The New God's Of Avaricia

"You know, Ava," her mother spoke in a voice that was rough as the cobblestones of the streets, a voice that had been worn thin by the ravages of time and the vices of despair, "you shall never ascend beyond the shadow I cast." Ava Louise Garnet, a girl of tender years, yet with a spirit as fiery as her crimson locks and eyes as sharp as the emeralds of Ireland, toiled over the kitchen sink, her small hands moving with a vigor that defied her age. "You are the fruit of this soil, born to this destiny, and in it, you shall find your end," her mother, Lila, declared, her gaze as piercing as the words she spoke.

The City of Sovereign was a sprawling labyrinth of darkness, a place where the very stones wept with the sorrow of lost souls. It was a realm of squalor and despair, where the destitute thronged in numbers as vast as the stars in the heavens, and the air was thick with the scent of lost hope. The buildings leaned in as if conspiring, their very stones whispering the secrets of the damned who dwelt within. Ava's mother, Lila, was one of the many souls claimed by the city's insatiable hunger, a woman who had sold her very essence for the merest of comforts. The odor of the streets, a miasma of smoke and regret, had seeped into their small apartment, clinging to their clothing like a shroud.

Ava knew not the man who had sired her, for he had fled into the foggy nights of the city, leaving behind only whispers of his silver tongue and heart of ice. Her mother's eyes had once shone with the promise of a life beyond the squalor, but now they were as lifeless as the moon on a clouded night.

The words of her mother echoed through the corridors of Ava's mind, a grim portent that she could not escape.

Her childhood was spent in the House of Garnet, a brothel of ill repute, where the whispers of the night grew as loud as the wails of the lost. The edifice itself was a crumbling monument to the decay of virtue, standing tall and proud amidst the detritus of a city that had long ago lost its soul.

Survival in such a place was a brutal education. Ava learned early the art of scrounging, foraging for food from the leavings of her mother's patrons. The cast-off morsels were a feast to her, a sustenance that filled her belly with the bitterness of their indifference. Yet, amidst the harshness of her existence, she discovered moments of reprieve in the arms of Madam Agatha, a woman whose heart was as warm as a hearth on a winter's eve.

But Lila's anger grew like a festering sore, until it could no longer be contained. Her blows fell upon Ava with the ferocity of a storm, each one a silent declaration of her own defeat. Ava bore the bruises of her mother's wrath as a map of the city's streets, each one a landmark in the geography of her suffering.

Yet, in the quiet hours when the tempest had abated, Lila would hold Ava close, her breath a gentle balm to the girl's bruised spirit. These moments of tenderness were a treasure to Ava, a flicker of warmth in the cold embrace of despair. The love she bore for her mother was an unyielding plant, pushing through the cracks in the cobblestones of their lives, refusing to be crushed by the boots of fate.

The other women of the house, their spirits long since crushed by the relentless tide of the city's hungers, showed Ava a tenderness that belied their jaded exteriors. Madam Agatha, a matronly figure whose heart was as soft as fresh-baked bread, took the girl under her wing, offering her the gift of knowledge. She taught her the letters and the numbers, a beacon in the dark night of ignorance.

The day that Lila breathed her last was as still as the grave. Ava found her mother's lifeless form in the very bed they had shared, her once vibrant hair now a matted mess, her eyes staring vacantly at the stained ceiling. The room was silent, save for the mournful dance of dust motes in the beam of light that pierced through the grime-covered window.

The revelation of Lila's fate was a knife to Ava's heart. Her mother had sought escape in the arms of another, a man named Thomas, whose silver tongue had promised the heavens, only to leave her with naught but shattered dreams. His betrayal had been the final straw, leading Lila to swallow a handful of pills and slip into the eternal night.

The whispers of the streets grew louder with each passing day, as Ava grew into a woman. Her mother's fate was a specter that haunted her every step, a grim reminder of the path she was destined to walk. The very air of the brothel was thick with the scent of inevitability, a stench that clung to every corner she turned.

Madam Agatha, with a face lined by the trials of a life in the shadows, called Ava to her side. "Now that Lila is gone," she began, her voice heavy with the burden of the truth, "you must contribute to the house." Ava's heart sank, for she knew what was to come. The destiny that had claimed her mother now beckoned to her.

With a nod, Ava accepted her fate, and the lessons in the art of the courtesan began. In the dimly lit corridors of the House of Garnet, Madam Agatha instructed her in the dance of seduction, the artful coaxing of a man's desires and the whispered sweet nothings that could turn lead into gold.

When she emerged from her chrysalis at the tender age of sixteen, she was a creature of beauty and grace. The men of the city took note of the new jewel in the crown of the brothel district. Her fiery hair and piercing eyes were the talk of the town, and they whispered her name as if it were a sacred incantation that could grant them access to the very gates of ecstasy.

The House of Garnet grew in fame and wealth, its doors open to the most influential men of the city. Yet, it was a crown of thorns that Ava wore, a crown that brought her power, but also a deep and abiding pain. Each night she lay with the men who sought her out, her smile a mask for the scream she longed to release.

And so it was, amidst the opulent decay of the City of Sovereign, that Ava became the Whore of Sovereign, a name that brought both awe and fear to the lips of those who knew it. Yet, within the velvet-draped walls of the brothel, she was more than a mere commodity. She was a symbol of rebellion, a flame that burned bright in the darkness.

The city itself was transformed by the allure of the House of Garnet. The once seedy establishments grew grand, their facades gleaming with marble and gold. The whispers of the streets grew louder, and the shadows grew longer, as the wealthy and powerful sought refuge in the arms of the city's most esteemed courtesan.

Life took on an air of perverse splendor. Ava dined on feasts that were the envy of the city, her bruises replaced by the soft caress of silk and velvet. Yet, it was a hollow victory, a masquerade of happiness that could not fill the void in her soul.

Life was good, as good as it can be at least.

But that was all until one fateful evening, when Sam Bower, the lord's son, entered the House of Garnet. His presence a harbinger of change that would forever alter the delicate balance of their lives.

-To Be Continued-