2. Naia

2

NAIA

I wake with a start, my heart racing as the familiar dread of another day seeps in. The slave quarters reek of sweat and despair, bodies packed tight in this dank hellhole. I stretch my aching muscles, careful not to jostle the others crammed around me.

Weak light filters through a grimy window. Dawn's still a ways off, but that's no excuse to linger. Overseers don't take kindly to tardiness.

I slip on my threadbare tunic, the fabric rough against my skin. My fingers work quickly to braid my hair - can't have it getting in the way while I'm hawking "merchandise."

"Naia," a hoarse whisper catches my ear. It's Elodie, her face gaunt in the dim light. "Trade you my bread for your water ration?"

I nod, though my parched throat screams in protest. Elodie's pregnant - she needs the sustenance more than I do.

The guards' heavy footsteps echo down the hall. Time to move. I shuffle out with the others, keeping my head down. No sense in drawing attention.

The market's already bustling as we're herded to our posts. The stench of unwashed bodies mingles with exotic incense, a sickening perfume that never quite masks the rot beneath.

I take my place behind a rickety stall, forcing a smile as potential buyers approach. My job? Make the miserable souls on display seem like worthy investments. It's soul-crushing work, but the alternative - ending up on the auction block myself - is far worse.

"Step right up!" I call out, hating every word. "New stock! Strong backs, nimble fingers - whatever your needs, we've got the perfect slave for you!"

A cloaked figure pauses, eyeing a young boy chained nearby. My stomach churns, but I launch into my spiel. It's going to be a long, miserable day.

The market's chaos fades as my mind drifts, dragging me back to that fateful day in Ter. The memory hits like a punch to the gut, as vivid as if it were happening all over again.

I'm sprinting down a crowded alley, heart pounding. My latest pickpocketing attempt went south - the mark spotted me before I could snag his coin purse. Now I'm running for my life, ducking and weaving through the throng.

"Stop that thief!" The shout echoes behind me, but I don't dare look back.

I round a corner, relief flooding through me as I spot a familiar hidey-hole. Just a few more steps and I'll be safe-

A hand clamps down on my shoulder, iron-strong. I yelp, twisting to face my captor, hoping I can get out of this.

But I find myself staring up at a dark elf merchant with one look that tells me everything I need to know — he's rich from the flesh trade. His violet eyes gleam with cruel amusement, lips curled in a sneer that reveals pointed teeth.

"Well, well," he purrs, "What have we here? A little street rodan, ripe for the taking."

I thrash in his grip, but it's like fighting against stone. "Let me go!" I snarl, kicking at his shins.

He laughs, the sound sending chills down my spine. "Feisty one, aren't you? You'll fetch a fine price in Rach."

Before I can scream for help, his magic sweeps in. The world spins, darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision. I fight to stay conscious, but it's no use.

I wake to the gentle rocking of a ship, the tang of salt in the air. My head throbs, and when I try to move, I realize my wrists and ankles are bound. Panic claws at my throat as I take in my surroundings - a dimly lit cargo hold, packed with other frightened humans.

A dark elf saunters by, smirking as he sees me awake. "Welcome aboard, little rodan. Hope you enjoy the voyage to your new home."

Days blur together. We're given just enough water and gruel to keep us alive. The dark elves ignore our pleas, treating us like taura being shipped to market. Except they don't usually use the taura to pleasure themselves during the long nights on the seas…

Finally, the ship docks. We're herded off the gangplank, blinking in the harsh sunlight. I'm not sure if I should be terrified or relieved to get away from the crew. The bruises and aches on my body, my empty stomach, and my parched throat all hope that this will be an improvement.

"Welcome to Rach," one of our captors announces with mock cheerfulness. "Your new lives await."

As we're marched towards a sprawling marketplace, reality sinks in. This isn't just a bad dream I can wake up from. I'm trapped in a nightmare with no end in sight.

A sharp crack across my shoulders jolts me back to reality. The overseer's whip stings, but I bite back a cry. No use giving the bastard the satisfaction.

"Pay attention, rodan," he snarls. "Customers don't like distracted slaves."

I force a smile, though it feels more like a grimace. "Of course, sir. My apologies."

The day drags on, a blur of haggling and hollow promises. I'm steering a potential buyer towards a group of laborers when a nearby conversation catches my ear.

"... telling you, it's genuine," a gruff voice insists. "Straight from the ruins of Kalyndria."

I inch closer to the merchant's stall, pretending to straighten some nearby wares. Two dark elves stand huddled together, their voices low but excited.

"Impossible," the other scoffs. "The volcano's been active for centuries. Nothing could survive that heat."

The first elf leans in, eyes gleaming. "That's what makes it so valuable. It's not just any artifact - it's a Tear of the Thirteen."

I nearly drop the vase I'm holding. A Tear of the Thirteen? I've heard whispers of such things - crystals said to hold immense magical power, created by the gods themselves.

"How did you get your hands on one?" the second elf demands, his skepticism fading to naked greed.

The merchant grins, revealing pointed teeth. "Let's just say I have friends in low places. Very low places."

"When can I see it?"

"Patience, my friend. It arrives tomorrow, under heavy guard. Can't risk it falling into the wrong hands, now can we?"

I force myself to move away before they notice my eavesdropping. My mind races with possibilities. A Tear of the Thirteen, here in Rach? The power such an artifact could hold...

No. I shake my head, trying to dispel the dangerous thoughts. Getting involved with something like that would be suicide. I'm just a slave, powerless and trapped. Better to focus on surviving another day in this shithole.

But as I return to my post, hawking human lives like animals, the merchant's words echo in my head. A tiny spark of hope flickers to life, fragile but persistent.

Maybe, just maybe, this could be my chance at freedom. If I could just get my hands on one, I could bargain my way out of this.