The next few years of Riven’s life were easily the worst he had ever experienced, as the horrors he witnessed within Hagrid’s brothel became the foundation of the fractures that would define him for the rest of his life.
Just as Kell had predicted, Alira became one of the most sought-after women in the brothel, not because she was the most beautiful, but because she was the most obedient, as Hagrid had made it clear from the very first day that any mistake she made would never be punished on her, but rather on the child she held.
Riven remembered the first time that rule was enforced, as the memory remained intact within him as a core childhood trauma that refused to fade no matter how much time passed.
He had been barely a year old at the time, when a dissatisfied customer complained to Hagrid about Alira....
And Hagrid, after listening in silence, judged Alira to be at fault, as he refunded the customer, before then going to the back of the brothel, where he ordered Riven to be brought forward.
Riven remembered being held in place, remembered the roughness of the hands that restrained him, and remembered his mother’s voice breaking as he was whipped again and again with a crocodile leather belt.
*SLAP*
*SLAP*
Hagrid counted each blow calmly until eleven strikes had been delivered, leaving behind scars on Riven’s back that would never fully fade.
However, that was the only time Riven was punished in such a way, as something within Alira broke that day, and from that moment onward, she never made another mistake.
Unfortunately though, the work of a prostitute was not without its share of mental issues, as over time, the light within her eyes began to fade, until the grief she carried stopped showing on her face and was replaced by a hollow obedience that allowed her to survive.
It did not happen all at once.....
But rather over months and years, as slowly, she learned how to speak in ways that pleased, learned to move without drawing anger, and learned to endure what could not be avoided, shaping herself into something that could exist within those walls, while whatever remained of the woman she had once been, disappeared piece by piece.
Riven watched it happen, not as a child who failed to understand, but as someone who understood far too much for his age, as he grew within that environment as something between useful and invisible, learning quickly that his survival depended entirely on how much value he could provide.
From the age of three, he was given tasks, and over time those tasks became his purpose, as he cleaned floors, scrubbed waste, carried water, and prepared food, doing everything required of him without complaint because usefulness was the only thing that ensured he would be allowed to live.
Food was never given freely, as he survived on scraps often no better than what was fed to the dogs, and even that could be taken away if he stepped out of line, teaching him early that hunger was something to endure quietly rather than in protest.
The other women working at the brothel sometimes tried to help him out of pity, slipping him food when they could, but those acts were always punished when discovered, as their own meals were then withheld and their workload increased, forcing Riven to refuse kindness not because he did not need it, but because he understood the cost it placed on others.
Yet none of that was what stayed with him the most.
As starvation was nothing compared to the real horrors he saw.
As day after day, night after night, he witnessed things a child his age was never meant to.... scenes that played out behind thin walls and half-closed doors, voices that shifted between forced warmth and quiet suffering, and bodies that carried the marks of men who came to the brothel not for pleasure, but to release their frustration.
He saw the bruises.
He saw the exhaustion.
He saw the way the women moved afterward, slower, quieter, as though something inside them had been worn down beyond repair.
While the men walked out calm and happy, as though they had accomplished something great by beating down helpless women.
Some nights were calm.
Some nights were not.
And on those nights, the sounds changed in ways that stayed with him far longer than anything else.
He remembered the way his mother returned from those encounters, her body trembling in ways she tried to hide, her clothes covered in the scent of piss mixed with blood and semen, while her voice remained soft, as if she still believed she could shield him from a reality he had already witnessed.
And so, for her sake, he learned to pretend not to notice.
He learned to remain silent.
He learned to survive.
.
.
Years passed in that manner, slow and unrelenting, until the day Alira finally collapsed, her body giving out after years of being pushed beyond its limits.
Riven was eight at the time, old enough to understand what had been taken from him, yet still too young to do anything about it, as her death came without warning and without meaning, as though she was just another life that had ended within walls that had seen too many fall before her.
The brothel did not stop for her.
Hagrid barely spared her more than a glance before ordering her removed, treating her death as a minor inconvenience rather than a loss, because within that place, people were not mourned, only replaced.
Riven remained.
Not because he was wanted, nor because Hagrid spared him out of kindness.
But because of a promise that had been made between Hagrid and Alira long ago, one that she had upheld with absolute obedience until her final breath.
"I’ll serve you obediently till I die.... But in return, no harm must come to my child, even after I pass away...."
She had told Hagrid long ago, and the pimp, as heartless as he was, had agreed to it.
And so, in exchange for complete loyalty until her last breath, his mother had secured his survival, and because the terms of that agreement were known to others within the brothel, Hagrid chose to honor it, because a man who broke his word would lose the only currency that mattered in such a place.... Which was trust.
And so Riven lived.
His existence sustained by the usefulness he brought to the place through endless menial chores, while his memory refused to let anything he experienced fade or soften with time.
However, what Hagrid did not know was that he was raising a monster.
Because with Alira gone, the final trace of warmth that had once anchored Riven to something human disappeared, and with nothing left to protect, nothing left to lose, and nothing left to hold him back, the boy who remembered everything was finally free to become something far worse than the men who had broken him, something that would one day make even the Ashfang Tribe seem merciful by comparison.