The Fallen Luna

The whip came before Elena could even process the spit drying on her cheek.

A man stepped out from behind Mrs. Baltimore, tall, broad with a scar across his lips, a coil of black leather already uncurling from his hand. The first crack landed across her back, a sharp wet snap that stole the air from her lungs before the pain even registered. The second came a heartbeat later, and this time Elena's scream tore out of her before she could stop it, her whole body curling forward against the stone.

Mrs. Baltimore crouched down in front of her, gripping Elena's chin with ringed fingers hard enough to bruise, forcing her face up.

"There she is," Mrs. Baltimore cooed, mockingly. "The famous Luna. Screaming just like the rest of them." She spat again, this time square on Elena's split lip, and rose with a grunt, smoothing her golden silk.

The door opened before Elena could gather herself off the floor.

A worker hurried in, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the ground. "Mrs. Baltimore — Mrs. Silvermore has arrived. She requests to see the merchandise personally."

Mrs. Silvermore. Elena's stomach turned. It was her title. Her name, once. Now it walked through the door wearing Vivian's face, dressed in soft furs, face full of pride and smack.

The Baltimores straightened at once, all previous menace folding into fawning smiles. "Mrs. Silvermore, an honor," Mr. Baltimore wheezed, snapping his fingers for a chair to be dragged in and set beside her.

Beside Vivian stood a familiar face — Altia, who had braided Elena's hair every morning for three years, who had once sworn her loyalty on her mother's grave. Now she stood in fine new clothes, eyes carefully lowered, comfortable in her betrayal.

Elena tried to push herself up onto her knees. "Vivian—"

The whip cracked a third time before she finished the name, driving her back down with a strangled cry.

"The lady has embraced us with her presence," Mrs. Baltimore announced brightly, turning to Vivian with an expression so eager to please it made Elena sick. "Show some respect."

Vivian's eyes traveled over Elena's shaved head, her split lip, the blood soaking through the thin fabric on her back, and something like satisfaction bloomed across her face. She smiled.

"Just a worthless piece," Vivian said, almost bored, examining her nails.

Something in Elena, even broken, even bleeding, refused to fully die. She lifted her head and glared, eyes burning with everything she could no longer say out loud.

Vivian's smile vanished. "This lowly creature actually dares to glare at me?" Her voice sharpened, delighted, cruel. "Mrs. Baltimore, teach her a some lesson for me."

Laughter followed — the Baltimores', Altia's, Vivian's, all blurring together into one sound as the whip came down again and again, until Elena's screams gave way to silence, and the silence gave way to darkness.

She was dragged out by her ankles, leaving a thin red trail across the stone.

"How was that, Mrs. Silvermore?" the Baltimores asked, practically bowing.

Vivian adjusted the furs at her shoulders, unbothered. "The auction is in one week. I want her completely broken by then. Torment her until she forgets her own name. Can you do that?"

It wasn't jealousy driving her, not entirely, it was fear, buried under deep within her core, fear that if some part of Elena was left she might cause some future trouble. Easier to erase her than to risk her rising again. The Baltimores promised her exactly what she wanted, and meant to deliver it in full.

The week that followed had no mercy in it.

They kept her in a cage too small to stand in, iron bars biting cold against her skin through torn fabric, the floor damp and unforgiving beneath her. Twice a day, buckets of freezing water were thrown through the bars to "keep the merchandise clean," Mrs. Baltimore said, laughing as Elena gasped and shook, lips blue, teeth chattering through the night with nothing to warm her but her own arms.

The whip came without warning, without pattern, until she stopped flinching in advance and simply waited for it, hollow-eyed. Meals were withheld, then given, then withheld again, until hunger and pain blurred into one constant hum beneath her skin. She slept curled inside the cage, knees to chest, and dreamed sometimes of a wedding day, of a hand at the small of her back, before waking to iron bars and reality.

“You worthless piece of garbage!”

Mr. Baltimore's voice crashed through the cramped cell before the heavy kick against the metal bars sent a violent clang echoing through the room. It was how he woke her every morning.

“Not only are you barren, you're a disgrace. Maybe we should stop calling you Elena and start calling you trash.”

“I am not trash.” Elena forced the words through trembling lips, lifting her head despite every muscle protesting. “I am Elena Silvermore. I'm not trash.”

The slap landed with crushing force, snapping her head to the side before her body slammed against the cold floor. Pain erupted through her jaw and shoulder, stealing the air from her lungs as a sharp ringing filled her ears.

“When I say you're trash,” Mr. Baltimore said, crouching beside her as he wrapped his fingers around the whip lying at his feet, “then that's exactly what you are.”

The first lash tore across her back, then another, then another.

Each strike ripped away another piece of the strength she had desperately clung to. She bit down on her cries until the taste of blood filled her mouth, refusing to surrender the only thing she still possessed—her name. But the pain never stopped. It kept coming with relentless cruelty, accompanied by the same question over and over until it drowned out every coherent thought.

“What are you?”

Silence earned another lash.

“What are you?”

Another.

“What are you?”

Her body finally broke before her spirit could. A raw scream escaped her throat as tears blurred everything around her.

“I'm trash!” she sobbed. “I'm... I'm a worthless trash! Please... please stop!”

A heavy boot drove into her ribs, sending her sprawling across the filthy floor as agony consumed what little strength remained.

“Good,” Mr. Baltimore said with a satisfied smile. “Never forget it.”

By the fifth day, Elena no longer argued, she no longer corrected them when they called her trash. She no longer spoke unless someone demanded an answer. Somewhere between the endless beatings, the hunger, and the humiliation, Elena Silvermore had become a name she was too afraid to remember.

By the sixth, she had stopped crying, by the seventh, when they finally dragged her out into the light for the auction, she didn't resist. Her hair, what little had grown back, hung in dirty clumps. Her ribs showed through torn cloth. Her eyes, once sharp with pride, stared at nothing, her lips moving faintly around words no one could hear, perhaps her own name, trying to remember it.

"Lot Seven," the auctioneer called, gesturing carelessly. "Damaged goods, but pretty enough underneath it."

"Ten thousand," someone offered, unimpressed.

"Fifteen thousand."

"Thirty thousand," a bored voice added.

It was almost insulting, how little she was worth to them now — until, from the back of the hall, a low voice cut cleanly through the noise.

"Ten billion gold coins."