputtered one last time before fading into embers, leaving the woman and the child cloaked in darkness once more. She hummed softly, her voice a fragile thread against the vast silence. Above, the stars shone coldly, indifferent to her struggle, and the wind carried whispers of what lay ahead.

Her lullaby shifted—becoming more than a melody, a promise. Luell would recall that song for years, though its words would fade with time. It wasn't the tune that stayed with him, but the weight of it—the way it seemed to hold the entire world at bay.

The years passed like shadows over his memory. The warmth of his mother's voice turned distant, replaced by the creak of wood, the cloying scent of perfume, and the harsh whispers of Survival.

The meadow had been vast, but the brothel was suffocating.

From the moment I was born, I had no father. My mother was my world, my only constant. She treated me like gold—not the kind hoarded by nobles, but the type shared among the common folk, treasured for its rarity. She used to say love was worth more than silver or gold. I wanted to believe her. But how could I when she sold hers for even less? Copper was what my mother's love was worth. On rare occasions, when a noble liked her, she earned silver as a token of "gratitude."

I hated them. Their pretentious faces, the way they looked at her, the way they looked at me. I learned early that they didn't care about gender—only that someone fit the image of what they desired. "Sick bastards," I'd mutter under my breath. I was still a child, yet they sought me, even among the older girls who were trained to satisfy their twisted appetites.

A brothel is no place for a child, but it was my home. The smell of stale perfume and the dampness that clung to the air, the creaking of the wooden floors, the heat and sweat lingered in every corner—it was all I knew. The groan of the walls, as if they, too, were suffocating, seemed to remind me that we weren't meant to survive this life. But we did. Barely. I knew all the women by name and befriended a few my age or older. They were my family—they taught me how to smile through the pain, keep my head down, and know when to speak and remain silent.

We were treated like second-rate citizens, something even the lowest of the low could look down upon. My mother often said, "Survival isn't noble, Luell. It's just necessary." Sex workers like her were seen as little more than sex slaves—people who'd do anything for coin. It didn't matter if you were rich or poor; you could have them either way. In a world where sex was treated as sacred and meant for the pure heart, reserved for husband and wife, women like my mother were viewed as betrayers of that sanctity. Losing your virginity was supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime act of love kept between two people, but sex workers had no such luxury. They slept with many because they had to because it paid better than most honest trades.

Yet, it was seen as selling your soul, trading your dignity for coin. The church denounced them openly, declaring that "only animals have sex for pleasure like they do." It was unbecoming of a lady to be so "beast-like," they said. But hypocrisy dripped from their words, for even those priests, with all their harsh criticism, came to visit under the cover of night. They condemned the women by day and sought their company by night.

To me, Survival came first. I didn't judge how anyone made their coin. How could I? Growing up, I saw people trade their dignity, their bodies, and sometimes their lives for a meal. It numbed me to the value of life in many ways, though I tried to hold on to a kind heart. Those who had even less than us—the beggars, the disabled, the lost—I wanted to view them with compassion.

But even I wasn't sure how far I'd push for coin. How much dignity would I trade if it came down to it? It was a question I didn't want to answer, but one I knew might be forced upon me one day.

I was lucky; I wasn't sold into slavery or conscripted into the military but given the freedom to roam a city vast in its mysteries, free from knowing this world's horrors. Yet all paths led to servitude in the end. Freedom was always traded for Survival.

"Luell," my mother's soft voice called, breaking through my thoughts. I turned to see her worried expression, the kind that silently said, "You're too young to think so deeply." "What's got you so lost in thought?" she asked, her playful tone tinged with concern. "You better not be thinking about girls! You're still far too young for that!" She tried to feign a stern expression, but the glimmer in her eyes betrayed her amusement. With a soft giggle, she added, "You need to smile more. It doesn't always suit a child to look so serious. How about this? Let's visit the flower shop. I've saved enough for you to pick out a vase."

Her smile, warm as ever, momentarily softened the harshness of our world. Flowers were her passion. She was one herself, as radiant as a lotus in full bloom. Her dark skin glowed with a warmth that captivated all who saw her. Men craved her in ways that made lust seem envious. Her amber eyes sparkled with hope—a rare treasure in this world. She was a goddess in every sense, though she would never call herself that. But even goddesses were not invincible.

To me, she was beautiful, but not in the way fairy tales would describe. She wasn't untouched or pristine like the princesses in stories; she bore the scars of her life. The slight scar on her cheek, the wear on her knees, the roughness of her hands, and the tired look in her eyes all reminded her of the battles she fought daily. Yet, to me, these marks only added to her beauty. They were proof of her strength and her sacrifices to keep us alive. She was just as radiant as any princess, perhaps even more so, because her beauty wasn't a gift—it was earned.

"Won't Aunty Catherine be angry if you skip work again?" I asked, my voice cautious. "Last time, you…"

My words faltered as her expression shifted, a mix of shock and sorrow crossing her face. She hadn't realised I knew what they did to her the last time she stayed home to be with me. But how could I not? The women whispered about it when they thought I wasn't listening, and Sir Arthur's lecherous grin told me all I needed to know.

"LUELL!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling. She hadn't realised I knew. But I wasn't blind. Even in this world of whispers and secrets, I learned to see. I learned to see too much.

The flower shop was our escape. It was the one place where judgment didn't follow us. Flowers didn't care who you were or what you did to survive. Their beauty was pure and untainted, a reminder of what the world could be if it weren't so cruel. My mother always said that flowers were for the pure of heart, and though I didn't believe I fit that description, I saw her as one of them. Despite everything, she held onto her kindness, warmth, and love.

She would hold my hand tightly as we walked to the shop, her touch rough but comforting. "Flowers make everything a little better, Luell," she'd say. "Even in the darkest places, they remind us that there's still beauty to be found."

I hated how helpless I felt, the guilt that gnawed at me for not being able to protect her. I was just a boy, but childhood was a luxury I couldn't afford in our world. Survival came first. And though I hated the men who used her, I couldn't bring myself to hate the poor souls who did what they had to do to survive. Perhaps it was because I saw too much of myself in them. Survival numbed you to the value of life and made you forget that dignity and worth weren't things to be traded.