The cold stone walls of Blackthorne Orphanage held no warmth, no comfort. They loomed like silent sentinels, trapping their inhabitants in a world of suffering. The place reeked of mildew, unwashed bodies, and the faint, metallic scent of old blood. The heavy iron doors groaned whenever they opened, as if the building itself resented every movement.
Ainztworth—Ainzt, as she preferred—had known nothing outside these walls. For as long as she could remember, she had been here, caged like an animal, her only freedom existing in stolen moments of rebellion. Every time she tried to escape, she was dragged back—punished, broken, and reminded that no child ever left Blackthorne willingly.
The orphanage was ruled by Headmistress Beatrice Moreau, a woman with a heart as black as the stone walls around them. Her husband, Orwin, was worse—a beast of a man who took pleasure in breaking those weaker than him.
The only light in this abyss was Lyra, the only person Ainzt trusted. Lyra was older but smaller, her body frail from years of malnourishment. They had met when Ainzt first arrived, and ever since, Lyra had been the only warmth in the perpetual cold.
And now, they were planning the impossible—an escape.
---
The evening meal was a watery gruel that barely qualified as food. The children sat hunched over splintered wooden tables, scooping the slop into their mouths with trembling fingers. It was always like this—silent, desperate. Speaking out of turn meant the lash. Spilling food meant a night without supper.
Ainzt kept her head low, stirring the gray sludge in her bowl but not eating. Her ribs ached from the last punishment. She needed strength, but the thought of swallowing another spoonful of rot made her stomach turn.
She glanced at Lyra, whose hollow cheeks barely concealed her sharp bones. "Tonight," she whispered.
Lyra didn't respond immediately. She stirred her gruel, eyes darting around the dimly lit dining hall. Then, ever so slightly, she nodded.
From the opposite table, a boy named Tomas—one of Beatrice's favored informants—watched them. His lips curled in a knowing smirk.
Ainzt tensed.
Lyra leaned closer, voice barely audible. "He's listening."
"We can't wait any longer." Ainzt's hands clenched around her spoon. "It's now or never."
Across the hall, Beatrice sat on her wooden throne, a perch overlooking the children. Her iron rod rested on the table beside her, fingers tapping it rhythmically. Orwin stood behind her, arms crossed, his mere presence enough to keep the orphans in line.
A small commotion broke the silence.
A boy—no older than six—had spilled his bowl.
The hall froze.
Beatrice's gaze slowly shifted, locking onto him like a hawk spotting a wounded animal. The boy scrambled to clean up the mess, but it was too late.
"Orwin."
The brute moved without hesitation. In two strides, he grabbed the boy by the collar and lifted him off the ground.
The boy kicked, struggling. "P-Please, I—"
CRACK.
The first blow landed across his ribs.
Ainzt looked away.
It was always like this. Always.
The meal dragged on. Every second felt like an eternity.
Then, finally, Beatrice stood.
"Enough," she announced. "To your quarters."
Chairs scraped against the stone as the children scrambled to obey. Ainzt cast one last glance at Lyra before they slipped into the masses, moving toward the dark corridors of the orphanage.
---
Their room was a cramped space with a single, thin mattress and a cracked window barred with iron. The wind howled through the tiny gaps, offering a bitter chill.
Ainzt stared at the lock.
"We need the key," Lyra whispered.
"I know."
The problem was simple but terrifying: the key hung from Orwin's belt.
Lyra's breath hitched. "We can't—"
"We don't have a choice," Ainzt interrupted. "Stay here. I'll get it."
Lyra grabbed her wrist. "No, I'm coming with you."
Ainzt hesitated but relented. They had always been together. They would face this together.
---
Orwin's snores rumbled through the hall like distant thunder. He sat slouched in a chair near the kitchen, head tilted back, mouth slightly open. His meaty fingers twitched in his sleep.
Ainzt crouched in the shadows, heart pounding against her ribs. She took a slow breath.
One step.
Another.
Her fingers inched toward the key.
The cold metal brushed her fingertips—
A heavy hand clamped around her wrist.
Ainzt's breath caught as Orwin's bloodshot eyes snapped open.
"Trying to be clever, are we?" His grip tightened, bruising.
Lyra let out a strangled gasp.
Orwin yanked Ainzt up, dragging her toward the door. "Beatrice will want to see this."
Panic surged through her veins. No. No, this wasn't how it was supposed to go.
Lyra darted forward, fists pounding against Orwin's arm. "Let her go!"
Orwin growled, swinging his free arm. Lyra tumbled backward, colliding with a wooden crate.
Ainzt struggled, kicking, biting—but Orwin was too strong. He dragged her into the main hall, his grip unrelenting.
The iron doors creaked open.
Beatrice stood at the top of the staircase, her expression cold, unreadable.
Orwin shoved Ainzt forward. "Caught her sneaking around."
Beatrice descended the steps, each footfall deliberate. "Did you now?" Her eyes flickered to Ainzt, then to the trembling figure of Lyra in the doorway.
A slow smile curled on Beatrice's lips.
"You're quite the troublesome one, aren't you?" she mused, reaching for the iron rod at her waist.
Ainzt swallowed hard.
Beatrice leaned closer, whispering in her ear. "Shall I remind you why no child leaves Blackthorne?"
Ainzt's pulse pounded.
Then, without warning, Beatrice struck.
White-hot pain exploded across Ainzt's back as the rod connected. She bit down on her scream, her knees buckling.
"Again," Beatrice ordered.
Orwin obeyed.
Another strike.
And another.
Lyra's sobs echoed in the hall. "Stop!"
Beatrice's gaze snapped to her. "Would you like to take her place?"
Lyra flinched, falling silent.
Beatrice turned back to Ainzt, who lay curled on the cold stone floor. "You will never escape," she whispered. "You belong to me."
Ainzt trembled, but through the haze of pain, a single thought burned in her mind.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
But one day, she would escape.
She would make them pay.
The iron doors slammed shut behind her, sealing her fate once more.
Ainzt's knees hit the stone floor with a hollow thud. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone, sweat, and something coppery—blood. Her body ached from the blows, her back burning from where Beatrice's iron rod had struck her.
Orwin's rough hand wrenched her up by the collar of her tattered dress, forcing her to kneel properly.
"You think you're clever, don't you?" Beatrice's voice was smooth, laced with venom. She paced slowly in front of Ainzt, her heeled boots clicking against the stone floor.
Ainzt lifted her head just enough to glare at her through strands of tangled hair.
Beatrice's lips curled into a smirk. "Still defiant? That's what I love about you, Ainztworth. You don't break easily." She traced a gloved finger over the iron rod, the very one still slick with Ainzt's blood. "But you will. They always do."
Behind her, the gathered orphans stood in trembling silence. They had been dragged from their beds to witness this—to be reminded of what happened when someone defied Beatrice Moreau.
Lyra was among them, eyes red-rimmed, fists clenched.
Ainzt swallowed hard, forcing herself not to look at her. If she did, she might beg. And she would not give Beatrice that satisfaction.
The headmistress sighed, as if genuinely disappointed. "You and your little rat friend planned to leave us. Isn't that right?"
Ainzt didn't answer.
Beatrice's smirk remained, but her eyes darkened. "Oh? Nothing to say?"
Orwin's boot crashed into Ainzt's ribs. She gasped, body folding in on itself as pain flared through her side.
"ANSWER HER!" Orwin bellowed.
Ainzt coughed, her vision swimming. She tasted blood.
Beatrice crouched in front of her, eyes gleaming. "Say it, Ainztworth. Tell them what you tried to do."
Ainzt clenched her jaw. "I…" The words felt like poison in her mouth. But she refused to let them twist the truth. "I tried to escape."
Gasps rippled through the children. Someone whimpered.
Beatrice chuckled, running a hand through Ainzt's tangled hair, almost affectionate. "And why would you do something so foolish, my dear?"
Ainzt inhaled sharply, her ribs protesting. "Because this place is hell."
The headmistress's expression didn't change, but her grip tightened in Ainzt's hair, yanking her head back. "Hell?" she echoed softly.
Ainzt met her gaze, even as pain seared through her scalp. "Yes."
Silence.
Then—laughter.
Low at first, then rising as Beatrice threw back her head in amusement. Even Orwin let out a cruel chuckle.
"Oh, dear," Beatrice sighed, standing. "You think this is hell?" She glanced at Orwin. "Shall we educate her?"
The brute grinned. "With pleasure."
Ainzt's stomach dropped.
Before she could react, Orwin grabbed her and hauled her up. She kicked, struggled, but he was too strong.
The children flinched as Orwin dragged her past them, toward the back of the hall. Toward the punishment room.
"No," Lyra whispered, stepping forward. "Please! Don't—"
Beatrice raised a hand, silencing her. "Speak again, child, and you can join her."
Lyra's mouth clamped shut, her whole body shaking.
Ainzt's breath quickened. Not for herself—but for Lyra. She had to make sure she wasn't dragged into this too.
"Wait," Ainzt rasped, her throat dry. "I—I'll take it all. Just—just leave her alone."
Beatrice turned, lips curling. "Oh, darling. I was always going to."
The door slammed shut behind them.
---
The punishment room was cold, the air heavy with the scent of damp stone and something sickly sweet. Wax dripped from half-melted candles along the walls, casting eerie shadows that flickered like ghosts.
Chains dangled from the ceiling. Shackles lined the walls.
Ainzt had been here before.
She had screamed here before.
Orwin shoved her forward, and she collapsed to the floor, her palms scraping against the rough stone.
"Up," Beatrice commanded.
Ainzt forced herself to her feet.
Beatrice motioned to the chains hanging from the ceiling. "You know the drill."
Ainzt's hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms.
Orwin sighed impatiently before grabbing her arms and yanking them upward. The iron cuffs snapped shut around her wrists. Cold. Unforgiving.
She was forced to stand on her toes, her arms stretched above her head.
"Much better," Beatrice cooed, running a finger along Ainzt's bruised cheek. "Now, let's see how long that fire of yours lasts."
The first strike landed across her back.
Ainzt bit her tongue. She would not scream.
The second strike.
Then the third.
The fourth ripped through the remnants of her dress, tearing fabric and flesh alike.
A choked sound escaped her lips.
Beatrice sighed. "You're holding back. How disappointing."
She nodded to Orwin, who stepped forward and pressed something cold against Ainzt's arm.
A knife.
Ainzt's breath hitched.
"Just a little reminder," Beatrice murmured. "That you are mine."
The blade pressed in, slicing shallowly into her skin. Blood trickled down her arm, warm against her freezing flesh.
Ainzt's vision blurred.
Not from pain.
But from rage.
This would not break her.
This would not be the end.
One day, she would make them pay.
One day, Beatrice Moreau would kneel before her.
But for now—
Ainzt clenched her jaw as another lash tore through her back.
For now, she endured.
---
The punishment lasted until her body hung limp in the chains, her mind teetering between darkness and consciousness.
At some point, Beatrice sighed in boredom. "Enough for tonight. Cut her down."
Orwin obeyed, unshackling her.
Ainzt crumpled to the ground.
She barely felt Orwin's boot nudging her side. "Still alive?"
She didn't answer.
Beatrice crouched beside her, tilting Ainzt's chin up with two fingers. "Sweet dreams, little rat."
With that, they left.
The door creaked shut.
Ainzt lay there, alone in the dark.
Pain throbbed through every inch of her body.
But beneath the agony, beneath the exhaustion—
Something burned.
Not defeat.
Not submission.
But the quiet, simmering promise of vengeance.
And it would come.
One day.
But for now, Ainzt allowed the darkness to take her.