For all her life Azriel knew nothing but the darkness. She could remember the words of her mother well when she was just a babe learning how to crawl. She was a disgusting thing, they told her; she should go die, they told her. The only source of light she had was her twin brother, Benhiram, but that too was short-lived. Not long after her village was razed to the ground and her parents perished along with it, her brother passed away, leaving her to fend for herself in this dark, solemn world.
Azriel was only ten years old; she didn't know any better. She was just an innocent girl who placed her trust in people, causing her to be taken advantage of. She became a branded slave, thrown around like a ragdoll from one noble after another until she found her permanent home as a whipping child for a noble family. Not a day would pass without red welts and purple bruises blooming on Azriel's back hidden beneath her shirt, and when she was not being beaten, she was made to run errands and do chores. Her once smooth hands turned rough, and her back grew coarse from the repeated scarring.
This was the life Azriel lived. She had no hope, no faith that someone would rescue her from the abyss. The once enduring faith that she would be saved slowly flickered out of existence, but little did she know that the hope she had long abandoned would return in a form far different than what she had ever imagined.
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