Four years earlier, somewhere in the small city.
"Princess plays beggar," a voice hissed, cruel as a knife in the cold wind that blew through this alley.
Ariella pulled her thin coat tighter. The city's hate felt colder than the winter air. Once, her life was silk dresses and happy sounds. Now, only this hard doorway offered her a little cover. Her stomach ached with hunger. Her name, Ariella, used to be spoken with love. Now, it sounded like a mean joke in these sad streets. They had put her in fancy rooms, not on a throne. She was weak and didn't know how to live like this.
"Trying to work?" another voice asked. It was mocking. Then came laughter, sharp and mean, echoing in the big, empty building. Her hands shook. The rough wood box slipped, hitting the concrete floor with a crack. One week. One week of hard work, sore muscles, and cold looks.
They saw a pretty doll. A weak thing. They didn't see the strong wish to live in her eyes. Then, her safe world broke. Friends left. Enemies whispered mean things. "Useless." "She'll never make it."
Those words followed her, like a bad dream. The easy, soft life she knew was gone. Now, she faced a world that hated her weakness.
"You're too slow," a rough voice said. It was the boss. "Get out of here."
She walked out of the building. The city was a blur of loud noises and angry faces. Where could she go? What could she do?
A small movement in a dark alley caught her eye. Someone was there, hidden in the shadows. A voice, smooth like silk, said, "Lost, little bird?"
She stopped. Fear fought with a small bit of hope. "Who are you?" she asked.
The person stepped into the dim light. Something metal glinted in their hand. "Someone who sees what you could be. Someone who knows how bad it feels to be desperate." A slow, mean smile spread across their face. "Tell me, little bird, what will you do to stay alive?"
Her hands trembled. One week. That's all she lasted. One week of hard work, pain, and those cold eyes watching her.
Doors slammed in her face. "No." "Get out." "We don't want people like you." Each word hit her hard. The city was like a maze, and she was stuck. They called her a ghost. No one saw her, except to sneer.
"Look at her." Whispers followed her down the street. "Pathetic." Loneliness filled her, cold and empty. No friends. No family. Just the voices. Always the voices.
She walked, not knowing where to go. Just away.
The wind was sharp and cold. Her doorway was just a hard stone. Hunger hurt, a constant, bad pain. Give up, the winter seemed to whisper. Just go to sleep.
Her fingers, numb with cold, squeezed tight. No. Not them. Not their words, their laughter. Not them. A small spark was still inside her. It was stronger than their hate.
"I won't," she whispered. Her voice was weak. "I won't let them win." She would climb. It would be hard. But she would do it.
Someone's shadow fell over the doorway. "Still here?" The voice was low and rough, but not mean. "You look like you're about to freeze."
She looked up, her eyes tired. "Who are you?"
The person didn't say their name. A hand, rough and strong, reached out. "Here." It held a small, wrapped thing. "Take this."
She waited a moment, then took it. The bundle was warm and smelled like food. She opened it. Her eyes opened wide. A piece of bread, a small piece of cheese.
"What's this?" she asked, her voice scratchy.
The person stepped back into the shadows. "Something to help you keep going." Their voice was now just a whisper. "You look hungry."
"Why?" she asked, her voice barely there. But the person was gone. Only the cold wind answered.
She looked at the food. Her stomach hurt with hunger. Warmth spread through her hands.
"Pride." The word tasted bad in her mouth. She looked at a thrown-away coffee cup. Empty. Like everything else. She drank the last drops. Cold. Bitter.
Soup kitchen. Shame made her face hot. But hunger was worse. A kind word. A warm meal. It was something. A small light in the darkness.
Cleaning floors. Toilets. Any work. Her hands, once soft, were now rough. Her back hurt. Every muscle screamed. Work. Just work.
She scrubbed harder. The dirt wouldn't come off easily. They think I'll break? A angry sound came from her throat. They're wrong.
Someone bumped her shoulder hard. "Move it." A rough, impatient voice. "You're slow."
She looked up. Their eyes met. Cold. Hard. Like hers? She didn't move.
"What's your problem?" the person snapped.
She stood up straight. "My problem?" She took a step closer. "My problem is I'm tired of being pushed around."
Blisters on her hands. Aches all over. But also strength. A new kind of strength. Not just in her muscles. Inside her. A hard, cold fire. Survive.
Filling out forms. Standing in lines. People looking at her. Break me? No. She learned how to live like this. Saving every small coin. Fixing old clothes. Finding things that still had use.
A kind word. A smile. Someone saw her as human. She wasn't a ghost anymore.
A room. Small. Water leaked when it rained. But it was hers. Mine. A place where she could breathe.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her hands. Rough. Calloused. Changed.
A sharp knock came at the door. "Rent's due," a flat, demanding voice said.
She stood up, her heart beating steadily. Not fear. Not anymore. "I know," she replied.
Opening the door, she saw the person standing there, hand held out. "Well?" they asked.
She didn't move. "I'll have it," she said, her voice low and even. "But not today."
Right away, she started night classes. Books. Words. She was hungry for them. Her mind soaked them up. New worlds opened. Old feelings finally had words.
She heard whispers, soft but different. "Different." "Strong." People saw her hands, her eyes. They didn't see the fire inside.
Walking with books held tight, a voice spoke. "You read a lot."
She stopped and turned. It was the same person from before? "What do you want?" she asked.
"Just talking," they said. "You've changed."
"I learned," she replied. "I had to."
"Learned what?" they asked, stepping closer.
"That words have power," she said. "More power than they think."
"Power?" they repeated.
"Like revenge?" she questioned.
She hesitated. "Like survival."
"Survival," they said, their voice low. "Or something more?"
"More?" she asked.
"An opportunity," they said. "To use those words. To make them listen."
"Listen to what?" she asked, her heart beating faster.
"To the truth," they said. "The truth they ignore. The truth about what they did to you."
One day, as she walked, the window of a fancy shop showed her reflection: worn jeans, rough hands. It looked so different from the silk dresses inside. Ghosts of who she used to be. She didn't stop for long. No sadness, no wanting. Just a cold, strong feeling of being free. Free.
Strength. Toughness. It was hers now. The princess was gone; a survivor was made. And she was strong.
The climb was hard. The ground was loose. She almost fell. Sadness whispered, "Go back. It's easier."
She stopped. The words echoed in her mind. Easier? Her hands tightened into fists. No.
A low voice close by asked, "You okay?"
She turned. It was someone. Always someone. "I'm fine," she said.
"You don't look fine," they replied. "You look like you're fighting something."
"I am," she said, her voice tight. "Myself."
"Yourself?" they repeated. "Or the ghost of yourself?"
She didn't answer.
"They want you back," they said. "Back in their box."
"They're wrong," she said, her voice hard. "I'm not going back."
"Good," they said. "Because I have another offer."
"I can't take it," she answered then walked away.
The next day, she was homeless again. "Condemned," the word felt like cracking ice. The wind cut through her, an old enemy. She felt weak, with nothing to protect her.
Her progress? Gone. Like dust in the wind. The doorway was her prison again. Sadness felt heavy. "Is this all I am?" It tasted bitter.
"Oh, it's you," someone said as doors slammed in her face. "Spoiled." She felt trapped. Her past was like a cold chain holding her.
Hunger was a constant pain. She found scraps in the shadows. Shame burned inside her.
She sat, cold as the stone, the city lights blurry. A voice cut through the wind. "Back here?"
She looked up. It was someone. "Building's gone," she said.
"Tough luck," they said, their voice low. "But you're still fighting, aren't you?"
"What choice?" she said, her voice flat. "What else is there?"
"Choices," they said, stepping closer. "Always choices, even when you don't see them."
"Like what?" she asked, a small bit of anger showing.
"Like this." They held out a hand. "Another offer. A way out of this."
"Out of what?" she asked, her heart beating hard.
"Out of their game," they said. "Out of their control. A way to make them pay."
"Pay for what?" she whispered.
"For everything," they said, their voice dark and strong. "For what they took from you. And for what they'll take from others. Unless you stop them."
"I will think about it," she answered.
The loneliness was a constant companion, like a thick blanket that kept her spirit down. She wanted to connect with someone, for someone to really see her and understand what she was going through. But the walls she had built around herself to stay safe from more hurt kept everyone away. She was scared to trust, scared to be hurt again, scared to show how weak she felt.
Pain, deep and raw. Dirty. Broken. Hope, a tiny light, gone out. Only ashes left. Sadness felt like a huge wave crashing over her.
Give up. Go back to the old life. It was easy. Feel sorry for yourself, a soft trap. Just give in?
A small flicker started deep inside. No. "Stronger," she whispered in the dark.
Fire. The long, hard climb. Small wins that took a lot of effort. She was tough.
A voice, low and rough, asked, "You okay?"
She jumped back, pulling away. Someone. Again. "Leave me alone," she said.
"Can't," the person replied, stepping closer. "You look like you're about to break into pieces."
"I won't break," she said, her voice tight, a small sound of fighting back.
"Good," the person said, their voice strangely strong. "Because I have a way to make them break instead. A way to use their own weapons against them."
"Weapons?" she asked, her voice shaking a little. "What weapons?"
"The ones they use against you," the person said. "The ones they use against everyone like you. Their power. Their control. I can help you take it back."
"Take it back how?" she asked, her eyes looking hard at them.
"By giving you a choice," the person said, their voice a low, dangerous whisper. "A choice to fight. A choice to get stronger. A choice to make them pay, in ways they never thought possible."
She thought about the strong woman she was trying to be, the woman made stronger by the hard times, the woman who wouldn't break. And she knew, for sure, that she could not, would not, go back to being weak and needing others.
Unbreakable. No going back. Fight. Climb. Even when it's dark, there's still a spark.
Three men. Change. Three gifts. Three fires.
A voice, low, said, "They hurt you."
She turned. Someone. "They did," she replied.
"They'll pay," the person said. "But you need help."
"Help?" she asked.
"Three kinds," the person said. "Three men. Three gifts."
"Gifts?" she repeated.
"One gives strength," the person said. "One gives knowledge. One gives shelter."
"Shelter?" she whispered.
"They took everything," the person said. "Now, these men will help you build it all back."
Ariella's eyes, showing a little bit of hope, looked at the person. "Then tell me," she said, her voice soft, "how do I find these men, and finally find a place where I belong?"
"Wait and see," the person answered and walked away.
"Another night, another freeze," Ariella mumbled, her teeth shaking. "Just give up already."
A voice, Bruno's voice, cut through the cold air of the park. "Give up? You look like you've been dragged through a storm. Get up." His hands, rough like sandpaper, helped her stand. "You want pity? You won't find it here. But, you want work? I got that."
He took her to a workshop that smelled of wood and sweat. "See these tools? They'll be your new best friends. Now, watch." He showed her how to make a piece of wood smooth, the sound of it rubbing a strange comfort. "You'll learn. You'll work. And you'll eat. Got it?"
Hours turned into days. The sound of the hammer and the saw became her new music. Her hands, once soft, became tough. She built a table, a bit shaky, but it was hers. "Not bad," Bruno grumbled, which was a rare nice thing to say.
One evening, as she was leaving, Bruno stopped her. "You got fire in you. Don't let it go out. But, remember, fire can be dangerous. Don't trust too quickly." He stopped for a moment, thinking. "And, well, things aren't always what they seem around here. Just be careful."
Ariella looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"