The wagon jolted violently as it rolled over ruts and stones, each bump sending Alice crashing against the rough wooden boards. The air inside was thick with the stench of sweat, mold, and fear. She wasn't alone; two other children, older girls with hollow eyes and tangled hair, huddled in a corner, their faces streaked with dirt and silent tears.
Alice pressed herself into the opposite corner, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around her legs. Her body ached from hunger and exhaustion, but it was the terror that left her trembling. She remembered her mother's gentle touch, Alex's laughter, the warmth of their home. Now, those memories felt like dreams from another life.
The wagon stopped. The door creaked open, and harsh sunlight flooded the cramped space. A man's hand reached in, grabbing Alice by the arm and yanking her out. She stumbled, blinking against the glare, and saw a ramshackle camp surrounded by a crude wooden fence. Men lounged around a smoky fire, their faces hard and cruel.
"Line up!" one barked.
The children obeyed, fear rooting them in place. The men examined each child, prodding and turning them as if they were livestock. Alice's red eyes drew murmurs and greedy grins.
"She'll bring a fortune," one man muttered, his gaze lingering too long.
Alice shivered, her hands curling into fists.
The Market
After a day and night in the camp, the children were herded into the wagon again. They traveled for what felt like days, the world outside shifting from forest to open fields to the crowded, filthy streets of a city Alice had never seen.
The slave market was chaos—shouting traders, crying children, and the constant clink of coins. Alice was shoved onto a raised platform, the crowd below leering up at her. She tried to shrink away, but rough hands held her in place.
"Look at those eyes!" the auctioneer crowed. "A rare beauty—fit for a noble's house!"
Bidding started. The numbers climbed higher. Alice's heart pounded as she searched the crowd for a friendly face, a miracle, but found only strangers.
A man in fine clothes, his face hidden behind a jeweled mask, raised his hand. The auctioneer's gavel fell. The deal was done.
The Noble's House
Alice was dragged through winding streets to a grand estate on the city's edge. The gates loomed high, iron bars twisted into cruel shapes. Inside, servants scurried about, eyes downcast.
Her new master was a nobleman with cold, calculating eyes and a voice that dripped with false kindness. He spoke to her as one might speak to a pet, promising food and shelter if she obeyed, pain if she did not.
The days blurred together. Alice was forced to serve at the noble's table, to clean his chambers, to endure his cruel games. He delighted in her fear, in the way her hands shook when he approached.
At night, she lay awake on a straw mat in a windowless room, her body aching, her spirit battered. She clung to memories of her family—her mother's lullabies, Alex's promise to protect her. She whispered their names into the darkness, hoping they might somehow hear.
But the walls did not answer. The world outside did not care.
The Years of Suffering
Time lost all meaning. Alice grew from a small, frightened girl into a silent, watchful adolescent. The noble's cruelty became routine—punishments for the smallest mistakes, isolation when she refused to cry. Other servants came and went, their faces blurring together in her memory.
She learned to hide her pain, to mask her hatred behind a cold, beautiful mask. The other servants whispered about her, calling her "the red-eyed ghost." Some pitied her; most avoided her, afraid of drawing the master's attention.
But inside, Alice's rage grew. Each day, each new scar, hardened her heart. She stopped dreaming of rescue. She stopped believing in kindness. The world had shown her nothing but cruelty, and she began to believe that cruelty was all she would ever know.
A Mother's Despair
Far away, in the mountains above Eldermoor, Liora and Alex built a new life from the ruins of the old. They found shelter in a small hut, surviving on what little they could grow or gather. Liora's hair turned gray before its time, her eyes always searching the horizon for a daughter she knew, deep down, she would never see again.
Alex grew strong, his hands calloused from work, his eyes shadowed by guilt. He trained with a sword fashioned from scrap metal, practicing every day until his muscles burned. He vowed never to be helpless again.
But at night, when the world was quiet, Alex would sit by the fire and carve small wooden animals—wolves, foxes, birds. He placed them in a row beside his bed, each one a silent prayer for Alice's return.
The Whisper in the Dark
On the eve of her thirteenth birthday, Alice lay in her cold cell, staring at the ceiling. She had not cried in years. Her heart was a stone, heavy and unyielding.
That night, a shadow pooled in the corner of her room, darker than any night. From it stepped a figure—tall, cloaked in midnight, her face veiled and her eyes burning with ancient sorrow.
Alice did not flinch. She met the figure's gaze with her own, unblinking.
"You have suffered," the figure said, her voice echoing with the weight of centuries. "You have been broken, but you are not destroyed."
Alice's lips curled into a bitter smile. "What do you want?"
"I am the Goddess of Death," the figure replied. "I have watched you, Alice. I have seen your pain, your rage. I offer you a choice: remain a victim, or become my successor. Take my blessing, and you will have the power to bring justice—vengeance—upon those who have wronged you."
Alice's heart pounded. For the first time in years, she felt something stir inside her—a spark of hope, twisted and dark.
"What must I do?" she whispered.
"Accept my gift. Embrace the darkness within you. Become the hand of death in this world."
Alice closed her eyes. She thought of her father's fists, the nobleman's cruelty, the men who had stolen her from the forest. She thought of Alex, of her mother, of the life she had lost.
When she opened her eyes again, they burned brighter than ever.
"I accept."
The goddess smiled, and the room filled with shadows.
Closing
As the first tendrils of power curled around Alice's heart, the world shifted once more. The girl who had once been a shadow would become a storm—a force of death and vengeance, shaped by pain but driven by something deeper.
Far away, Alex woke from a restless sleep, a chill running down his spine. He looked to the stars and whispered a single word:
"Alice…"
But the night did not answer.