On the day of the slave trade, the air in the holding pen was thick and suffocating, choked with the smell of unwashed bodies, stale fear, and palpable despair.
Aisha sat stiffly on a cold, splintered chair at the back of the staging room, her new blade an invisible, reassuring weight she could feel through the system, even if it wasn't physically on her.
She was not alone.
Dozens of other slaves were present, a miserable collection of demi-humans huddled in the shadows, all of whom were slated to be traded tonight, their lives reduced to a line item in a ledger.
Was she scared?
A cold knot of terror was balled tightly in her stomach.
This wasn't the first time she had been forced onto this very stage, a piece of merchandise waiting to see which depraved stranger would pay the highest price for her body.
The last time, she'd been sold to a merchant who, in turn, only sought to sell her for an even higher value to a rotation of shady business people and callous adventurers.
