A child was born in the eastern redlight district. His amber eyes marked him as distinct, but in that place, distinction became risk. The community treated blessings as commodities and quickly assessed the newborn as a potential liability, not a joy. His mother, Illyia, was the most valued courtesan, and a secret birth threatened her status. The elders did not consult her wishes; they decided. No priest attended, no lamp was lit, no name was spoken.Illyia did not protest.
The elders assembled and discussed the consequences of a son born unsanctioned. Their verdict was clear: “A child born in secret will lower her price,” one elder said. They agreed collectively it was better to hide the truth than to let it disrupt business.
So the boy lived, but the intention was that he would never thrive. He was provided leftovers and only basic necessities. The women called him “the quiet one” or “Illyia’s mistake”—they did not grant him a name. He never entered the brothel by the front; “That entrance is for offerings,” a servant once told him. He moved quietly, as instructed.
Names mattered in that place, and since he was not an offering, he was not named. But the need for identity prompted him to make a choice. Alone in silence, he decided: “I am Tenzin,” he told himself. The meaning did not matter, only that it was unclaimed.
At seven, Tenzin decided food meant more than safety. He left without plan or resources. The outside world brought him to exhaustion under a neem tree, where he observed bandits kill and consume a merchant. Faced with starvation, Tenzin prioritized survival and followed the bandits, enduring their contempt. One tossed a stone, another brandished a blade, and when escape was necessary, Tenzin returned to the brothel.
On arrival, the madam did not question his absence. She presented options: “Serve, or become a brothel boy.” She did not elaborate. Tenzin recalled another boy’s fate and made his decision quickly, not out of fear, but instinct.
He became a brothel boy.Training in the west wing centered on compliance and resilience. “Don’t bruise when you bathe,” an older boy instructed. “Kneel straight, even if it hurts,” another whispered. The air held scents of rosewater and iron; the lessons focused on masking pain and emotion.The rituals changed by age ten. Preparation became more extensive, clothing lighter, and instructions fewer.
The staff explained nothing; they simply issued orders. Tenzin was told, “Kneel here. Breathe. Stay still.” He obeyed without resistance, recognizing that objection was pointless.The initial patron evaluated him as merchandise. The madam communicated the terms. “He’s ready,” she told the buyer. The man nodded and waited.Afterward, Tenzin received turmeric paste and was ignored. He lay silently, understanding this was routine.
With repetition, he learned mental strategies to endure: “Don’t flinch. Don’t move. Detach,” he told himself. Tenzin stopped counting incidents and accepted the institution’s rhythm.
By thirteen, roles and expectations solidified. Tenzin was selected for a new ritual and prepared in accordance with custom. The half-blinded man overseeing the process commented, “Amber eyes don’t belong here. They’re volatile.” Tenzin replied, his voice dry: “If they’re that volatile and wanted, I can give you one for a few moments.” The man retorted, “You’ll get that pride chopped off in a few minutes.”
Tenzin registered the threat and stared into his cup, curious about the nature of numbness.Before the ritual continued, the madam intervened. She grasped Tenzin’s wrist and instructed, “Not yet. A buyer’s come.”
He was arranged among the other boys, trained to keep his head down and robe straight. Silence was the rule. The room was subdued, incense low. The half-blinded man remained nearby, arms folded
.A woman entered, her attire unusual for the district—black, loose, covering her form in deliberate anonymity. She surveyed the group. Her decision was immediate and vocal. “The one with gold eyes,” she said, her tone firm.
Tenzin looked up, registering her intent. The moment marked another transaction, another decision made by those in power. He understood his value was dictated by novelty; his pride remained—and would always remain—temporary
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