Rosia stood in the middle of the dusty square, her small hands tied in front of her with rough rope. She was only eleven, but she already knew what it meant to be sold. The hot sun burned on her shoulders. The wooden platform creaked under her bare feet. The smell of sweat, leather, and strange perfumes filled the air. People were shouting, coins clinking, and horses neighing nearby.
She kept her head low. Her long dark hair fell over her face, hiding her eyes. She hoped if she looked small enough, quiet enough, they might forget her. But no one forgot the children at the slave market. Buyers always liked them because they were young and could be shaped into whatever role was needed.
"Next, the girl," the auction master barked. His voice was rough, like the scraping of a rusty pan. He pulled Rosia forward by her arm. She staggered but kept her balance. She was used to being yanked around.
Rosia bit the inside of her cheek. She hated when they called her "the girl." Something deep inside her clenched every time. She had a secret. She held it tightly, like a treasure hidden in the folds of her heart. She would no longer live as just a girl. Not if she could help it.
From the corner of her eye, Rosia saw a noble family stepping forward. They were different from the others. Their clothes were not common cloth but soft, rich silk trimmed with gold thread. The lady had hair that shone like sunlight, pale blonde, and when she tilted her head, her earrings sparkled. Beside her stood two boys, both with golden hair like their mother. They looked proud, strong, and well-fed. The older one, perhaps fourteen, had sharp eyes that scanned everything seriously. The younger one, maybe thirteen, looked curious, almost kind, but still carried the air of someone who never lacked food or comfort.
Behind them, their father was dressed in darker clothes, heavy with dignity. Unlike his wife and sons, his hair was black, sleek, and neat, a striking contrast to the brightness of the rest of his family. He looked stern, but his eyes lingered on Rosia longer than most buyers' eyes did.
"She looks weak," someone muttered in the crowd.
"Too young to work hard," another said.
But the nobleman raised a hand. "We'll take her," he declared simply.
Before she could blink, coins exchanged hands. Just like that, Rosia was theirs.
The blonde lady stepped closer. She did not smile. "What is your name, child?" she asked.
Rosia opened her mouth, then hesitated. If she told them who she truly was, if she let them know she was Rosia the girl, her life would go on as every slave girl's life did: small, unnoticed, powerless. But something inside whispered: Hide yourself. Become someone else. That's the only way to survive.
She lowered her voice. "Ros… Ros," she stammered.
"Ros?" the younger brother repeated, tilting his head.
The nobleman nodded. "Good. A simple name. Strong. From now on, you'll serve in our house."
Rosia clenched her fists. Ros, she thought. She had cut her own name in half—hidden its softness, its bloom. If she was Ros now, perhaps she could pretend to be a boy. If she could fool even her new masters, maybe she could build a new fate.
The rope was removed from her wrists, and the noble family's carriage loomed before her: massive wooden wheels, polished steps, and curtains made of embroidered velvet. Rosia hesitated as they gestured her inside. For the first time, she sat on cushions instead of straw. She could feel the stares of the two brothers, pale hair glowing against the carriage's shadows.
"What can you do?" the older one asked flatly.
Rosia froze.
"Can you clean? Carry things? Run fast?" the younger added.
She nodded quickly. "Yes."
Both brothers exchanged glances. One looked doubtful. The other gave the smallest hint of a smile.
The blonde lady folded her delicate hands. "Your place is small now, Ros, but remember this: in our house, loyalty matters more than strength. Obey, and you will not suffer. Disobey, and you will regret it."
Rosia tucked her hands into her lap and murmured, "Yes, my lady." But inside, her thoughts churned. She wasn't here to be only loyal. She wasn't here to remain weak. She would have to become someone else—someone who carried power safely hidden inside.
As the carriage rattled out of the market and the noble family's banners waved in the wind, her heart thudded with fear but also with a strange spark. For the first time, she was not returning to chains. She was going to a house of lords, to a family who had chosen her.
And already, she had chosen her mask. She was no longer Rosia, the slave girl. She was Ros, the boy none of them would suspect.
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