[Mad Hat Island, Year 1508]
Behind violet velvet curtains, the world spun by rules unknown to most. In a grand colonial-style building in the southwest district of Mad Hat, Le Maison Crux stood like a sacred temple—worshiped not by saints, but by devils draped in perfume and power.
Elyndra stood tall in front of a gilded mirror, her small frame wrapped in an ivory dress that sharply contrasted with her dim, lifeless eyes. No visible wounds marked her body. No chains bound her wrists. And yet, she knew—she was still a prisoner.
A year had passed since she was first entered into the exclusive catalogue of Le Maison Crux—not as a common slave, but as its most prized commodity. Her auction value had multiplied several times over the past year. But the treatment she received... remained the same.
Every three days, she was led to a private stage, far from the rowdy public auctions. No cheering. No thunderous gavel. Just a silent room with a handful of finely dressed men and women—faces full of polite smiles and twisted intentions. They would raise cards, make silent bids, and the winner of the day would take her away—not as a permanent possession, but as a 24-hour "personal companion."
There were strict rules. No touching without written consent. No harm. No commands involving intercourse. These were enforced by hidden cameras, armed guards, and blood-signed contracts, if necessary.
But that didn't mean she was free from suffering.
She had become a walking collector's item. One night, a buyer had her sit silently in the corner while he rambled about his merchant fleet and the women he had owned. Another night, she danced soundlessly on a dinner table between candles and wine. And then there were those who just stared at her face all night long, scribbling awful poetry about "beauty that must not be touched."
Once, a noblewoman had Elyndra wear her dead daughter's dress and repeatedly whispered, "Smile like she used to." Elyndra smiled. And swallowed her fury in silence that night.
Yet amid all the humiliation and restraint, one thing quietly grew within her: resolve.
The resolve that none of this would be in vain. That she would repay all of it. That no one—no one—had the right to turn a human into a display piece without consequence.
Behind the blank expression and lowered eyes, Elyndra was learning. She memorized faces, names, habits. She listened to their gossip, their careless conversations, unaware that the nine-year-old girl before them was absorbing every word like a sponge.
Rick Blacknose, the owner of Le Maison Crux, understood that Elyndra's value went beyond her face and body. He saw potential. That's why he kept her exclusive—untouched, unsullied—like a rare antique watch, only to be handled with gloved hands.
At night, Elyndra would sit by the grand window in her chamber, staring out at the Mad Hat skyline that never truly went dark. The city burned with sin—and she was one of its forced torches, set ablaze for others to admire and marvel.
She remembered her family. Their trading ship, set on fire. The blood. Her mother's scream. The laughing face of the pirate.
"One day," she whispered to her reflection in the glass, "I'll bring a fire greater than the one you used to burn us."
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Meanwhile, in the narrow alleys and aging taverns of Mad Hat, the winds were shifting. Strange men cloaked in neutral grays sat calmly, sipping cheap rum, posing as fishermen or spice traders.
They weren't locals. They watched. Listened. Took notes.
And among the names they had begun to hear... was Elyndra.