Erena Pov
As Erena reached her chamber room at the top of the short stairs, she noticed that the brothel had nearly gone silent.
Not completely quiet.
Usually you could hear the constant shagging and noises of staff and customers at places like these, but now it was nearly dead silent.
As a new day drew nearer, the night’s chaos dissipated.
The corridors were nearly completely shrouded in darkness; a woman, one of her older servants, doused a few of the lamps.
But the deal for the night was sealed; all business of the day was finished.
The mirth had ceased many hours earlier.
The music had ceased, and a heavy aroma of perspiration, cheap perfume, and alcohol permeated the halls.
On the lower level, the common area resembled an after-feast hall, with its strewn cups, deserted chairs, sofas, and tables caked with sticky wine.
It was either the men’s choice to sleep where they fell or they were transported there for extra compensation.
Erena had once mockingly called it dusk because the women who worked for her led such untraditional lives.
The morning was a time for fishers and farmers.
For the merchants and rulers, early noon was theirs.
Night, however, belonged to her whorehouse and the women who worked there.
At that moment, the grins faded, the painted faces were cleaned, and the falsehoods of the night were folded and set aside until they were required again.
She had sipped just enough watered-down wine throughout the evening to dull the edges of her weariness, but it was enough to make her head throb.
She had been up all night greeting customers, mediating conflicts, counting silver, gold, and copper coins and hands.
Counting money was a task she never tired of, no matter how many hundreds of times she had done it.
In this place, money meant everything; it also meant the possibility of getting new, better-built shutters to stop the cold air from blowing in through the gaps.
She could recount the number of times she had refurbished this place, yet there was always something else that needed attention.
No matter how much fabric she jammed into the crevices, the cold draft still came through the damaged window shutters and into her room at the end of the third-floor hallway, where the roof dipped low.
Not a palatial mansion, but it was hers, the finest room in the house.
That was enough to make it valuable.
A modest shrine that she could not bear to part with, a narrow bed, a washstand, a trunk with two locks, a mirror made of polished copper plate, and so on. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Imported vases and jewelry from the east.
A small jade dragon and, on her mahogany vanity, a silver chalice.
and many more fine things.
Sometimes, Erena fantasized about escaping from this place.
Very seldom.
She lacked the imagination for wild dreams.
However, on small occasions she would allow herself to fantasize about a vast manor with a garden and all the expensive furnishings she could ever want, only somewhere further south away from the cold and draft.
Perhaps in the Reach or Westerlands.
A tranquil haven devoid of cacophony and fucking, where one’s aspirations remained merely that—aspirations—until they were materialized.
She reasoned that, with the substantial wealth she had amassed over the years and the promise of even more, manifesting such a dream couldn’t be so unreasonable.
However, she knew that she needed to put such thoughts to rest for the night lest she bar herself from getting the much-needed rest she needed.
As she lit lamps and undressed to take a small bath, she saw something in the corner of her eye.
An unfamiliar shadow flickered just at the darker edge of her chamber near her wardrobe, sending a chill down her spine.
Her curiosity aroused, she hesitated for a second, the warmth of the bath momentarily forgotten as she edged closer, straining to see into the dark, encrusted area, her heart pounding with a mix of apprehension and intrigue.
She paused and moved to light another candle, but then she heard a shuffle, a sound reminiscent of clothing rustling as a person shifted.
“Who’s there?” She called.
But there was no response.
For a brief moment, she felt a faint scratching sensation around her throat, but within seconds, the feeling intensified.
It felt as if an unseen hand were tightening around her neck.
She grabbed at her throat, desperately trying to pry away the invisible hand, but the grip only tightened.
Her eyes widened further as terror consumed her heart and mind.
‘What is happening?!’ She thought, wishing the words could escape her lips.
They didn’t.
She choked, gurgling heavily as she struggled to call for help, but the sound was trapped in her throat.
It was at that moment that she caught sight of it.
In that moment, she realized what was happening; it was an assassin.
This was no coincidence or trick of the mind; this assassin or warlock, whatever it was, was intent on killing her.
She attempted to reach for the door, but her body felt frozen.
Through some unseen force, she was hoisted two feet in the air with the same ungodly powers he was using to choke her, revealing his face to her.
A sinister sense of dread overshadowed her surprise—it was a demon, a boy demon.
He appeared as pale as snow, his features smooth, yet his pupils burned like sulfur.
A look of subtle pleasure was plastered across his face as he reveled in her torment, and she was powerless to stop it.
“Please… mer…” she attempted to call out.
But as she attempted to plead, the pain only grew more intense.
Her eyes became bloodshot, welling with tears that never fell.
“There is no mercy,” it spoke, and she felt her consciousness slipping away as darkness began to take hold.
In that moment, a flicker of defiance ignited within her, urging her to push back against the encroaching void.
She clung to the last remnants of her strength, resolute in her determination to fight against the shadows that threatened to consume her entirely.
With every ounce of willpower, she summoned memories of strength and her past near-death challenges, images that reminded her of what she had endured and the resilience she possessed.
Those fragments of hope became her armor, shielding her from despair as she whispered a silent vow to emerge from this battle unbroken.
But alas, that did not happen.
She remained immobile, levitating above the floor, and before she could comprehend what was happening, she suddenly fell dead, her arms dropping limply to her sides.
Her heart ceased to beat, and Palpatine sensed her life slipping away entirely.
Her eyes were red, bloodshot, and wide open, frozen in a look of horror.
With a slow, deliberate gesture of his hand, Palpatine lowered her gently onto the wooden floor.
It was done; the woman was dead.
There were no marks on her body and no signs of struggle, but her face was twisted in a look of horror.
Using the Force, he gently closed her eyelids and shut her mouth, which had been left agape.
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