Hollow Victory

The days had bled into weeks, each one a grueling test of endurance and willpower. The training was relentless, designed to break him down and reshape him into something unrecognizable.

But Elian, despite the degrading nature of it all, found a way to endure. He learned to compartmentalize his pain, to push through the humiliation, and to focus solely on survival.

The lessons were brutal. He was taught how to please customers with a detached professionalism, to pour wine with elegance, to dance with the kind of grace that could mesmerize even the most hardened hearts, and to flirt just enough to entice without fully engaging.

It was all a performance, a carefully crafted illusion to ensure that he would be the perfect courtesan. And Elian, driven by a fierce will to live, excelled in every aspect.

The final test came and went, a whirlwind of rehearsed movements and forced smiles. When it was over, his instructors, those who had tormented and belittled him, looked at him with something that resembled respect.

He had passed with flying colors, a model student in a system designed to dehumanize.

"Good," one of the instructors finally said, his voice gruff. "Very good."

Another nodded, her lips curling into a small, satisfied smile. "He's ready."

The praise felt like a mockery. Elian knew that succeeding in his training meant only one thing: he was now fully prepared to serve as a courtesan.

His nights would no longer be his own, his body no longer his to control. But even as the realization hit him, he forced himself to remain calm, to keep his emotions in check. He had learned the hard way that showing weakness was a mistake in this place.

"Take him to the dressing room," one of the instructors ordered. "Madam Lula will want to see him before he's put to work."

Two attendants appeared at his side, their hands gripping his arms firmly but not unkindly. They led him down a series of corridors until they reached a door gilded with gold filigree. As they opened it, Elian was greeted by a sight that was both dazzling and intimidating.

The dressing room was enormous, filled with racks of luxurious garments in every color imaginable. Silks, satins, and velvets spilled out of drawers and closets, their rich textures glowing in the light of the crystal chandeliers overhead.

A large mirror took up one wall, surrounded by bottles of perfumes, jars of makeup, and trays of jewelry. The air was thick with the scent of roses and jasmine, so strong it was almost suffocating.

Madam Lula, the mistress of the Pavilion, was already waiting for him. Her sharp eyes followed his every movement as he entered the room, her expression unreadable. She was a woman of power, the kind who could command a room with just a glance, and Elian knew better than to defy her.

"Strip," Madam Lula ordered, her voice cold and devoid of emotion.

Elian hesitated for only a moment before obeying. He had grown accustomed to the humiliation, to the feeling of being nothing more than an object for others to use and discard. As he removed his clothes, he kept his gaze down, focusing on the ornate patterns of the rug beneath his feet.

It was then that Madam Lula's sharp intake of breath caught his aattention

Elian looked up to see her eyes fixed on his body, specifically on the small mole just below his navel. Her expression, usually so controlled, had shifted into something else entirely, shock, disbelief, and then something that resembled triumph.

"Stop," she commanded, stepping closer to him. Her eyes narrowed as she inspected the mole, a twisted smile slowly spreading across her face. "How could I have missed this?"

Elian stood still, confusion swirling in his mind. He had almost forgotten about the mole, the birthmark of a Ferre. The heritage of the original owner of this body. Who would remembered such thing after being pushed from one Cruelty to another.

But Now, seeing Madam Lula's reaction, he realized he was now in deep shit.

"Do you know what this means?" Madam Lula asked, though it was clear she wasn't expecting an answer. She turned sharply to the attendants who had been helping with Elian's preparation. "Why wasn't I informed of this?"

The attendants exchanged nervous glances, their faces pale. "We... we saw it, Madame," one of them stammered, "but we never imagined… I mean, we didn't think it was possible. A Ferre..."

"A Ferre," Madam Lula repeated, her voice filled with something akin to reverence. She turned back to Elian, her eyes gleaming with a newfound intensity. "You're a Ferre."

Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! I know alright, now can you stop looking at me the way leprechauns looks at golds. Elian rolled his eyes internally, but remain calm outwardly.

Madam Lula's demeanor shifted completely, the coldness replaced by a predatory glee.

"Do you have any idea what this means, Elian?" she asked, her voice almost purring. "You're not just another courtesan. You're a Ferre, a treasure, a commodity so rare that people would kill to possess you. And you've been right under my nose all this time."

He looked down at the mole, the small mark that had apparently changed everything. What did this mean for him now? Does it mean he's going to be bedding more men than others? Yeah he's really in deep shit.

Madam Lula laughed, a sound that sent chills down Elian's spine. "This changes everything," she said, more to herself than to him. "A Ferre in the Pavilion… I'll be the envy of every brothel owner in the city. No, in the entire empire. The Lords will be lining up to bid for a night with you. I'll be rich beyond my wildest dreams."

Elian felt a wave of nausea wash over him. This wasn't a blessing, this is a damm curse. Could his life get any worse?

He wasn't a person in Madam Lula's eyes, he was a commodity, something to be bought and sold. And now, with this revelation, his value had skyrocketed.

As if sensing his despair, Madam Lula's expression softened slightly.

"Oh, don't look so down, darling," she cooed. "This is a good thing. You'll be treated like royalty now, given the finest clothes, the best food. You'll be the star of the Pavilion. But remember…" Her voice turned icy, a sharp contrast to her previous tone. "You belong to me. And you will do as I say, or you will suffer the consequences."

Elian swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.