Outside the walls, the night is a merciless void, cold wind howling like a predator through the empty streets, biting at Layla's exposed skin with teeth of ice.
Little Layla runs from the apothecary, her small bare feet slapping against the frozen cobbles, each step a jolt of pain that shoots up her thin legs like fire.
Her tattered dress clings to her shivering frame, soaked with her father's blood and tears, the fabric so thin it offers no shield against the wind's cruel whip.
Her lungs burn with every ragged breath, her small chest heaving as if it might crack open from the effort.
Tears stream down her cheeks, freezing halfway, stinging like salt in open wounds. The dark sky presses down on her, starless and empty, whispering in her ear that human life is worthless without money without gold to bribe mercy from the merciless, without coins to prove a father's love or a child's desperation.
She trips on a jagged stone hidden in the shadows, sprawling forward into the mud with a grunt that echoes her shattered heart.
Pain explodes in her knees, her palms scraping raw against the rough ground, but it's nothing—nothing—compared to the ache in her chest, the hollow void where her daddy's smile used to live.
She lies there for a moment, curled in the filth, staring up at the indifferent heavens, her tiny hands reaching toward the void, fingers numb and trembling with cold and fear.
"Are you there, God?" she whispers, her voice small and cracking, barely audible over the wind's moan, sobs hitching in her throat like knives. "If you are… if you can hear me… please save my daddy. Please. I'll never ask for anything again. No food, no warmth, nothing. Just him. Just Daddy."
No answer.
Just silence, vast and cruel, the wind mocking her plea, swirling around her like laughter from the dark.
Her arms drop limp into the mud, splashing softly, hope draining from her small body like blood from a wound, leaving her hollow, shattered, a little girl drowning in a world too big and too mean.
Then a thought pierces the despair: the slave shop.
She clenches her fists, tiny nails digging into her palms until they bleed, and pushes herself up on shaking legs, her small face twisted in determination born of love and terror. *If no coins… take me.* Worth two gold?
She doubts it—doubts she's worth anything at all, just a worthless girl in a very cruel world, a burden her daddy carried with a smile she might never see again. But for him… for Daddy…
She runs again, toward the slave market near the Great Market, her small heart pounding with a resolve that shouldn't exist in someone so young, so broken.
Dark alleys swallow her, shadows clutching at her dress like hands from the grave. Lionheart Street's clean lanterns taunt her from afar, their warm glow a cruel reminder of worlds she'll never touch. Mud and blood crust her skin like a second layer of despair, her vision blurred by endless tears that freeze on her lashes, making every blink a fresh sting.
Lost—utterly lost in helpless thoughts, a little girl alone in this cruel world, her daddy's whispers fading in her mind she takes a turn and collides hard with someone.
She falls with a thud, mud splashing up to her chin, eyes stinging from the filth, seeing only clean clothes now stained by her dirt, her worthlessness.
Panic surges, a wave crashing over her small frame, choking her. She bows until her forehead grinds into the cold ground, whispering over and over in a voice raw from screaming, "Please forgive me… please forgive me…" Waiting for the slap, the kick, the guards—waiting for the world to crush her like it crushed her daddy, like it crushes everything small and good.
Instead, a warm hand touches her head gentle, impossible, like a dream she forgot how to have.
Elsbeth crouches down, voice a lifeline in the dark, soft and steady amid the storm. "It's all right, little one. Where are you going this late? What happened?"
Layla looks up, blinking through tearsand whispers, "Brave princess…"
Hope flickers in her eyes, as she sees Elsbeth, Luan, Leonard. Recognition dawns on Luan's face, his voice a hushed breath. "The daisy girl… from the Great Market."
Layla's small body shakes with sobs loud, wrenching, unending, her cries echoing into the night like a plea the world ignores.
Elsbeth pulls her into a hug, wrapping her in midnight-blue silk, rocking her gently as the child's tears soak her gown, feeling the small heart race against her own. "Everything's all right. You're safe now."
"My daddy…" Layla chokes out, voice broken and small, her small fists clutching Elsbeth's dress like a lifeline, her body trembling from cold and grief. "Please save my daddy…"
Leonard kneels beside them, voice gentle but urgent, his heart twisting at the sight of her mud-streaked face, her small eyes wide with terror.
"We'll save him. Tell us what happened?"
Elsbeth lifts her up, cradling the child like something precious and fragile, feeling the girl's freezing skin against her own, the small bones sharp with hunger.
Sir Rowan emerges from the house with a flask of water, making her drink slowly, his rough hands steady as he wipes mud from her cheeks, his own eyes stinging at the sight of such small suffering.
Luan, bells jingling softly, He pulls a simple trick a card vanishing behind his ear, reappearing in his palm—his painted smile warm despite the pain still lingering in his hand, his eyes soft with a sorrow that mirrors her own.
Layla's sobs slow to sniffles, her wide eyes fixed on the "magic," a momentary spark of wonder cutting through her despair, her small lips parting in awe.
She stops crying enough to whisper, "Daddy's dying… apothecary… two gold coins… please save him. He said no healing without coins…"
Her small body goes limp unconscious, cold as death, her breathing shallow and ragged.
Elsbeth takes Layla inside and lowers her gently into the wooden cot, the child's small body limp and cold as a forgotten doll.
The hearthfire crackles warmly, casting flickering shadows that dance across the walls, but it does little to chase the chill from Layla's skin.
Luan kneels beside the cot, dipping a cloth in warm water from the basin, carefully cleaning the mud from her tear-streaked face and tangled hair. His touch is feather-light, as if she's made of glass.
Leonard places a warm cloth on her forehead, his rough hands uncharacteristically gentle, his brow furrowed with worry for this small stranger who has cracked open their world.
Elsbeth picks up the book—Mercy—from the table where it waits like a silent guardian, her hands still shaking from the trial's aftermath.
Sir Rowan sits heavily in a chair, exhaling as he rubs his temples.
"There's only one apothecary that serves the outer districts," he says, voice low and grim.
"It's buried deep past Roman Street. No charity. No mercy. Only coin."
Elsbeth's eyes widen, resolve hardening through her exhaustion. "We should go there now."
Sir Rowan stands, armor clinking softly. "You need rest, Princess. You stay with her and Luan. Leonard and I will go."
Luan, still brushing his fingers through Layla's tangled, muddy hair, looks up, his voice soft but firm. "You need rest, Elsbeth. Stay here. Take care of yourself… please."
Elsbeth pauses, her chest tightening at the concern in his eyes, She calms, nodding slowly.
Rowan and Leonard leave for the apothecary, shutting the door behind them with a final, echoing thud.