Fortuna

The silk felt like shackles against Fortuna's skin. She stood before the framed mirror in the Gilded Rose's preparation room, watching painted hands—her hands—adjust the bodice that pushed her breasts into a shape designed for other people's pleasure. The rouge on her cheeks couldn't mask the pallor of fear, and the kohl around her eyes made them look enormous, vulnerable.

Sixteen years old. The thought tasted like ashes.

"Such lovely features," Madame Amélie had purred, tilting Fortuna's chin towards the lamplight. "That silver streak makes you distinctive. Memorable. The gentlemen will appreciate such... exotic flavouring."

Fortuna's fingers found the streak now—that ribbon running through her raven hair where a patron's fist had struck when she was fourteen, serving drinks in the front room. She'd refused his advances and paid the price. The mark had never faded, a permanent reminder that defiance carried consequences.

But she was no longer twelve.

The door opened without ceremony. Madame Amélie swept in, gesturing impatiently. "Your client is waiting, girl. Aldridge is... particular. And remember—he's paid well for your company. Make him happy."

Fortuna nodded, not trusting her voice. She shifted her weight, feeling the knife hidden in her boot—a blade she'd carried for protection since her first night here.

Insurance, she'd told herself.

The corridor stretched ahead like a tunnel. Gas lamps flickered against burgundy wallpaper, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mock her silk-swathed figure. Behind closed doors, she could hear the sounds of commerce—muffled voices, creaking bedframes, the occasional cry that might have been pleasure or pain.

Room Seven. The brass numbers gleaming in accusation.

She knocked once and entered.

Aldrich stood with his back to her, studying the room's window overlooking Port Haven's harbour. He was a soft man with pale hands and thinning hair, the sort who wore his wealth like armour. When he turned, his eyes moved over her body with the assessment of someone appraising livestock.

"Close the door," he commanded.

The latch clicked with finality. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. Fortuna forced herself to breathe steadily, to project the demure availability Madame had drilled into her. But her pulse hammered against her throat.

"Come here." Casual authority weighted his voice.

She moved towards him, silk whispering against her legs. The knife pressed against her ankle bone with each step—a small pressure that somehow made her feel less helpless.

Fifteen years, she remembered. The contract my parents had signed when I was eight, selling me labour to pay their debts. Fifteen years of scrubbing floors until my knees bled, of dodging hands and enduring blows, of being owned like livestock.

Seven years left until she would be free.

But as Aldrich's soft hands reached for her waist, freedom felt impossibly distant.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, pulling her closer. His breath smelled of wine and entitlement. His fingers traced the silver streak with proprietary interest. Fortuna fought the urge to flinch away, remembering Madame’s warnings. Make him happy. Keep him satisfied.

But when his hands moved lower, when they began gathering the silk of her dress, something cold and distant settled over her thoughts. This was wrong. Not wrong in the abstract way that all of this was wrong, but specifically, viscerally wrong. She was not livestock. She was not property.

I am a person.

"Wait," she said quietly.

Aldrich's hands stilled. His eyes narrowed with irritation. "Wait?"

"I... I need a moment." Her voice came out smaller than she'd intended.

His expression darkened. "You need a moment? Girl, I've paid good silver for this evening. More than you're worth, likely." His grip on her waist tightened. "You don't get to make me wait."

When she tried to step back, his hands clamped down. The veneer of civilised transaction fell away, revealing the ugly truth underneath.

"Please—"

His palm cracked across her cheek.

The sound echoed in the small room like a gunshot. Her head rang from the impact. Pain exploded across her face, bright and immediate. She tasted blood where her teeth had cut her lip.

But it was the casual cruelty in his eyes that broke her. The satisfied smirk. The way he flexed his fingers as if already anticipating the next blow.

"Don't you dare tell me to wait," he snarled, grabbing her by the hair—his thumb pressing directly onto the silver streak. "I paid for you, girl. You belong to me tonight."

You belong to me.

The words pressed into her. Eight years of scrubbing floors until her knees bled. Eight years of dodging hands and swallowing humiliation. Eight years of being owned.

No longer.

The rage came deep and primal, a white-hot fury that burned away thought. Her hand moved before her mind could catch up, fingers scrabbling at her boot, finding the knife's worn handle.

The blade caught the leather sheath. She yanked it clumsily, nearly dropping it. Aldrich saw the steel and tried to grab her wrist, but she twisted away, the knife coming up wild and desperate.

The first swing missed, scraping along his forearm. He roared forward. She swung again, this time catching him in the shoulder. The blade went in wrong, sending a sickening vibration up her arm.

Aldrich screamed—a high, keening sound that filled the small room. His hands closed around her throat, crushing the life from her. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision. In desperation, she wrenched the knife out and slashed once more, feeling it slice into the side of his neck, tearing through flesh and windpipe.

His grip loosened. Blood poured from his mouth, splashing hot across her face and neck. She stumbled backward, gasping, the knife still clutched in her shaking hand.

He wheezed, collapsing against the wall, both hands pressed to the wound in his neck. Blood seeped between his fingers, pooling on the Pārssian carpet.

Fortuna stared at him in horror. At the blood. At the knife in her hand.

What have I done?

Aldrich's breathing grew ragged. His face had gone grey, eyes wide with shock and pain. He tried to speak again, but only blood came out, thick and dark. The smell hit her—iron and bile.

Her stomach lurched. She pressed her free hand to her mouth, fighting the urge to vomit. The knife fell from nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor.

He died slowly, drowning in his own blood, eyes fixed on her face with profound disbelief—as if he couldn't comprehend that the thing he'd bought and paid for had turned into something capable of destroying him.

When it was over, the silence was deafening.

Fortuna stood frozen, chest heaving, covered in blood. Her hands trembled uncontrollably. A high, animal sound escaped her throat—shock, she realised dimly. She was going into shock.

Move. The thought came from somewhere outside herself, practical and cold. They'll come looking. Move!

She bent to retrieve the knife, her hands shaking so badly she dropped it twice. She tried to wipe it clean on the dead man's shirt—not looking at his face, at the way his eyes had gone glassy and fixed—it wouldn't clean for all the blood.

Her reflection in the window showed a stranger. It wasn't the wild eyes or the blood that made her unrecognisable. It was the mouth, pulled back from her teeth in a snarl she didn't remember making. A predator's snarl. That mouth was not hers.

From downstairs came the sounds of the Gilded Rose's evening trade. Music and laughter and the clink of coins changing hands. Normal sounds. As if the world hadn't just shifted on its axis. As if a man hadn't just died screaming in Room Seven.

Soon, someone would check on them. Soon, they would find what remained of Aldrich.

Move.

Fortuna moved to the window. Two storeys down, Port Haven's narrow streets twisted between warehouses and taverns towards the harbour. Gas lamps created pools of sickly yellow light between patches of shadow deep enough to hide a running girl.

She gathered her skirts and swung one leg over the windowsill. The drop was dangerous but not impossible. The alternative was Madame’s justice, which would be neither quick nor merciful.

She jumped.

The landing drove the breath from her lungs and sent spikes of pain up her legs, but her bones held true. She rolled to her feet in the alley behind the Gilded Rose, silk dress already stained with mud and filth. Above her, Room Seven's window glowed red.

She ran.

The first hundred yards were pure panic—feet slapping against wet cobblestones, lungs burning, the taste of blood still sharp on her tongue. The silk dress tangled around her legs with every stride. She gathered great handfuls of fabric, hiking the skirts up past her knees, not caring who might see.

Her slippers split After the first street. Sharp stones bit into her feet through the thin soles. Each step sent spikes of pain up her legs, but she couldn't stop. Behind her, the Gilded Rose erupted into chaos.

"FORTUNA! FORTUNA, YOU MURDERING BITCH!"

Madame's voice shattered the night like breaking glass. The sound sent ice through Fortuna's veins. She'd heard that tone once before, when another girl had tried to run. They'd brought her back in pieces.

She ducked into an alley, pressing against damp brick walls. Her breath came in sharp gasps that seemed impossibly loud. The blood-soaked silk made her stand out like a beacon—she needed different clothes, but where could she—

A bundle of rags shifted near a pile of refuse. A beggar, she realised. An old woman wrapped in layers of tattered wool, clutching a bottle to her chest. Drunk or sleeping, it didn't matter.

Fortuna's stomach clenched. She'd never stolen anything in her life. But the blood on her dress would mark her for the gallows. She drew the knife with trembling hands, hating herself even as she did it.

The woman stirred as Fortuna approached, one rheumy eye opening. "What d'you want, girlie?"

"Your clothes," Fortuna whispered, the blade catching what little moonlight penetrated the alley. "Please. I don't want to hurt you."

The old woman's gaze sharpened, taking in the blood, the wild desperation in Fortuna's eyes, the way her hands shook. Her expression shifted—not fear, but a weary recognition. "In trouble, are we?"

"Yes."

"Bad trouble?"

"The worst."

The beggar woman sat up slowly, joints creaking. "Aye, I can see that." She began peeling off layers—a ragged woollen coat, hemp trousers that reeked of fish and liquor. "Take them. But leave me something in return, girl. These streets'll freeze old bones like mine."

Fortuna stripped off the silk dress, her skin crawling with self-loathing. Here she was, knife in hand, robbing someone even more helpless than she'd been an hour ago. The fine fabric felt obscene against her skin—bought with blood, traded for more suffering.

She handed the dress over, watching the woman's eyes widen at the quality of the material, the dark stains that might wash out with enough scrubbing.

"Blood washes out," the old woman said quietly. "Silk like this..." She looked up at Fortuna with something that might have been sympathy. "Run fast, girl."

The clothes hung loose on Fortuna's frame, but they covered the blood on her skin. She drew her hood over her silver-streaked hair, hiding its distinctive mark beneath the coat's collar.

Better. Not perfect, but better.

Replacing her blade in its sheath, she fled deeper into the port district, where honest folk feared to walk after dark. Here, between effluvial warehouses, she might find anonymity amongst the desperate and the damned. But even amongst the wretched, pursuit followed. Voices echoed between the warehouses, searchers spreading through the streets like a plague.

She moved through the shadows like a wounded animal, every sound making her freeze—the crash of bottles from a tavern, the cry of gulls disturbed from their roost, the splash of something large hitting the harbour water. Her feet left bloody prints on the cobblestones, a trail anyone could follow. She tried wiping them on discarded sailcloth, kicking sand over the stains, but the cuts kept opening, kept bleeding.

The harbour district grew rougher with each block—broken windows, collapsed roofs, alleys with a miasma of things best left unnamed. Here, the desperate made their homes in doorways and abandoned buildings, but even they seemed to sense something wrong about the girl in stolen rags, hurrying through the streets with wild eyes.

She needed to reach the water. Ships meant escape, meant distance between her and Room Seven. But as she stumbled towards the harbour, exhaustion began to claw at her legs. The adrenaline that had carried her this far was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and a sick, hollow feeling in her stomach.

What have I done?

The thought kept circling back, no matter how hard she tried to push it away. The feel of the knife going in. The sound Aldrich made when the blade twisted. The way his eyes had gone wide and empty and still.

She was a killer now. Whatever else comes, that would always be true.

The harbour stretched before her, masts rising against the star-scattered sky. Ships rocked at anchor, most dark and silent. She picked her way between coils of rope and stacks of barrels, seeking something that might take her far from Port Haven.

Crimson Tide flew colours she didn't recognise, but the ship had the lean lines of a vessel built for speed. A brigantine, perhaps. The kind of ship that didn't ask too many questions about its passengers.

But the gangplank was guarded. A man in a tricorn hat leaned against the rail, smoking a cigar, his eyes scanning the docks. A cutlass hung at his hip, and his demeanor bore the intent of someone who knew how to use it.

Fortuna crouched behind a rain barrel, mind racing. She couldn't approach openly—he'd take one look at her and raise the alarm. But she had to get aboard. Had to get away before—

"Oi! What's that over there?"

Another voice, coming from her left. Footsteps on wooden planking. She risked a glance and saw lantern light bobbing between the warehouses. Searchers. They were checking the docks.

Panic clawed at her throat. She was trapped between the ship and the approaching lights, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Her hand found the knife at her boot, fingers closing around the handle.

Would I have to kill again? Could I? The thought made her stomach lurch.

In desperation, she grabbed a loose stone from the dock and hurled it towards a pile of empty crates fifty yards away. The crash echoed across the water like thunder. The guard on the Crimson Tide straightened, peering into the darkness.

"What was that?" he called out.

"Probably rats," came the reply. But the lantern light was moving towards the sound, away from her position.

Fortuna didn't hesitate. She sprinted for the gangplank, bare feet silent on the wooden planks. The guard had moved to the far side of the ship, still staring into the shadows where the stone had landed. She slipped past him like smoke, ducking behind the mainmast.

The deck stretched before her. She slipped towards the bow, seeking some corner where she might hide until morning. Her heart was hammering so loudly that she was certain the entire crew must have heard it.

The rope locker was cramped and smelled of tar, but it was dark and hidden. She curled into the smallest space possible, knees drawn to her chest, the bloody knife clutched in white-knuckled hands.

The adrenaline that had carried her through the streets was gone now, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and waves of nausea that made her stomach lurch with each gentle rock of the ship. Her feet were raw meat, every heartbeat sending fresh spikes of agony up her legs.

In the suffocating darkness, with nothing to distract her, the full horror came crashing down.

She had killed a man.

The smell of tar coated her throat, but underneath it, she could still smell blood.

She closed her eyes, but that only made it worse. All she could see was Aldrich's face—the way his eyes had gone wide with shock, then clouded with pain, then fixed and empty.

What have I done?

The ship rocked again, and her stomach rebelled. She pressed her free hand to her mouth, swallowing back bile that tasted of copper and shame.

The knife felt alien in her grip, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. But it was hers. The blood on it was hers to carry. The weight of what she'd done settled on her chest like a stone, making each breath a conscious effort.

She could hear voices above—crew members moving about their business, normal people living normal lives. If they found her, what would they see?

She looked down at her hands again, at the knife they held, and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold harbour air. The most terrifying thing in this rope locker wasn't the darkness or the unknown future stretching before her.

It was her.

Above, footsteps thundered across the deck. Shouts erupted—harsh, commanding voices that made her blood freeze.

"Search every inch of this ship! Someone's aboard!"

The rope locker's door crashed open. Lantern light blazed into her hiding place, blinding after the darkness. Rough hands seized her arms, hauling her out into the open air.

She found herself surrounded by weathered faces and drawn cutlasses.

The one holding the lantern stepped closer, studying her with calculating eyes. He took in the mismatched clothes, the blood on her skin, the way she clutched the knife even with steel pointed at her throat.

"Well, well," he said, his voice carrying the authority of command. "Who are you?"

Fortuna stared up at him, trembling, unable to find her voice.

Who are you?

She didn't know. She truly didn't know.

The captain's blade touched her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I said, who are you?"