Salt in the Wound

The rented gryphon circled low, the wind tugging at Boo's cloak as the jagged skyline of Boralus rose like a weathered beast from the sea. The spires of Proudmoore Keep cut into the twilight, flanked by rust-colored clouds as the sun bled into the sea. Chimneys puffed, gulls screamed, and the scent of brine, coal smoke, and wet rope filled the air. Ship masts jutted like broken teeth from the harbor below, and crooked alleys webbed the city like a rat's nest—dirty, loud, and ferociously alive.

Home. Rotten and beautiful.

She leaned into the wind, gripping the saddle as the gryphon angled into its descent, its feathers rippling with every shift of its great wings. It landed on a worn platform with a grunt, shaking its mane.

"Good job, gorgeous," Boo murmured, sliding off with practiced grace. She ran a hand along its feathered neck, fingers ruffling down to the bridle straps. "Don't let the dockhands stiff you. Bite someone if they do."

The gryphon gave a low chuff, eyes closing as she scratched the spot behind its ears. With one final pat, Boo turned toward the narrow gangplank leading to the dock proper—and her stomach twisted.

There he was.

Leaning against a rusted beam, one boot planted, one knee cocked just like he always did—like he thought he owned every inch of the street his eyes touched.

Her "brother." Garrick 

He'd grown more handsome since she'd last seen him—taller now, broader through the shoulders—but he wore it like a weapon. His hair was a burning red streaked with gold, swept back as if the wind dared not touch it. His eyes—fel green, impossibly bright in the gathering dusk—shimmered like a dagger tip. His smirk was already drawn, lazy and cruel, as he pushed off the beam.

"Well, well. I thought the only thing that flew back into this city was seagull shit."

Boo rolled her eyes but felt the chill slide down her spine. Some things didn't need to be said aloud to be remembered. The creak of a floorboard outside her childhood door. The metallic tang of fear. That voice, slurred, soft, and suffocating in the dark.

"Still smell like piss and pride, I see," she said, steady, planting her boots with purpose.

He approached slowly, dragging the silence with him like a net.

"I told them you were dead. But no. You had to come back. You always loved making an entrance."

"You mistake survival for affection. Not the first time you've been confused."

He tilted his head, that awful smirk never faltering. "Still got claws. Bet they'd feel good on someone who knows how to handle you."

"Keep talking like that, and I'll see if your teeth still rattle the same when I break them."

He stepped into her space, too close. Boo didn't move, didn't blink.

"Still scared of me, little girl?" he whispered, so low it barely rode the air. "You used to cry and cry, and yet... you never told a soul. Makes a man wonder what part of you liked it."

Rage flickered in her vision like lightning—but before her fist could fly, the door to the family home banged open.

A roar of children spilled onto the docks like a ship's cargo come loose. Tiny fists, wide grins, shrieking laughter. Half a dozen at least—tusks, horns, pointed ears and stubby tails all mixed in a whirl of noise.

"BOOOOOO!"

She was engulfed. Small bodies collided with her legs, arms, waist—clamoring over her like puppies reunited with their favorite toy. Boo grinned through it all, snatching a goblin boy mid-tackle and spinning him. A troll girl looped a string of shells into her braid while another tried to scale her back.

"I missed you!" one yelled. "I punched a shark in the nose for you!"

"She didn't! She fell in the bucket and cried!"

"Did not!"

Their squabbling drowned out her thoughts, anchoring her in something purer. She looked up—her "brother" had stepped back, annoyance twitching in the corner of his mouth.

Then came the thunder.

Captain Barrold Vexmoor.

Her "father," a Kul Tiran broad as a barge and twice as salty, with a gut like a boulder and arms like tree trunks. His beard was half-braided, his shirt was stained with blood (possibly not his), and his left eye had been replaced with a polished onyx orb., trudged down the steps, ale already in hand. His beard was wild and sea-stained, his shirt barely buttoned, but his eyes caught hers—and for a brief moment, there was warmth.

"Well, I'll be damned," he grunted. "You didn't drown."

"Don't sound too happy about it," Boo called back, grinning despite herself.

He wrapped her in a bone-crushing hug that lifted her off the ground as she approached. "You look leaner. Meaner. Good. Means you ain't dead yet. Come on, sit. I poured us something foul."

They all flopped down around a battered crate turned table on the dock. Boo, her father, and her brother each grabbed a tankard. The kids ran wild around them—tossing rocks into the bay, chasing rats with sticks, sword-fighting with driftwood.

Boo took a long sip. Sour ale. Warm. Exactly what she needed.

"So," her father said. "You planning to stay? Or is this just another storm break?"

"Don't know yet," she said, watching the horizon. "Maybe I just missed the sound of gulls screaming obscenities."

Her brother laughed. "They're still more polite than you."

They talked until the light dimmed—banter, nonsense, bits of truth smuggled between drinks. Boo told half-lies about goblin lovers and knife-fights with banshees. Her brother watched her too closely, and her father watched him with suspicion growing like mold.

Eventually, the wind grew cool, and the smell of stew called them home.

The table inside was a patchwork of clatter and chaos. Plates didn't match. Spoons were bent. One of the mugs was clearly a cracked boot.

Boo sat at the head like a pirate queen, telling stories over clinking silverware and sloshing cups.

"There I was," she began, "hanging off the side of a wyvern, no pants, covered in slime—"

"Again?!" a little orc boy cried.

"That's three times you've lost your pants!" the troll girl giggled.

"Listen," Boo said gravely, "heroism and pants are mutually exclusive."

Laughter exploded around her. Her father even chuckled, slapping the table hard enough to rattle the stew pot.

Later, when bellies were full and children yawning, her father stood and declared, "Alright, barnacles. Bed. If I hear one peep, I'm feeding you to the kraken."

Grumbles. Hugs. One last crab chase. Then the house quieted.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Boo's body tensed—then forced herself to breathe. Just the wind. Just the house.

Boo stayed back to help clear the mess. She and her father stood by the sink, sharing another drink as the oil lamp flickered behind them.

"I ain't much," he said. "But I tried to make something out of this place. These kids. You."

"You did more than most," Boo said quietly. "You didn't look away."

He nodded, throat tight. "I should've kept you out of that brothel. Should've—"

She shook her head. "You got me out. That's what matters."

Just as he reached for her hand—

The door creaked.

Her brother leaned in, drunk again. Swaying slightly. That same awful grin.

"Don't mind me," he said, "just enjoying the family bonding."

"Go sleep it off," their father growled.

He raised his hands. "Alright, alright. Just saying goodnight... sister."

Boo's jaw clenched.

"I'm heading to bed.." She didn't meet his eyes. She didn't have to. He knew why she never truly slept here.

The room was smaller than she remembered.

The slanted ceiling nearly kissed the top of her head when she stood, and the mattress was still lumpy and uneven, the same patchwork blanket folded at the foot. Boo didn't crawl under it. She sat on the edge.

A cracked mirror hung beside the window. It didn't reflect a pirate or a flirt or a knife-wielding legend.

It showed a woman haunted.

She stared at herself for a long time.

And then—

Memory took her.

She remembered the smell first.

Sweat. Rotting ale. Leather left in the sun too long.

The man's hands were always greasy. Fat fingers that tugged her hair too hard when she didn't move fast enough. The woman was worse. Always smiling. Always painting her face like a doll and saying things like, "You'll fetch a better price if you keep your mouth shut and your lips red."

She wasn't called Boo back then. Just "Girl." Or "Little Bitch." Or "Pretty thing."

They made her dance. Sing. Clean. Serve drinks. Bathe strangers. Sit on laps.

When she turned thirteen, the bathing changed.

No touching, they said. At first. But men didn't always listen.

Sometimes the woman punished her when she bit too hard. Sometimes the man did worse. They liked when she cried. It made her eyes brighter.

They branded her once. Just above her hip.

"Marked now," the woman whispered. "So we know you're ours."

The memory sharpened, anchoring her in one awful moment. An outing to entice customers...

It was raining. She was freezing. Her lip was split open, and she was missing a tooth.

They led her to the docks like livestock.

And there stood Barrold Vexmoor—not yet her father. Just a stranger with a bag of coin and blood on his boots.

He looked at her once.

And then at the man holding her leash.

"How much?"

The man grinned. "She's got some wear, but still good. You'll make your coin back by spring."

Barrold nodded.

And handed him gold.

The past crashed in—uninvited, unwelcome, and sharp as old glass.

She blinked.

Her knuckles were white, gripping the edge of the mattress.

The room was still. The only sound was the wind rattling the windowpanes.

She exhaled slowly. Then reached under the bed. Her fingers found the knife she'd hidden there fifteen years ago—rusted now, dull-edged.

Her first weapon.

Not used in battle.

But to threaten the man who tried to take her a second time.

She'd been ten.

And she hadn't missed.

A sigh escaped her lips as she slid the rusted weapon back under the bed, pushing herself feet, locking her door.

Checked the window. Stacked a chair against the handle. Her armor stayed in the corner—her knives, within arm's reach.

She stripped down to her shirt and laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling. 

For a while, there was nothing but the ocean and the distant squawk of seabirds...

Then—

A click.

A creak.

And weight.

She froze.

Breath caught in her throat. Muscles tensed and refused to move. The room dissolved around her—walls dripping away into the past.

A cot. A too-small body. A whisper in the dark.

"He'd found out where she came from. 'A brothel rat,' he'd laughed. 'Figures.'"

The first time, he'd told her it was a game. Told her it would be a fun a one time thing... She hadn't screamed. Just cried. Shook. Bit her lip until it bled.

Now, here he was again.

His breath reeked of ale, his fingers tightening around her wrists.

"Come on, Boo," he whispered. "You used to love this game. You'd cry, but I knew better. You came from a brothel—you knew you were meant to please men. You always knew... and you never said no."

A tear escaped. Not of fear. Not anymore. Fury.

Her body finally moved.

"You. Sick. Bastard."

She twisted, hard, slamming her knee into his groin. He gasped—air leaving his lungs like a kicked bellows—just as her elbow cracked against his temple. He reeled. She sprang up, teeth bared.

Her heel crashed into his ribs, a sickening thud. He groaned, coughing, curling on the floor.

Not enough.

She seized his collar, dragged him, half-conscious, to the door, her breath ragged.

"This ends. Now!"

She flung the door open, hurled him into the hallway, and slammed it shut. Locked. Bolted. Chair wedged.

Silence.

Her body trembled. She sank down against the door, pressing her back to it like she could bar the world out. She wasn't that girl anymore. He hadn't broken her then. He wouldn't now. Her vision blurred. Her hands shook, not with fear—but with the rage of all the times she hadn't fought back. Not then. But now? Now she did.

The waves outside kept crashing, crashing, crashing.

Eventually, she crawled to the bed and laid down.

Sleep didn't come easy—but it came.

Tomorrow, she'd find answers. And if Boralus had any ghosts left—it was time they started running.

And next time?

Next time, he wouldn't walk away.