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VALENTINA

Ipress my back against the cold stone wall, trying to keep my body from trembling. The alley reeks of rot and sewage, underscoring the reality of my existence here in Lowtown—the underbelly of Vhoig where human slaves sleep on dirt floors or cramped cots and wake each morning to sharpened whips. My breath rasps in my lungs; the humid heat of the city clings to every pore, intensifying the foul odors. I rub my arms to chase away the chill that still haunts me, an internal shiver leftover from my most recent punishment.

I can’t forget the weight of the lash or the sneering grin of the dark elf guard who delivered it. My back is a patchwork of scabs, each a testament to how deeply they resent even the smallest sign of disobedience. But it doesn’t matter how often they beat me. I refuse to show them fear. If they see it, they’ll never stop.

I steel my shoulders and step away from the wall. Even though pain nags at every movement, I refuse to let it define me. Tonight, a hush seems to cloak the alley, the silence broken only by the distant moans of the wind over the harbor. The port city seldom sleeps. In the wealthier districts, where the dark elf merchants revel in their shimmering clubs and decadent estates,music and laughter spill into the streets at every hour. Here in Lowtown, only misery remains.

Candlelight flickers from behind boarded windows, revealing slender silhouettes and exhausted faces. For an instant, a pair of wide eyes shines back at me through the gaps in the planks—another captive, likely a child, caged in one of these makeshift dormitories. Something twists in my chest. Anger, yes, but also a lingering sadness I can’t eradicate.

A shuffle of small feet echoes from behind a corner. My pulse reacts, and I tense, ready for trouble. When a child stumbles into view—barefoot, ribs showing through a tattered shirt—I let out a measured exhale. Another human, no more than nine or ten. Her tear-stained cheeks glisten in the faint light. She lifts her gaze, sees my scuffed boots, and jerks as though ready to run. But she’s so weak she only manages a few staggering steps.

I drop into a crouch and raise a hand, palm outward. “Easy,” I murmur, keeping my voice gentle. A piece of me hates acting meek. But scaring this little one will achieve nothing. I clear my throat and try again. “It’s all right.”

The child stares, eyes huge. Dirt smudges her cheeks and frayed braids cling to her neck. She trembles so badly I’m afraid she might collapse. There’s not a soul in this place who would help a human child, save another human. So I reach into the threadbare pocket of my worn trousers and pull out the stale bread crust I saved from my paltry meal earlier. I extend it to her.

“This is yours,” I say.

Her gaze darts to the bread, then back to me, suspicious. It’s a rational response; we exist in a world where every scrap might come with strings attached. “Thank you,” she whispers at last, voice cracking from thirst. She edges forward, still poised to flee. I watch her weigh her hunger against her mistrust, and in the end, hunger wins. She snatches the crust with shaking fingers.

I stand slowly, mindful not to loom over her. “Where are your parents?” I ask quietly.

She bites the inside of her cheek, eyes downcast. “Gone,” she croaks. I notice the faint bruise across her forearm. A swirl of sickness churns my stomach at the thought of how many children get swept away—lost to disease, sold to the highest bidder, or just snatched for “amusement” by bored dark elves. Rage knots in my throat.

“I see,” I reply gently. Once upon a time, I might have promised her safety or tried to keep her at my side, but I can barely look after myself, let alone a child. “You should keep moving before the patrols come through,” I advise, wishing I had more to give. “If they find you out here—” I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t need to. We both know the penalty for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She nods and glances down at the bread, hugging it like it’s the most precious thing she’s ever seen. “Thank you,” she says again, the words shaky yet earnest. Then she darts off, slipping between the broken slats of a nearby crate, disappearing deeper into the labyrinth of Lowtown.

For a moment, I stand in the alley with my heart pounding. I clench my fists so hard my nails burrow into my palms. Anger throbs behind my eyes. The cruelty here never ends. The dark elves spin every law to keep us on our knees. They punish us for minor infractions, turn a blind eye to real atrocities, and reward sadism with coin or prestige.

I force myself to move. Lingering too long will invite scrutiny—maybe even a baton to the ribs if I’m discovered after curfew. Gritting my teeth, I navigate the uneven pathways, stepping over puddles of filth and avoiding the rotted beams that protrude from the collapsed shanties. Candlelit windows flicker, revealing glimpses of the haggard faces within. Sometimes, I hear muffled crying from behind locked doors. It pushes me onward; I can’thelp them right now, not in my condition. Not with the sting of my own wounds still fresh.

Occasionally, I catch my reflection in the shallow pools on the ground. My dark hair is braided tight, though strands cling to my sweaty face. Shadows deepen the hollows beneath my cheekbones. A fresh bruise mars my jaw, courtesy of a dark elf guard who caught me “stealing” scraps of rotting fruit. I see the bitterness in my eyes, the unwavering refusal to be cowed.

I turn a corner and come upon a central thoroughfare in Lowtown—an arching pathway that slopes toward the docks. The overhead walkway is riddled with holes, and broken railings precariously teeter near the edges. Beyond that, the murky silhouette of the harbor expands, dotted with tall ships bearing cargo. Vhoig, a port city of searing wealth in the upper rings, has monstrous ships that glide in daily, delivering everything from spices to unfortunate humans captured elsewhere on Protheka. They funnel through these docks, then are dragged to Lowtown or sold off to the highest bidder.

Cries from the wharf reach my ears. Another shipment might’ve just come in, meaning more slaves or so-called “livestock” to be sorted. My gut twists at the memory of my own arrival here. I was fourteen, newly purchased after my previous master died. A bag was yanked off my head, and I looked up at the spires of Vhoig in terror. That was six years ago, but it may as well have been a lifetime. My heart hardens at the recollection.

Shouts ring out close by, jarring me back to the present. I press myself against a crumbling wall, straining to see who’s making all the ruckus. Up the road, a cluster of human workers—hunched, gaunt men—try to haul crates onto a battered cart. Overseeing them stands a dark elf overseer. He’s clad in a sleek black tunic with silver embroidery at the sleeves, and a whip dangles from his belt. Two more guards lounge behind him, bored but clearly ready to strike if any worker falters.

One of the men, older and trembling, stumbles, sending his crate tumbling to the ground. Pottery shards and cloth scatter across the cobblestones. I watch from the shadows, every nerve screaming at me not to intervene. My chest tightens. I know what’s going to happen next.

“How dare you?” the overseer hisses, stepping forward. A swift crack echoes in the air as the whip unfurls. The older worker tries to cower, but the lash scythes across his shoulders. He emits a choked cry, collapsing to his knees. Blood seeps through his tattered shirt. The other men keep their eyes fixed on the ground, knowing better than to protest.

I can’t tear my gaze away. My body coils, wanting to leap in, to break that whip in half. But I don’t move. One wrong step, and I’m as good as dead. My fists tighten at my sides, nails biting deeper. I can taste iron in my mouth from biting my tongue so hard. The older worker’s agony wrenches at me, but there’s nothing I can do.

The overseer curses, pressing the heel of his boot against the worker’s back. “Pick it up,” he commands, voice humming with cruelty. The worker struggles to gather the broken cargo, tears sliding down his cheeks. The overseer raises the whip again, prompting him to move faster.

I force myself to slip away before I become the next target. Fury lances through me, fueling that small spark of defiance I’ve kept alive all these years. One day, I vow to myself, we won’t have to cower. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not this year, but eventually. I keep that hope banked, a tiny ember in a sea of ash.

Continuing down the winding lanes, I eventually reach a lean-to shack I call home—if I can even use such a word for this pit of despair. Inside, half a dozen humans of varying ages sprawl on straw pallets. It’s a communal arrangement set up by our shared master, a mid-level merchant from the K’sheng caste who owns multiple workers. The place smells of mold and stalesweat. Most of the occupants are asleep, too exhausted from backbreaking labor to notice my arrival.

A single candle flickers on a splintered table. Beside it, a frail woman coughs into a rag. Her skin is pallid. I recognize her as Mirena, a plantation worker from the outskirts of Vhoig who was recently sold into the city’s labor force. She spots me, lips parting to greet me with a hollow smile, but a coughing fit cuts her short.

“How bad?” I ask, voice hushed. I don’t know if I want the answer.

She gives a brittle laugh that quickly turns into another spasm. “I’ll be fine, just a cold,” she whispers, eyes shuttered in pain.