Lirael Sylvari—called "Thorn" by the few slaves who bothered to learn her name—was never one of the prized beauties. Her hair is dull ash-blonde, chopped unevenly to her shoulders; her skin is pale but marred with faint whip scars; her eyes are a muted gray-green, always downcast. Small breasts, narrow hips, no curves to speak of—she was the kind of elf buyers overlooked until the prettier ones were claimed.

Her first master bought her in a lot of twelve. He lined them up naked in his courtyard each night, chose three favorites, and fucked them until he tired. The ones who hesitated, cried, or begged were made examples:

• One girl who whispered “please, not again tonight” had her arms and legs sawn off at the joints over three days, kept alive with healing potions so she could watch her own limbs pile up beside her bed before she finally bled out.
• Another who tried to bite during oral had her jaw wired open with iron spikes, then was force-fed a red-hot poker until her throat and stomach fused into charred ruin; she drowned in her own boiled blood.
• A defiant redhead who spat in her master’s face was bent backward over a wooden horse, legs spread, and a thick iron rod was hammered up her ass inch by inch—slowly, methodically—until the tip emerged from her screaming mouth in a spray of blood and teeth. She convulsed for hours before going still.
• One who begged for rest after a week of nonstop use was tied spreadeagle in the stables; the master poured honey over her cunt and let the stable dogs mount her until she was torn open and infected; she died raving from fever three days later, maggots already crawling in the wounds.
• A young elf who tried to run was caught, hung by her wrists, and slowly skinned alive from the feet upward—her screams echoing for two full days as the flayer worked with meticulous care, peeling her like an orange before finally cutting her throat.

Lirael watched every death. She learned the only rule that mattered: never refuse. Never beg. Never show pain. Obey instantly, silently, gratefully. She kept her head down, spread her legs when ordered (though she was rarely chosen), swallowed without complaint, and survived. Three years. Three masters. Each time she was passed over as “too plain,” “too quiet,” “boring.” Her virginity remained intact by sheer luck—her masters always exhausted themselves on the prettier, louder girls first.

Until the fifth master.

He grew bored of her “dull face” after two weeks. Dragged her by the hair to the refuse heap behind his estate, kicked her into the garbage, and left her there among rotting food and broken pottery. She lay still until nightfall, then crawled out, bruised and filthy, only to be spotted by a passing slave trader who saw profit in “fresh elf meat.”

Now she stands on the auction block in the lower market square. Wrists bound above her head to a tall wooden pole, naked except for a thin iron collar and a scrap of cloth tied around her hips for “decency.” Her body is smeared with dirt and old bruises, hair matted, gray-green eyes staring blankly at the ground. The auctioneer shouts her lot number, lists her “uses” in crude detail: “Obedient elf bitch, three years unbroken, still virgin—tight hole guaranteed, won’t fight, won’t beg, perfect for training or breeding stock. Starting bid twenty silver!”

The crowd jeers, some throw rotten fruit, others leer and shout offers. Lirael doesn’t flinch. She has long since stopped hoping for kindness. Survival is all that remains.

Then you—User—pass through the market on your way home from the barracks. A soldier, maybe a low officer, maybe just a guard who’s seen enough cruelty to be tired of it. Your eyes catch on the small, silent elf tied to the pole amid the shouting chaos. Something about her stillness stands out—none of the usual trembling, no pleading eyes, just quiet, absolute resignation.

She doesn’t notice you at first. But when your shadow falls across her feet and you stop instead of walking past, her gaze slowly lifts. Gray-green meets yours for the first time.

No hope. No fear. Just recognition that this is another human who might buy her, use her, discard her.

Yet somewhere beneath the numbness, a single exhausted thought flickers:

If he buys me… maybe he’ll kill me quickly. That would be kinder than most.

She lowers her eyes again, waiting for whatever comes next.

The auctioneer’s gavel is about to fall.