Lyra had changed her clothes for the journey and no longer wore the garments of the Faith, but normal summer clothes. On the journey, they took turns leading the reins, until following the map they arrived at an inn by night.
The smell hit them before they entered. A sour mix of spilled beer, rancid grease, damp woodsmoke, and the cloying, sharp odor of sweat from bodies that hadn't been washed in days. The inn, called "The Stranded Boar," lived up to its name. It was a low building of wood and stone, with a floor of packed, sticky earth. The torchlight flickered on soot-blackened walls, casting dancing shadows on the patrons' faces. The innkeeper, a man with a barrel gut and a greasy apron, looked at them with disdain from behind the bar. "Food and a bed. Four silver coins. You pay upfront." They paid and sat at the table furthest from the bar, in a dark corner where they hoped to go unnoticed. The stew they were served was a formless, brownish mush where it was impossible to distinguish the meat from the vegetables. Esther stirred it with her spoon, losing her appetite. That's when she felt the stares. At the next table, three men were watching them. It wasn't a casual glance. It was a slow, deliberate, leering examination. They were low-life merchants, Esther deduced from their mediocre but expensive clothes and the coin pouches they wore proudly on their belts. They were the kind of men who thrived on the margins, used to taking what they wanted. The burliest one, a man with a dirty goatee and small, piggy bright eyes, was the first to speak out loud, without taking his eyes off them. "Look, boys. Seems the Goddess has sent us an angel to brighten the night." His companions laughed, a coarse, unpleasant sound. The youngest, a skinny man with yellow teeth, leaned forward. "And she brought a handmaiden. How thoughtful." Esther clenched her jaw, her left hand closing into a fist on her lap. Lyra, beside her, noticed the tension in her body and placed a soft hand over her fist, a silent gesture that said "calm down." That's when the third one, a bald man with a mole over his eye, made his move. "Oh, I've dropped my bread!", he exclaimed with false surprise, and the hard piece of bread he was holding rolled across the table and fell to the floor, right beside Esther's chair. It was the oldest, cheapest trick in the book. For a moment, Esther thought about ignoring it. But then, the anger, that old, familiar friend, washed over her. With a sharp movement, she bent down to pick up the bread, knowing perfectly well what was going to happen. "By the Goddess, look at that ass!", the man with the goatee hissed, loud enough for the whole inn to hear. "Now that's an offering worthy of a temple." The laughter of the three men echoed in the room. Other patrons joined in, and the sound became a wall of humiliation. When Esther straightened up, her face was a mask of cold fury. Her hand was no longer on her lap, but resting on the hilt of her short sword. She could feel the urge to draw it, to cross the table and wipe those smiles off their faces. But Lyra's hand was still on hers, not with force, but with a weight that anchored her to reality. Three men. In an enclosed space. Probably armed with daggers under the table. It wasn't a fight she could win. Later, when she got up to go to the bar for more water, she felt the space narrow. One of the men, the bald one, got up at the same time, pretending to be going to the bar too. As he passed behind her, he ran his hand over her ass, squeezing with a rude, slow possessiveness, leaving the trace of his warmth even through the fabric of her skirt.
Esther spun around like a spring, a curse about to leave her lips. But the words died in her throat. The three men were standing, forming a semicircle around her. The smiles were gone. Their eyes were cold, assessing. They were no longer mocking; they were challenging her. "Something wrong, girl?", asked the man with the goatee, his voice now a dangerous murmur. "Did we bother you?". Fear hit her with the force of a wave. It wasn't the fear of death, but a deeper, more paralyzing terror. The fear of pain, of the humiliation of being defeated, of being... violated. And above all, the fear of herself. Because in that moment, she realized she couldn't kill a man. She couldn't sink her steel into their flesh and watch the life fade from their eyes. It wasn't the same as killing a monster. Her gaze met Lyra's, who was standing by the table, her face pale with horror. And then, Esther broke. She lowered her gaze, fixing it on the dirty floor of the inn. "N-no," she whispered, her voice barely audible. For the first time in her life, in front of Lyra, she showed herself humiliated and submissive. The men laughed again, but this time it was a laugh of victory. "See? She's a good girl," said the bald one, giving her a pat on the cheek that she felt like a slap. "She knows her place." They turned and sat down, leaving her there, trembling.
She went to bed that night with her eyes on the verge of tears, feeling smaller and more broken than when the goblin stripped her. That night, the humiliation wasn't from losing a fight, it was from losing herself. In bed, sharing the same smelly blanket, Esther curled up, her body tense as a bowstring. Lyra said nothing about what had happened. She didn't scold her or console her with false promises. She just hugged her, pressing her against her chest. It wasn't a passionate embrace, but a refuge. She let Esther feel the warmth of her body and the constant, steady rhythm of her heart.
The next morning arrived with a gray, damp light filtering through the inn's dirty windows. The air in the room smelled of sweat, stale beer, and the shame of the previous night. Esther woke before Lyra but didn't move. She lay on her back, staring at the worm-eaten wooden ceiling, her body heavy and her soul empty. The humiliation of the night before hadn't faded with sleep; it had settled in her bones like a cold sickness. Lyra woke a little later and turned to look at her. Their eyes met in the dimness. They said nothing. There was nothing to say. Lyra simply reached out a hand and stroked her hair, a tender gesture that almost made Esther break down crying again. They rose in silence, dressed, and went downstairs. The inn's common room was nearly empty. The three merchants were already gone. The innkeeper served them hard bread and water without looking at them. Esther ate mechanically, tastelessly, feeling the weight of the stares of the few remaining patrons, as if they could still smell her defeat.