Lyssandra

Lyssandra fixed her reflection in the cracked bronze mirror, tilting her head just so as she pinned a stray curl behind her ear. The candlelight softened the fine lines at the edges of her eyes, but she saw them anyway. Every woman in this place saw them eventually.

The Velvet Quill l smelled faintly of rosewater and wine, undercut by something darker — perfume masking desperation, like lace over scars. The others downstairs laughed, drank, teased their clients, but Lyssandra lingered here a moment longer, steadying herself.

Tonight was another night. Another smile, another whispered promise she didn’t mean.

She glanced at the small wooden box by her bed. Inside: a lock of her son’s hair, tied with thread. And a folded scrap of parchment covered in numbers — debts, balances, dates. The ink bled where her fingers had traced it too many times.

She’d long since stopped believing in rescues.

Once, she’d fallen for a man with noble blood and warm hands who told her she was beautiful and clever, that she deserved more than this city. He left her with words sweet as honey and a child she swore to love fiercely, no matter the cost.

That was years ago.

Now she was practical. Professional. No more falling for clients, no more blurred lines between survival and hope. It was work.

Still, sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she dreamed of the hills.

Before Mount Hotenow erupted, before Neverwinter burned, she’d lived there with her parents, in a village near the foothills — the same town where Julco grew up. Back then, the air smelled of wild thyme and river stones, and she believed the world was small and safe.

The eruption took her parents, her home, her childhood — everything but her life.

She hadn’t chosen this life, not really. As an orphan in the wreckage of Neverwinter, there weren’t many choices. Ending up at the Velvet Quill wasn’t the worst of them.

Sometimes, when the curtains swayed and laughter drifted through the halls, she imagined taking her son’s hand and walking away from all of it — leaving the Quill, leaving the city, maybe finding a cottage in the hills where the air still smelled of thyme.

But dreams didn’t pay debts.

Lyssandra took a deep breath, painted her lips, and fastened the emerald clasp at her throat.

Downstairs, music swelled and a client called her name.

Another night. Another smile. Another step on the worn path she could no longer see the end of.

But this client was different. He wasn't there for her body... He wanted something else from her. And offered a lot in exchange. That offer could change her life. Once again she believed in a man, and an offer that was too good to be true.