Date: The Night of the 2nd Day of the Month of Blossoms, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: Dead-End Alley, The Lower District.
The hand on her shoulder was heavy. It felt less like human flesh and more like a slab of raw meat wrapped in rough leather.
Aanya didn't scream. She didn't have the air for it. She simply froze, her body going rigid under the damp burlap sack.
"Did you hear me, girl?" Silas growled. His voice was a low rumble, thick with the slurred aggression of cheap ale. "I said, look at me."
He squeezed. His fingers dug into her collarbone, pinching the skin through the coarse fabric.
Aanya curled tighter into a ball, pressing her face against her knees. The darkness inside the hood was her only shield. If she stayed hidden, maybe she was just a beggar. If they saw her face, she was a monster.
"She's shivering like a wet rat," Gorm laughed from the alley entrance. He took a swig from a bottle, wiping his mouth with a dirty sleeve. "Maybe she needs warming up."
"I can warm her," the one with the rat-voice, Pip, giggled. He stepped closer, his boots splashing in the puddles near Aanya's head. "Let me see, Silas. Is she young? Is she pretty?"
"She's hiding something," Silas muttered.
He gave the sack a sharp tug.
Aanya gasped, clutching the fabric from the inside with bleeding fingers. "No... please..."
"Oh, she speaks!" Pip clapped his hands. "A noble tongue, too. Listen to that. Please. Not 'gerroff' or 'leave me be.' She says please."
"A runaway," Silas concluded, a predatory glint entering his eyes. "Maybe a servant girl who stole the silver? Or maybe..." He leaned in closer, his breath smelling of onions and rot. "...maybe a little lady who got lost?"
The implication hung in the damp air. In the Slums, a lost noblewoman was a prize. She was a toy that no one would miss.
"Let go," Aanya whispered, her voice trembling.
"Not a chance, darling," Silas said. "We just want to see your face. If you're pretty, maybe we buy you a drink. If you're ugly... well, we'll drink anyway."
He reached for the hood again.
Aanya panicked. The instinct to hide the deformity was stronger than the fear of pain. She thrashed, kicking out with her bare feet.
Her heel connected with Silas's shin.
It wasn't a hard kick—she was weak from hunger and cold—but it was enough to surprise him.
"You little bitch!" Silas roared.
He didn't pull the hood this time. He backhanded her.
His fist struck the side of her head through the burlap. The impact was jarring. Aanya's vision exploded in white sparks. Her head slammed back against the brick wall with a sickening thud.
She slumped sideways, dazed. The fight drained out of her limbs like water from a cracked jar.
"Don't bruise her too bad, Silas," Gorm warned, stepping closer. "Ruins the fun."
"She kicked me," Silas spat. He grabbed the front of her burlap tunic and hauled her up. She dangled in his grip, her feet barely touching the mud.
"Now," Silas hissed, his face inches from the hood. "Let's see what you're hiding."
He ripped the burlap hood back.
The alley was dark, lit only by the faint, sputtering light of a distant streetlamp reflecting off the wet stones. But it was enough.
Silas was expecting a crying girl. He was expecting fear. He was expecting a pretty, terrified face that he could break.
He saw the Phantom.
The rain had done its work, but the damage remained. The gray sludge of the melted resin still clung to her right cheek in weeping, unnatural folds. Beneath it, the red scar tissue was inflamed, angry, and swollen. Her eye was dragged down by the weight of the goo. Her hair was matted with trash and slime.
She looked like something that had crawled out of a grave to feed.
Silas didn't gasp. He didn't laugh.
He recoiled.
"GRAH!"
He dropped her as if she were burning coal. He stumbled back, crashing into Gorm.
"What in the Seven Hells is that?!" Silas yelled, wiping his hand on his tunic as if her ugliness were contagious.
Aanya hit the mud. She didn't try to cover her face this time. She looked up at them, her violet eyes—one wide, one swollen—filled with a heartbreaking resignation.
See, she thought, the tears mixing with the rain. See the monster.
Pip, the rat-faced one, leaned in to look. He shrieked.
"It's the Rot!" Pip screamed, scrambling backward. "Look at her face! It's melting! She's a plague-witch!"
The mood in the alley shifted instantly.
Lust evaporated, replaced by a primal, superstitious terror. In the Slums, deformity wasn't just unfortunate; it was an omen. It was bad luck. And bad luck had to be purged.
"She touched me," Silas whispered, looking at his hand. Horror twisted his face into a snarl of rage. "The freak touched me!"
"Kill it!" Gorm shouted, drawing a rusted knife from his belt. "Before it breathes on us!"
"Don't let it hex us!" Pip yelled, grabbing a loose cobblestone from the ground.
Aanya looked at the men. She saw the shift in their eyes. They didn't want to use her anymore. They wanted to destroy her.
"I'm not..." Aanya choked out, raising a hand. "I'm just a girl..."
"Shut up, monster!"
Silas stepped forward and kicked her.
His heavy boot caught her in the ribs.
CRACK.
Pain, sharp and blinding, shot through her chest. Aanya curled up, gasping, but she couldn't draw breath.
"Stomp it out!" Silas roared. "Crush its head!"
Gorm moved in. He kicked her in the thigh. Pip threw the stone; it struck her shoulder, sending a fresh wave of agony down her arm.
Aanya didn't fight back. She couldn't. She lay in the mud, curling into the smallest ball possible, shielding her head with her arms.
This is it, she thought, the world narrowing down to the rhythm of the boots hitting her body.
Thud. Thud. Crack.
She thought of the palace. She thought of the silk. She thought of her mother turning away.
It's better this way, a dark voice whispered in her mind. If I die here, the lie dies with me. No one has to look at the monster anymore.
"Die! Die!" Silas was shouting, stomping on her back.
Aanya's vision went black at the edges. She stopped feeling the cold rain. She stopped feeling the hunger. She only felt the heavy, rhythmic crushing of her bones.
She opened her mouth to scream, but only blood came out.
"Help..."
It was a whisper meant for no one. A prayer to a god who had already abandoned her.
Silas raised his boot high, aiming for her skull.
"Goodnight, witch," he grunted.
The boot began to descend.
Aanya closed her eyes and waited for the end.
But the boot never landed.