Ashes of Devotion

Daniel

Daniel had never known the warmth of a loving home. Born into a family that barely scraped by, his childhood was defined by struggle, discipline, and an unrelenting expectation to survive. His father, a man hardened by disappointment and missed opportunities, had little patience for weakness. He demanded obedience and contribution from his son, enforcing discipline with a firm hand and an even firmer voice. His mother, though softer in her demeanor, was too burdened by the weight of their poverty to offer the affection he secretly craved. She was always working, always worrying, her love overshadowed by exhaustion and the ever-present need to stretch what little they had. They lived in a cramped, decrepit house on the outskirts of town, where the scent of damp wood and desperation clung to the air like a sickness.

From a young age, Daniel was forced to balance his studies with labor. School was never a priority in his household, but he fought for it anyway, knowing that an education was his only ticket out of the cycle that entrapped his family. But books and ink did not put food on the table, and his father made sure he understood that. When he wasn’t at school, he was working, hauling sacks of coal, chopping wood, scrubbing floors in the wealthier parts of town. Every coin he earned was snatched away before he could even think of spending it on himself. He learned quickly that in life, you take what you can, and you never get attached to what you cannot keep.

Despite the crushing burden of responsibility, Daniel found solace in training for the military. The physical exertion gave him purpose, the structure gave him stability, and the idea of leaving home one day kept him moving forward. He quickly rose through the ranks of his training programs, showing a natural aptitude for leadership, strategy, and combat. He fought harder than most, pushed himself further, because he knew that failure meant returning to a life he despised. It was his one true talent, and he pursued it with unwavering determination, earning respect through his skill and his ruthlessness.

But outside the regimented world of discipline and duty, Daniel harbored a darkness, a hunger that could never quite be sated. He had always been drawn to women, but not in the way poets spoke of love and devotion. To him, they were fleeting distractions, playthings to be used and discarded without a second thought. He never believed in permanence, never trusted in tenderness. His heart had been hardened by years of scarcity, of learning that everything in life came with a cost. Women were no different.

Brothels became his escape.

The scent of perfume and cheap wine, the dim glow of candlelight casting sultry shadows against silk curtains, it was a world of indulgence, a place where he could shed the weight of responsibility, if only for a night. He was known in these places, welcomed with open arms by women who knew his name but never his heart. They called him charming, dangerous, a man who whispered sweet nothings before disappearing by dawn.

One particular evening, he found himself reclining on a velvet chaise, a half-empty glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers. The woman beside him, draped in little more than crimson lace, traced idle circles on his bare chest, her lips curling into a knowing smile.

“You never stay,” she murmured, her voice laced with amusement rather than disappointment.

Daniel smirked, tilting his head to look at her. “And yet, you always let me in.”

She laughed, a sound full of experience and acceptance. “A man like you, always running, never chasing.”

He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze drifting to the flickering candle on the nearby table. The flame danced, alive for now but destined to burn out. Much like every woman he touched, every fleeting moment of pleasure he indulged in.

The brothel was a place where he could lose himself, where the softness of a woman’s touch erased the hardness of his world. But there was no intimacy here, only transactions dressed as passion. He would pay, he would take, and then he would leave.

But that night, something felt different.

As he sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair, the woman beside him propped herself up on her elbow. “Why do you do it?” she asked, her gaze steady.

He raised a brow, feigning ignorance. “Do what?”

She gestured vaguely at the air around them. “Come here. Disappear. Pretend like none of it matters.”

For a moment, he considered answering honestly. Telling her that it was easier this way, that attachment was a burden he had no desire to carry. That love had been something foreign to him since childhood, and he saw no reason to invite it into his life now. But instead, he leaned in, brushing his lips against the curve of her jaw before murmuring, “Because it doesn’t.”

She said nothing more, only watched as he stood, dressed, and left her behind like all the others. The door shut behind him with finality, and he exhaled as he stepped into the cold night air.

No, it didn’t matter.

And if it ever did, he would never admit it.