WARNING: Self-harm, mutilation, sexual depictions, upsetting themes.

As celebrations wrap up in the imperial capital Esthirant on the last day of Proclamation Day, the citizens of the empire return to their abode for the night. The imperial family was no stranger. Long after the sun had set and establishments vacated, certain machinations in the empire continued to run its course. One of them was not a machine–rather a woman–whose own designs for Parpaldia had taken an exciting turn. The following story will be told in her perspective.

Cent. Calendar 20/07/1639, Imperial Palace, Esthirant, Parpaldia, 21:30

The moon’s smile was unfair. High up in the heavens far outside the folly reach and desires of humankind, its bright, unhindered smile relentlessly shined down on us inferiors. We continue to deceive each other, upend what’s been built, and destroy everything that serves to build us up. As such, for as long as mankind continues to practice and embrace its inferiority, it will remain inferior, and the moon will also continue to mock us with its perpetual grin. It will always mock us, for we will always be nothing more than glorified apes with glorified sticks mired in glorified squabbles.

On the night when the moon smiled down on me–this ordinary, fleeting Sivsly night–I am once more subject to the auspices of man’s petty desires. Beaten, humiliated, and made inferior. In a world of men and monsters, my kind will always be subject to the sidelines, belittled and crushed under the perceived supremacy of one over the other.

I laid bare on the divine comforts of a well-made mattress, carrying with me the shame and discomfort I felt from the cold air tickling every pore on my exposed body. The blankets on which I lay were the only fabrics that I felt on my sensitive skin. Leather binds and the itchy fibers of rope keep an authoritarian grip over the freedom with which I could move my limbs; every tuck from my resistive spirit met with a painful reprimand from the coarseness of the binds. Laid bare like a dead pig for the slaughter and humiliated beyond my humanity, it felt as if I was even more reduced, for I couldn’t even utter words, just simple sounds.

“Ngh...”

“Ahh...”

Just as I watched the moon look at me with its mocking smile from beyond the glass window, my eyes turned towards the beast of a man before me, his lording figure towering in between my legs. His large, manly hands, which reeked of sweat and lust, were left to their own devices as they were made to roam the sprawling hills and valleys of my hips and chest. His playful forelimbs danced around my nipples, hardened and stimulated beyond my control, before they made their move, squeezing them so hard that they hurt me more than they gave me bliss. Tears either of joy or pain–I don’t really care anymore–blurred my perspective of the man, but for some reason, it felt as if his eyes had turned my way.

Finally, I thought as my heart skipped a beat. I felt a surge of gratification that gripped my chest more than when his manhood would violently stabbed against my womb. Did he finally notice me–

Slap!

He took his big, manly hands away from my breasts and had them descend upon my left cheek. On top of the stinging pain on the skin, the slap was so forceful that it almost felt like my jaw was going to be dislocated.

“Don’t you even dare look at me, woman!”

His loud, scary, ear-piercing voice rang all around. I wanted to hide, to crawl away, to run... But he put his entire weight on my body, his hands on my chest, and his irritating binds on my limbs. I can’t run.

I felt my jaw jitter as if to rehearse its movements for when I speak. I wanted to say something, but the words never left my good-for-nothing brain, let alone my useless tongue.

But that was not my wish, nor was it my intention. I did not want to stop him and his relentless purge of every esper of dissatisfaction from the rigid yet lubricated linings of my birth canal. It was so enchanting. I turned my left cheek, completely red from the panging sting of his strong slap, towards the bedclothes, hiding it like an adolescent hides their impure tattoos from the ever perceptive–and disappointed–eyes of their parents.

Oh, my dear Ludius, I would never talk to you with such disdain. After all, you gave me this new birthmark of mine; like how you gave me that other one on my lower back, my right hip, my left shoulder blade, and so many more. I will treasure them, no matter how much they still sting to this day, for eternity.

Yes! Treat me like an animal–for I am one!

Condition me to your liking, my beloved Ludius, for I will welcome your seed with open arms and open legs!

Ah... The moon is smiling down on me. I pay no mind; I will forever be in this damned world like a pig damned to eternity in the mud pits.

I don’t care. I will not care. I am Ludius’s...

- - -

“Here.”

His exasperated yet ever-enchanting voice reached my ears, tickling them and my soul as the nightclothes he disinterestedly tossed my way reached my aching, tired, semen and sweat-splattered body.

How thoughtless and crude, I thought, but that’s exactly what piques my interest and libido with him. Just like how he pours his heart and all into toying with my body, I will give my utmost to staying by his side forever. This man is someone I will never–

“...Ilyana will be returning from her gala soon. It’s best if you scurry.”

What?¿?¿?¿?¿

My mind, my body–everything–froze.

As if to kill the mood between us, whether by intention or not is beyond me, he mentions the name of that bitch: the usurper Ilyana. Even mentioning her name in my thoughts sent chills down my body. That whore charmed my Ludius, forced him to marry her for the sake of the line of succession, and wrangled him dry day and night, the succubus! She may be the empress, but I am his one and only! I am–

“Remille. Go.”

He reiterated, unyielding in his resolve to get me out of the way. His unwavering tone made clear that he was no longer going to entertain me any longer, whether it be my charms or my cries for more time. He didn’t even look back at me.

Fine. If that was how things were going to progress tonight, then fine.

Dejected and closed like the entrance to my womb, my heart once more solidified in its attempt to nullify the pain from his words. No tears came forth from my eyes as I put on the stainless white gown he gave me. The silky fabric was soft to the touch, but it gave me neither comfort nor solace. I stood up, though my legs were weak from the insane amount of abuse he had given me tonight, both physically and emotionally.

The floor was cold, almost as hard and frigid as my heart, and I couldn’t stop myself from making my footsteps as loud as possible–probably out of spite or some childish feelings of resentment. I faced the double wooden doors, the grand entrance to his abode, and didn’t look back but neither did he for that matter. I felt neither his love nor his stare on my back. I wanted to cry, but the tears just didn’t materialize.

With one last surge of resolve to leave, I swung the doors open. Greeting me on the other side was a woman in a black and red gown, which complemented her dazzlingly red lips. The warm orange lights of the hallway exemplified the violence of the colors of her dress rather than tame them, making it seem as if the woman’s similarly violent feelings had materialized.

Innocent chestnut hair and dark eyes that make me feel as if I’m staring into the abyss... This woman was none other than the empress, Ilyana.

Heh. I still despise the woman. Despite delivering their daughter, who was heavier than normal at the time, she still managed to maintain such a stunningly slim figure. Was she just that gifted or is she actually some kind of demonic beast?

Moments passed but no interactions sparked in between us. I only realized now that her dark eyes did not reciprocate my stares, instead looking down on my plain white bedgown. Instead of violence, all I could get from her eyes were feelings of despondency and melancholy, as if she was still on the middle ground between resignation and denial.

Then, her mouth opened, and out came a devilishly sexy and mature voice, which still betrays the fact that she was nearly a decade my (and Ludius’s) junior.

“Are you finished?”

Her eyes, still looking down and refusing to look at mine, were non-confrontational. The way she asked the question made it seem as if she wasn’t curious nor was my potential answer welcome. Why ask? Was it for the sake of filling the void in between us?

In any case, her appearance of despondency and inferiority tickled my frozen heart, but not because I felt pity. If anything, the tickling was violent and it translated into something which I can only describe as some comical feeling of contempt. Yes, I thought in response to her question, but I wasn’t going to give her the respite nor the closure from my answer.

She was not getting anything from me. Not even my attention.

I turned towards the hallway and proceeded to make myself scarce, disregarding not only her futile attempt at conversation but her entire existence. I wanted her to disappear and I can, but doing so would endanger dear Ludius, so this was the best that I could do in these circumstances.

My mind was now clear; I now remember why I was doing this.

Seeing that bitch dejected and downtrodden does make me smile, but that was beside the point. She was just a single figure in the mess of hundreds and thousands of usurpers, traitors, and greedy bastards that plagued the empire’s upper echelons. I thought I was going to lose sight of it, but Ludius’s own heartlessness made sure that I’d keep sight of what mattered.

Central Calendar Year 1607 (32 years ago)

For as far back as I could remember, the empire had always been the kind of cutthroat environment a little girl like me was never supposed to have grown up in. I was indeed just a little girl and they were at least kind enough to set up a facade in which I could create fond memories I could look back on.

In hindsight, things had already been horrible from the start, but from my perspective back then, it was as good as it got. My birth mother had passed away after giving birth to me, but there was one person in the imperial family that I could call mother. Her name was Lorraine.

Having been by my side for as long as I could remember, I vividly recall her strictness, imposing her harsh tutorship on me as I grew up. I could no longer perfectly remember the things she had taught me as those had passed on to become the habits and standards I subconsciously uphold to this day, but there was one thing that she kept on telling me.

Her usual heartless image would melt away into one devoid of emotion whenever those words left her mouth.

“There are no good people in this world, Remille, only people with their own interests at heart.”

At the time, these cryptic words were mostly lost to me. At best, I’d agree with it, interpreting it that people do what they want, like when my cousins all want to hog the family pony for themselves with disregard for those who also want to ride it.

But then something happened.

When I was 5 years old, my father died. Apparently while on campaign.

Word reached me through Lorraine, and at first, I was in denial. My father was kind-hearted, often giving me an assortment of flowers and toys whenever he came back from military campaigns in the north. During the few times he was away on campaign, he would sneak into my bed when I was asleep so that I’d be greeted with his warm, loving hug when I woke up. I still remember the broad hands that wrapped over my entire head whenever he caressed them. When he went away on a campaign, he would always make sure that I’d be there to send him off.

“When I come back, let’s head to the villa at Duro: our very own castle!”

Those were his last words to me. He wanted to take me away from the hustle and bustle of Esthirant to the relative countryside near Duro, which at the time wasn’t as industrial as it is now. When I recalled his tall, black-suited back walking away from me, it was as if I was watching him carry out his own funeral procession.

I should have ran after him, stopped him, and begged him to stay.

I cried the entire week after Lorraine had told me, locking myself in my bedroom and even missing his funeral. I was left alone with my own thoughts, wondering why he died. Perhaps it was only acceptable; he was a military commander and the barbaric nations to the north were unruly and violent. But then I remembered Lorraine’s words.

There are no good people in this world, Remille, only people with their own interests at heart.

My father was brother to the heir-apparent. This meant that he was naturally a target for any bad men wanting to secure the throne. The throne was like the family pony my cousins wanted to hog, and everyone, maybe even my father, was fighting for it. To me at the time, this made sense, especially in my emotionally unstable state. It wasn’t enough for me to blame some faraway barbarian for my father’s death, so Lorraine’s words helped me pin the blame on more sinister forces: the rest of my family. After all, nothing seemed more evil than backstabbing family members.

From that point forward, I felt like I could only trust in Lorraine, for all this time she was trying to tell me that the imperial family was out for blood and that my father was in the way. It felt as if she was my only ally in an ocean of family and staff members that wanted my father gone. Naturally, if they were aiming for my father, it was only reasonable to say that they were also after me too.

The night after they buried my father, I crawled out of my room and into Lorraine’s. I still remember how tear-ridden my face had become, how my silvery hair had become disheveled. My unwelcome appearance was more than enough grounds for Lorraine to whip me with her usual disciplinary action, but I can’t help it. My father was gone. I wanted the presence of my ally. I wanted the warmth of my mother.

Scared of both her wrath and the sinister designs the family had on me, I still approached her, my desire for warmth overcoming any and all fears. Despite my distasteful appearance, she moved not from her study, nor did she raise her hand. I closed in, and before I knew it, my stubby hands wrapped around her body. The moment I felt the fabric of her dress and the warmth of her abdomen, the gates holding back my tears opened. I could recall the sincere distress and despair that hung over me as I bawled my eyes dry.

“Momma!!!”

I never met my mother, so I never got to call her anything. However, if I was going to have a mom, then it had to be Lorraine. I didn’t know what I should call my mom if I were to have one, but I instinctively cried out what felt right.

I recalled her staying silent, only caressing my head as I cried loud and hard. Even if she hadn’t said anything, I continued to hug her tightly and for that night, it felt as if I did have a mother.

Looking back, it was one of the times I genuinely felt sad. However, it was probably the last time I’d be feeling any sort of affection from anyone. That too, was probably the last time I would feel sad, for after that, there was nothing but sadness.

Central Calendar Year 1614 (25 years ago)

After that night, Lorraine returned to her usual distant and overbearing self, continuing her discipline-filled tutelage of me. She never explicitly showed the same affection as she did that night ever since, instead choosing to remain as some sort of caretaker now that father was gone.

At first, I felt dejected since I really did think that she was going to be my mother. But then her being distant slowly made sense, or at least I tried to make sense of it by telling myself that she was upholding her own wants of survival, since if she were to heavily associate herself with me, she may get targeted herself. To my benefit, she at least taught me basic self-defense, knowledge of which I held onto tightly for fear of my eventual demise from some assassins sent by the other family members.

Soon, the things that made some sense to me turned into an undeniable dogma for me. To me, it’s not that they may be out to get me, they were. I learned to steel myself and my heart around my family members during gatherings and official business in which I was involved. I put on the highest pedestal the words that Lorraine kept on repeating to me, treating them as if they were the dogma everything revolves around. People were out to fulfill their interests, and if doing so meant getting rid of someone, like what they did with my father, then they would do that by whatever means necessary.

Those cynical words resonated with my 12-year-old self, and so I acclimated to the isolationism that comes with putting walls in between me and everyone. To that end, it mattered little to none when my own peers shunned me for my wanting to be alone. It was for the better that I’d maintain distance with every single person; these were my own interests.

The only one I couldn’t bear to distance myself away from was Lorraine.

Even though she never showed any sort of affection, whether directly or indirectly, I still considered her my only ally. She had been there from the start, teaching me the things necessary to survive in such a dog-eat-dog environment, and above all, she opened my eyes to the cynical reality of the world. There were some doubts inside my heart since I also believed that her mantra also applied to her, but my own reservations for her persistently reigned supreme.

However, something would soon test this to the limits.

On one particular day, Lorraine summoned me to her room. It was nothing out of the ordinary; she always summons me to her room for mundane reasons such as notifying me of any developments or entrusting me with errands.

When I entered her room, I remember the unsure atmosphere that greeted me. The air was unnervingly heavy as if the mood had long been sour from the beginning. Lorraine was standing next to her study facing the door as if she was expecting me. Her expression was as unexplainable as usual, but there was one small, subtle feeling that seeped out of the cracks of such a facade. It irked me at the time because it was something I never expected from her, but in hindsight, I can now be confident in this conclusion. For some reason, it looked as if she was feeling regret.

As soon as I closed the door behind me, I felt the presence of another person in the room. Following my senses, I turned my head towards the bed where I found a woman clad in sanitary-looking clothing. Next to her and the bed was another bed, but smaller, crude, and had leather straps where a person’s limbs were expected to be. Upon spotting that eerie setup, my mind immediately went into overdrive, imagining scenarios and coming up with reasons as to the connection between Lorraine summoning her and the presence of the other woman.

I remember my hair standing on end when Lorraine finally opened her mouth.

“Remille, dear...”

I remember her expression back then. She looked like she was at a loss for words, a state of mind I’d never seen from the sharp and cold Lorraine. That alone was enough to even unsettle me, but I held firm to my trust in her. Little did I know then that was the wrong choice. But then, what other choice did I have?

“What is it, mot–madam?”

True to my heart, I almost slipped up on what to call her.

“I’m sure you’ll understand what I have to say, so I won’t mince words.”

I remember my heart skipping a beat at these words. Was it that hard to accept? What was it?

“Many people want you, the last of the closest relatives to the heir-apparent, dead. In a compromise made with them, I’ve had them allow you to live, but...”

What?¿?¿?¿?¿

What was I hearing? Did she just conspire with those that want me dead? But then she covered for my behalf, so now the consequences are lighter, right? Why would she do this? Lorraine? Lorraine???

I recall the anguish that swirled in my heart at what I heard. I did not want to believe it since I know Lorraine was capable of lying, but somehow it felt genuine. Her cynical words, words which I’ve come to live by, never before felt so real. Was Lorraine benefitting from this? Was this her interest all along? I couldn’t accept what I was thinking or hearing, but for some reason, I played along.

“You will have to be the last of your line.”

Saying such a devastating line with a flat, unemotional, unwavering face, she pointed towards the bed with leather restraints. I knew that this was an order and I knew what she meant. I was scared beyond doubt. I wanted to get out. I wanted to disassociate from reality. None of these were possible, but what lay ahead was beyond reasonable for me. Still, my body moved forward.

I still wonder to this day what made me move. Was it my brainwashed self denying that my mother figure had conspired with those that wanted me dead? Did I perhaps accept my fate? All I had were questions, but the gods have deemed that silence was the only mercy possible. Was I really that damned?

I voluntarily laid myself flat on the table. The wooden board on which my back lay was cold and damp. My body had resigned itself as it didn’t resist the woman restraining all of my four limbs. Whether or not Lorraine was there by my side was lost to me and so were my wishes for her to be there.

What happened afterward were sensations I could never forget.

The end of the table was split into two and pulled apart, and with my feet fastened onto each end, my legs were also opened. My dress was pulled back, revealing my bare legs and underwear. For the first time, I had felt what it was like to be violated–a sensation I’ll keep remembering up to the grave. The woman cut the fabric to my underwear, allowing me to feel the cold, unforgiving air caressing my womanhood.

I could no longer recall whether I had cried on that bed. All that remained were vague sensations of cold objects toying with my innards through my birth canal. In a single day, I was violated, had felt pleasure for the first time, and lost the ability to bear children. My dreams of a son and daughter, beautiful children that I would cherish as my father did to me... All gone.

The pain I felt was immense. I couldn’t stand up, so some servants helped me to my quarters. The blood that flowed from my nether regions was endless, but it at least was a sign to my enemies that I was no longer capable of bearing a child.

I recall sobbing in anguish and sorrow that night.

“Father... God... Anyone... Take me away from this place... Rescue me from the evils that plague this world!!! Please!!! Please...”

I had never felt so betrayed before. An ally, my mother figure was not. I cried to sleep that night, my heart carrying with it that overwhelming sense of isolation and loneliness. I could never forget all the emotions that came from then, for the repercussions of that time still haunt me to this day.

Central Calendar Year 1618 (21 years ago)

Everything since that day had been more or less the same mundane task of trying to keep myself from standing out too much. At 16, with them no longer treating me as some special kid or as a threat, I was pretty much reduced to some minor relative that no one in the imperial family wanted to be associated with. My father and mother, both were having possessed major positions in government, and the family was long gone. My de facto caretaker, Lorraine, had always been in a similar “offshoot” type of position, always left to deal with the things the family doesn’t want to bother with, like the logistics and financing of the imperial palace, which at the time was a much simpler manor on the hillside. If anything, she was treated more as a member of the caretaking staff than a fully-fledged member of the family.

Like her, I hardly left the palace on my own accord. It was a stifling house arrest type of situation. They, at the very least, didn’t allow me to perform maintenance duties or household chores, citing that it was unbecoming of a member of the imperial family. They, at the very least, recognized that I was family. But semantics never bothered me, so the lack of virtual substance to their reasoning wasn’t at all surprising. At 16, I had more or less embraced my future of inheriting Lorraine’s position to be the manager of the palace. There was little in the way of hope, for I’ve also fully embraced the words she had left me.

However, as the gods would have it, even such a measly and uninspiring future was too much for me.

It was an unassuming Seplenith (Month 9) day of the year 1618 on the Central Calendar. Word has it that a localized conflict somewhere far to the west had erupted into an intercontinental war between the Muish and Mirisihial–or Imperial–spheres. That wasn’t any of my concern, as Parpaldia had unceremoniously declared itself party to none of the belligerents, with its unsurprisingly increasing volume of trade with the nations on the Central continent begging to differ. What truly mattered to me that one autumn day was a different kind of news.

“Madam Lorraine has passed?”

“Yes, madam...”

None of my family members were kind enough to let me in on the news, for it was a servant that broke the news to me. Worse still was the fact that she had passed the other day. The last time I had ever seen Lorraine was when I saw her enter her quarters after dinner the day she passed. I remember questioning the entire event, as I couldn’t put my finger on how she died given that she still looked like a healthy and capable 50-year-old.

I no longer cared for her as I did before, having seared her conspiring with those that wanted me dead into my heart, but I could not do away with my curiosity about the circumstances surrounding her death. Before I could check further, however, I was summoned by then empress Eleanor, the matriarch of the household.

Escorted by imperial guards to her quarters on the other end of the palace, the wing I’ve traditionally refrained from venturing into since my father’s death, I found myself in the resplendent velvets of the four-walled room the emperor, and the empress call their abode. It was entirely different from the one I’d find myself in every day in the present, as emperors and empresses would customize their quarters to their liking. After fulfilling their task, the imperial guards were dismissed by a mere hand gesture from Eleanor, and soon, we were the only two left in the room.

Sitting on a cushioned bench in front of the grandiose bed that occupied the center of the room, I remember the former empress’s eerily accepting pose and figure. She always appeared like the type to be heartwarming to anyone she came across, but at that point, that disposition felt nothing more than a ruse. I felt a dark presence that emanated from deep beyond her kind eyes, and I held dear to the truths behind Lorraine’s words. There must be a self-driven reason behind her summoning of me, a low-level offshoot of the family.

“Are you well, my dear?”

I remember these words and her ultra-soft tone extremely well. I remember vividly how I internally seethed at these words. Lorraine’s passing mattered little to me at that point, so beyond the suspicious circumstances, I was not bothered, but empress Eleanor’s obviously fake words of concern were dead oblivious from miles away. It was so blatant that even a deaf man could tell it apart from genuine concern. I hated it so much. However, for the sake of my own interests, I played along.

“Fine, auntie.”

I had almost forgotten that she was my aunt, and the name that I used to call her when I was little was on the verge of being eradicated from memory.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but our dear Lorraine has passed on. I’m sorry.”

Empty words deserve empty reactions. I bent my head down, pretending to feel distraught over the news I had “just received”. Whether or not she saw through this ruse, I didn’t care. Just like she didn’t care for me at all in the first place.

“Here is her last will. She left it with us, and I think you deserve to lay your eyes on it as well.”

She extended a folded piece of paper to me, which I flatly took from her disgusting, probably bloodied hands. My eyes couldn’t help but widen in disbelief at what they were seeing when I unfolded it.

I could no longer recall what the will contained; much of it hardly mattered to me both at the time and at present. However, I remember the impressions I had when reading through it, and while her fate was the least of my concerns, I could never forget the fear I felt as I perused through the sentences she last wrote. It was as if I was reading a farewell note; a suicide letter. Since she hardly owned possessions, she mostly left personal remarks concerning her own feelings; whether genuine or not is forever lost to me. Was she coerced into this? Did she really just die, or was that even a lie? With endless rows of questions with no hope of answers, I stopped thinking entirely and took the will at face value. However, the shocker came at the end. In what appeared to be a later addition, as it was detached from the rest of the body that contained the will, she explicitly laid out what to do with me, her de facto dependent.

I remember seething in rage and confusion at the handwriting, wishing that what I had read were just handwritten errors. However, it was all too genuine–perhaps even thought out well. I remember trying to control the shaking of my hands and the tearing up of my eyes because as much as I thought there was nothing more to be done between my relationship with Lorraine after that day back in 1614, she somehow managed to even doom me from beyond the grave.

It no longer mattered whether or not she was coerced to add such an excruciatingly enraging term into her will. She was going to fuck over my life and my future. She had conspired with the evil guys to ruin my body. She was in league with those that had my father killed. She was supposed to be my mother. I hate her.

“As mentioned by the will of your de facto caretaker, which you are obliged to follow, you will have to forfeit your position in the imperial family, your relations with anyone in it, and even your name in the registry. Pack your things; as willed by her, you will be handed over to the Petunias of Esthirant establishment for your care and other necessities. I’m sorry.”

I remember not being able to stop the shaking or the tears. At the very least, I put the will between my face and Eleanor’s, so that I could at least have some semblance of privacy. I will need to cherish it, for it will be the last time I’ll feel the comforts of being able to have personal space.

Petunias of Esthirant was a prominent brothel in Esthirant’s famed red-light district. In essence, Lorraine, possibly on her own accord or forced by the rest of the imperial family, forfeited me and had me sent to a fucking brothel. Robbed of a quiet, childless future living out the days as a glorified servant in the imperial palace, everyone had conspired against me again, deciding that I was too much of a loose end to have around. Beneath all the mourning I inwardly made for the futures I will never receive, a dark kind of fury festered within the shattered recesses of my heart.

Is this really how evil the world is? Is this the extent that humans go through to further their interests? Did they really just ruin a girl’s life–past, present, and future–for the sake of their own gains?

I will never forgive these ingrates, these apes! At that point in time, I wanted to seek some sort of retribution for all the pain these desire-fulfilling monsters brought upon me. Hammering the final nail on the coffin that were my hopes were three words written on the will as Lorraine’s parting gift. Of all the betrayals and bad times she had bequeathed on me, nothing felt as agonizingly cruel as these three words she left me: “I am sorry.”

Central Calendar Year 1630 (9 years ago)

Twelve long years had passed since the imperial family effectively kicked me out of both the palace and their lives. As per Lorraine’s will, my family name was changed to one of commoner origin, and I was discreetly handed over to the headmasters at Petunias of Esthirant. I explicitly remember the downtrodden faces of the servants that escorted me, for it was the only semblance of pity and sadness someone else had felt for me. Still, too little too late for any of that. Facing this unknown with an invigorated spirit that was driven by all sorts of rage, I kept my cool and my desires for revenge even as the headmasters physically “checked” and “conditioned” me for the hospitable work environment.

As a 16 year old that was fresh in the industry and was more or less inexperienced, coupled with my dastardly devilish good looks and inability to get pregnant, saying that I was hounded by every single, horny, sweaty bachelor that visited the establishment falls short of even being an understatement. A huge chunk wasn’t even bachelors as married men from their 30s to their 60s frequented my alley. I was aware of the undignified deeds going on in the red light district, but this was simply another extreme end of the words Lorraine had instilled into my head long ago.

“There are no good people in this world, Remille, only people with their own interests at heart.”

Their hearts carried nothing but lust, fulfilling their self-interests through countless variations of pleasuring themselves on me. In all that time, I learned to bury my heart even deeper into the recesses of my soul, turning myself more and more into a living sex toy. Since the rest of the girls also kept their distance from me due to petty reasons like the envy of getting paid more and having better looks, I found some semblance of comfort in the fact that people willingly left me alone when I wasn’t working.

Returning back to my 28-year-old self, a woman whose good looks were the only thing that’s left of what she once was, I had long forfeited any hope of even getting my revenge. At that point, Lorraine was nothing more than a mish-mash of bones six feet under; empress Eleanor had met her end from an injury she suffered when she fell off a chair (heh, good for her) two years ago, the reigning emperor was on his deathbed, and the rest of the old guard in the family, which were likely the ones that plotted me and my father’s demise, was also in the twilight of their years. The headmasters of the brothel were also not keen on letting a profitable “petunia” like me go and I had no allies outside, so there was simply no way out. At that point, I had long resigned myself to the hand the gods had dealt me.

“Your three-fifty paso bills, sweetheart.”

“...”

At the very least, there was this one customer that frequently singled me out. A bachelor that appeared to be around my age, he was mostly unassuming and had this somewhat timid flair to him. At first, he was unsure of what to do with me–skeptical even–despite having paid good money to spend the hour with me. I assumed nothing of it initially, following protocol to lure him in and ensure he gets a good time. Every time he returned, he would gradually build more confidence, and by the 7th time, he managed to pin me down, although sloppily. What always struck me as odd with him was how he consistently paid an extra 150 pasos. Customers, especially regulars, never paid extra due to the already exorbitant fees necessary to spend time with me. This man, however, was suspiciously consistent. Perhaps he was some rich boy.

Since it became uncomfortable and suspicious for me, I did try to refuse the tip one time, but he insisted with alarming assertiveness, almost as if he hadn’t been timid in the first place. Then, I got curious about his background. The establishment values the anonymity of its clients, so they’re encouraged to register themselves under fake names. Even when I resorted to hearsay and rumors, none of the other girls that were within my capacity to talk to recognized the man. With no other satisfying options, I opted to confront the man in spite of regulations forbidding clients and girls from getting overfamiliar, which apparently included introducing themselves via real names (I worked under the fake name Clarisse).

One night, he came back again. Like always, he paid for my time and entered my room the same way he always does. Suspicious of even this irregular consistent behavior, I kept my guard up. As soon as he sat down on the soft bed, I pounced on him, pinning his body onto the mattress with my arms, backed with the weight of my entire person. I looked directly into his still unassuming eyes, wholly aware that it was just another facade.

“Tell me your name. If you don’t cooperate, I will have your life ruined. I have already called out eight men, all in high positions in government and in businesses.”

I have laid out what cards I can play that should get him to cooperate while trying to prudently hold back other cards that could be of use but are currently unnecessary. I remember assuming that I had the upper hand in the situation and that he would be acquiescing to my demands not long after. But then, I caught a glimpse of a spark from beyond the darkness in his eyes. It was only for a moment, but it was enough to tell me that there was something more to this man.

Then, before I could even process the moment, he broke out of my pinning action, grabbed my arms, and reversed our places. In less than a second, I was now the one on the bed with their arms and body pinned. At first, I tried to struggle, but my attention was captured–and then held–by sheer blankness in the eyes that stared at me. Considering that I was now in a disadvantageous position and that he failed to uphold my demands, I should have played my cards and screamed. However, neither my mouth nor my lungs moved. His sharp, red eyes captivated my attention, so much so that I couldn’t even find the will to move.

Then, the man grinned before he spoke.

“Found you.”

I remember the confusion from this seemingly misplaced sense of familiarity. I don’t remember meeting the man before at any point in my life. It was this confusion that further paralyzed me from acting to retrieve the advantageous position. As if to capitalize on this, he continued.

“Fufu. Our lives have not done wonders for both of us, huh? Humor me on this one: we buried Boots beneath the old tree near the south fence.”

Just as I was beginning to find his tone and manner of speech familiar, he went on to drop a bomb right onto the grave where my heart was buried. Deep within the recesses of my soul, beneath all the layers of lies and facades that I’ve propped up over the years, were the memories of my childhood. Even after my father died, despite the most mundane days since, I did enjoy some semblance of youth together with some of my generations in the imperial family. One of these treasured memories was the time I spent with a kitten named Boots, which came from its discolored feet that made it look as if it was wearing boots.

I found her abandoned in one of the workshops near the sprawling gardens behind the palace. For a week, I cared for her in secret, but I was later found out by one of my cousins, who was the son of the then heir-apparent, who was now the reigning emperor. Together, we secretly cared for Boots, forging a three-way relationship. One day, however, when we went back to her, we found her lifeless in the mouth of a garden snake that had just killed her. My cousin managed to gallantly hack the snake to death using one of the hammers in the workshop, but Boots was gone. It was the tragic end to one of my only good memories. We secretly buried her body at the foot of the trunks of an old, massive tree at the southern fence to the palace.

While there was little tying us together ever since then, I nevertheless continued to consider my cousin as a playmate, someone with whom I spent one of the happiest weeks in my life. Our irreconcilable destinies forced us apart during the turbulent years of my adolescence as he took on the role of heir-apparent when his father became emperor as I was reduced to recesses of the family tree. Having unearthed something so heavy and so emotional to me, I couldn’t help but shed a tear on that bed as I fumbled on trying to say his name.

“L-L-Ludius...?!”

Being wrecked with so many conflicting emotions was truly a bewitching matter. On the one hand, I was happy to see him so grown up, but I was also skeptical of him having rented me out more than a dozen times. We were direct cousins and the thought of having sex with him all these months sickened me to the core. I was also distraught by my vulnerable past, having been excavated from beneath all the facades I’d rather hide behind; I felt even more naked than I currently was. I was not in the best state of mind at that time, and in hindsight, I think this was the beginning of his stranglehold on me.

What I once thought was a sliver of hope for another shot at a better future would turn out to be something more sinister. At the time, I never knew. There was simply no way I could have known. What I only knew then was that a friend was there in front of me in spite of the horrible circumstances.

“I’ve been looking for you, Remille.”

Even today, I have trouble with this particular memory, primarily because of the unforgettable chills that ran down my spine when his manly voice called out my name. In short, I, the witch, was bewitched by the sorcerer. The spells he would cast on me, whether figurative or real, would stay with me for as long as I live. That is because the future that damned, charming voice sent me careening towards would eventually doom me to an irreconcilable fate.

Terribly unaware of this at the time, I let my emotions get the better of me. I broke from his grip and embraced him. What an idiot I was.