[Isabelle's Dreamscape]
On the other end, while Damien and the others were having their meeting, Isabelle was currently a battle of her own
Trapped in her mind, everywhere was cold.
The kind of cold that didn't just freeze the skin, but ate away at the hope inside the bones.
*Clang. Clang.*
The sound of iron bars rattling against stone.
Isabelle looked down. Her hands were small, dirty, and covered in sores.
A familiar scene, to a time before becoming a maid, to a time where she was just... merchandise.
"No," she whispered, her voice a dry rasp that hurt her throat.
"Not here again."
Through the bars, she saw them. The Slave Traders.
They were laughing, their faces twisted into grotesque masks of greed, pointing at her with thick, calloused fingers.
"A Half-Blood. Worthless. Maybe the arena will take her for fodder."
"Look at those eyes. Cursed. Burn her if she doesn't sell."
She curled into a ball on the filthy straw. She wanted to scream, but her throat was dry.
