The men from the brothel don't return Ivory's heirloom. Instead, they give her pain. Bruises. Cuts against her body and welts that have permanently scarred her with the memory of hurting, until it is all she can think of.

Until she dares not attempt escaping again.

When night finally ebbs into faint daylight, they throw her out, onto the streets as she had feared, with nothing but a shirt and a pair of cheap, deteriorating underwear to keep her warm.

Ivory shivers. Warm puffs of breaths escape her lips and turn into faint circles of fog that disappear into the darkness, as the men do. Despite her situation, she considers herself lucky. Unlike the other women who were thrown out, Ivory was not wrecked from within. Too skinny, they had said. Disgusting, they'd scoffed, before they gave up entirely and stuck to a violence that left marks instead. For once, Ivory is thankful. For once, she does not envy the ones who walk Aglia's paths looking healthy, plump, more than skin, more than bones.

But surviving won't be an easy feat.

An ache that travels across her entire being remains and refuses to fade. Many doors surround her, though none welcome knocks. The guards are off-limits, too, for Ivory is not officially registered as belonging to their people. She is half a citizen, half a stranger. They would deem the dungeons the best fit for someone like her. And she cannot go there. She cannot. No more prisons. No more steel bars—whether they be visible or not—she will not be caged yet again.

Ivory thinks of the last place anyone would go for refuge in winter.

The shore.

She scrambles to her feet, then immediately falls. She did not think her knees could bleed any more than they do; her skin proves her wrong. Left with no other choice, Ivory crawls, even if it leaves traces of red across the pavement. Even if it stings.

The city's illuminations blink around her like the beats of a dying heart. Her lungs are about to give out. Regardless, Ivory pushes on.

It feels like an eternity has passed once the city is finally behind her.

When Ivory reaches the sands, she topples onto the beach and shuts her eyes. She doesn't know what will happen in an hour, however, she has managed to escape those men, and that is all that matters for now.

The sounds of nearby waves hush her to sleep. She prays to God in hopes that tomorrow—if it comes—will be a favorable day. And then, it is dark. And claws the size an unforgiving blade lurch forth from the shadows to strike out at her face.

Ivory wheezes. She winces as she tries to escape the beast, but there is no way out. It traps her, until she can move no more.

She blinks.

The beach is empty again. Her skin burns. A cut is sliced across her cheek. The edges of her vision are ruined, a complete blur. Something is singing, though it is far, and Ivory cannot tell whether the voice belongs to a human or an animal.

She does not try to run. It does not scare her, not now, when she is facing death.

The salt in the ocean's waves latches onto her wounds. It stings. Despite the water's cool temperature being a much welcome relief, Ivory flinches back at the sharp bite of pain it drags across her skin.

She blinks again. Something is off. Ivory wonders if her feverish haze has caused her mind to hallucinate. Risen before her, is a man. His light cobalt skin is covered with intricate markings of a darker shade. On his hands are scales that reflect the light of dusk. His face, as beautiful as it is, is half hidden by a curtain of strands black as coal. Yet, the most riveting feature about the stranger is what lies beneath his waist. A tail. He has a tail! Ivory realizes, as her eyes meet his gaze, whose colors seem to change with the rise and fall of the tides. He is striking, handsome. He takes her wrist that is bruised, worn by life. And he says, "You bleed, let me see." She obeys.

It is cold. However, soon after comes warmth—warmth, without sour burns. Between them materializes a peculiar, faint, silver glow. The man drags his hand away from her skin. No trace of the violence that had been done to her remains.

Ivory gasps. She is too stunned to utter a single word. Even the scar she had gotten from picking up glass as a child is gone.

"You are ill," the man's voice is quiet, cool, as if he hadn't just performed a miracle. His fingers linger atop one of her veins. She wonders if he is listening to her pulse. Her heart. "If you do not take action, you will perish soon."

"I—" Ivory bites her lip. She lowers her gaze, for she does not want this man to see the tears that have gathered in her eyes. "I know," she mutters, unable to keep her palms from curling into fists. "I know that I am wounded. But it will heal, in time." If she is spared from the curse of infections.

The man shakes his head. "No. I am not talking about this." He reaches for the curve of her breast. For the first time, Ivory tastes fear against her tongue. Yet, his hand comes to rest at a lower point, around the shape of Ivory's ribcage, as he says, "Here. Inside, it is no good. There is disease. It will be your end."

Her throat tightens. Ivory is not sure if her heart has stopped, or if it is merely an impression. "Is there a cure?" she asks, instead of asking him, How do you know? for it is clear to her that this man has unlocked the key to secrets she may never have access to in this lifetime.

The man nods. It serves as a remedy to her nerves. "I can stop it," he says.

But will he? "But will you?" She clings to his hand. He does not seem bothered. "In exchange, what must I—"

"Nothing." It doesn't seem like he jests. "This conversation is enough. But... we will have to be quick. I am not meant to be here." Ivory grows silent. "Come," the man whispers, as he beckons her closer with a curled motion of his finger. The sudden rumble of his voice makes her flinch. "I will dissolve what has caused you much pain."

Their lips meet. Ivory did not believe a kiss involving one's tongue between another's teeth could be anything other than romantic—yet, this is so much more than any embrace could ever be.

Something leaves her throat. It is not tangible. It is like energy, her strength. And the more she relaxes against his grasp, the more he breathes the life back into her lungs that had been aching for years without end.

When they pull away, the silver glimmer returns. It covers them both this time, in a peculiar veil, and every sore—every tender place which had troubled Ivory—dissipates alongside particles of light that rise, and flee into the night sky like a flurry of fireflies.

"Who are you?" Ivory's eyes are lidded. She cannot help the question that slips past her lips that have been loved in ways she is sure they will never be again.

"This," he traps her hand between his own, "I cannot tell you."

Her palm grows rich with light once more. Except now, the glimmer is not the color of a polished coin, but of teal, the ocean and his eyes. "Sleep," he says; and Ivory sleeps.

The man's presence leaves her. She thinks she hears another voice, someone chasing after him and shouting, "My prince! Your sister has been looking everywhere for you, where have you been!"

My prince? Ivory sighs as slumber drags her down into the darkness of a dream.

So, he is royalty, then?