The winter air cut like a blade, slicing through the ragged cloak wrapped around the frail form of a young elf girl. She was no more than 13, her thin frame barely strong enough to keep moving. Her red hair, matted with dirt, clung to her face, and her once-bright emerald eyes had dulled from exhaustion.

She was starving.

The humans of Veltan did not take kindly to elves, especially those without coin. She had learned that the hard way. They called her "stray," "vermin," and worse. But hunger gnawed at her stomach like a beast, and she could not afford pride.

The market was alive with voices—merchants boasting of their wares, mothers haggling over prices, and children laughing as they clutched warm bread in their tiny hands. The scent of roasted meat and freshly baked pies filled the air, making her mouth water. She eyed a stall stacked with loaves of bread, golden and crisp, still warm from the oven.

Her fingers moved before her mind could think. Quick as a whisper, she grabbed a loaf and darted into an alley.

She barely took a bite before rough hands grabbed her.

A burly butcher yanked her back into the street, his face red with fury. "Thief!" he bellowed. A crowd gathered.

She struggled, but more hands seized her. A boot slammed into her ribs, knocking her to the ground.

"Filthy elf!"

"Teach her a lesson!"

A kick to the stomach. Another to her back. She curled up, arms shielding her head, but the blows rained down like a storm.

She did not cry out. She had learned that crying only made them angrier.

"Should’ve left you to die in the woods where you belong!" someone sneered.

She lay there, waiting for it to end.