There was a wall in town that ate souls.
Not literally — no tentacles, no whispering demon mouths — just a plank of cheap announcements layered thick enough to be a geological record of bad decisions. Lost goats. Found husbands. Traveling prophets. Traveling venereal ointment specialists. The usual.
And then I saw her.
Not her-her. A woodcut. A cheap, smug little likeness of Loma.
"New Attraction at Madam Zoobaya's House of Eternal Delights!
✨ The Fallen Princess of Tanagra! ✨
Silks! Sweet innocence! Exotic refinement! One night only—
(Or more if she behaves.)"
I felt my stomach drop and hit the dirt without me.
Zoobaya's font was still the same. Of course it was. Cute curlicues. Cute lies. Cute chains.
I laughed.
It came out wrong. Too sharp. Too dry. The kind of laugh people step away from.
Princess Loma. Delicate, pampered, stubborn little fool. Complained about blankets being scratchy. Whined when a floor wasn't marble. Would throw tantrums over lukewarm tea.
Now she was a feature.
A commodity.
A sales pitch.
Just like I had been.
Just like I still am, some days, when the wind blows the wrong way and memories crawl back up my spine with old iron teeth.
There was a neat little drawing of a collar around her throat. Decorative, they probably called it. Playful. Cute. Something you "pay extra" for.
I knew better.
I crumpled the leaflet in my fist. Then smoothed it. Then crushed it again because I hated how careful I was being with it.
Zoobaya had a talent: she could make slavery look like luxury. She could make you want your own pretty chains.
And Loma?
Gods help her.
I didn't know whether I wanted to save her, slap her, or buy the entire damn place just to burn it down with Zoobaya still counting coins.
I folded the leaflet, slipped it into my belt, and walked away fast before I did something catastrophically honest.