Hamstung- Slavers Bay.
The sun beat down harshly over Slavers' Bay, casting a golden haze across the river that cut through the city.
Along its muddy banks, a group of women knelt, scrubbing their clothes in the water, their laughter and chatter drifting across the heat-heavy air.
Some spoke in hushed tones, gossiping about the latest arrivals to the markets.
while others laughed freely, unbothered by the world beyond the river's edge. The clatter of wooden bowls and the slap of wet cloth against stones could be heard.
Among the women was Joya; seated beside her was Merlin.
She kept her eyes fixed on the clothes she scrubbed, letting the suds and water blur beneath her hands.
But then, a familiar murmur reached her ear, the soft, pointed chatter of the other women.
She froze for a heartbeat, realizing with a jolt that their gossip was about her… about her scandalous, offensive relationship with the high-ranking officer, Prator.
Her hands stilled mid-scrub, the water slipping unnoticed through her fingers.
The women gossiped freely, old and young alike, pointing fingers and casting disdainful glances in her direction.
Each whispered word seemed to cling to the air, heavy with judgment and malice.
Then they laughed, a high-pitched, grating sound that scraped against her nerves, making her stomach tighten and her hands tremble ever so slightly over the dress she was washing.
Merlin glanced at Joya and noticed the change immediately.
Her friend's movements had grown sharper, almost violent, each scrub of the fabric driven by a rising fury. Her nails dug into the dress with relentless force, leaving tiny impressions in the soaked cloth.
The water splashed over the stones with each strike, echoing the tension building in
Joya's chest.
Merlin watched quietly, sensing the storm brewing beneath the calm surface of her friend's usual composure.
"Don't let their words get to you," she said sharply, her tone tinged with judgment rather than comfort.
At Merlin's words, Joya's grip on the dress faltered. The soaked fabric slipped from her hands with a splash into the river.
She exhaled slowly, a deep, almost weary sigh.
"They know I can hear them… they feed off my sorrow," she muttered, biting her lips bitterly, her words tasting sharp on her tongue.
"What they're saying… it's the truth. But you… you can't handle it."
"I can handle the truth, Merlin," she shot back, eyes flashing. "What I cannot handle is you… supporting them."
Just then, the voices of the women at the riverbank began to fade, trailing off into uneasy whispers.
He was coming, the muscle-bound soldier who always summoned Joya, his presence enough to silence the chatter before he even reached them.
The familiar rhythm of his heavy boots against the stones echoed through the air, each step carrying authority and quiet menace.
"He is coming," Merlin said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion.
"I know that," Joya replied quietly.
"For once, you could say no to this," Merlin shot back, her words sharp. "It's shameless… disgusting."
"It puts more food on my table," Joya interrupted roughly, her tone hard, but her eyes glistened with unshed pain.
"A woman died yesterday… from starvation and hardship," she said, her voice tight with restrained fury.
"If she had only had the chance to eat the meal… the one Prator offered to me, she wouldn't be dead." She added, each word dripping with bitter resentment, the injustice of it gnawing at her.
"Is this how you're going to live… like a whore?" Merlin's voice dropped, heavy with judgment, as she stepped closer.
Joya scoffed, then laughed bitterly.
"I am already a slave, Merlin; how much worse can it get?"
She lifted her gaze, meeting Merlin's eyes with a mixture of defiance.
"What Prator offers me… we both make a living from it. He triples my food and relieves me from the straining burdens under the sun. I survived because of it."
"We can do without…"
Merlin's words hung in the air as the officer appeared.
"Hey, you…!" he bellowed, pointing directly at Joya while standing just a few steps away, which was quite embarrassing.
"Come here."
He commanded.
Joya shut her eyes, pressing a hand against her face to hold back the tears threatening to spill. Slowly, she rose to her feet.
Merlin caught her by the wrist, a silent plea urging her not to go.
But Joya offered a weary, almost imperceptible smile in return, then slid her hand off Merlin's grasp, and without a word, turned toward the officer, then followed him.
The riverbank faded behind her as Joya followed the officer through the winding corridors of Slavers' Bay.
The clatter of water was replaced by the heavy, deliberate silence of the officer's domain.
Finally, they arrived at a large, dimly lit cabin.
The air inside smelled of polished wood and burning oil, with a faint tang of metal lingering from the soldier's weapons.
Immediately after she stepped in, the door closed behind her with a soft thud, cutting her off from the outside world and from any chance of retreat.
By now, she knew her way around the cabin. She moved with practiced ease, ascending the narrow wooden staircase that led to the upper gallery.
She paused when she got to the door leading to his room.
Swallowing the lump forming in her throat and stepping inside, her every movement cautious but controlled, the door creaking softly as she pushed it open.
The air hit her first, a pungent mix of spices and sweat.
Her eyes instinctively darted to the bed, the place where he usually awaited, but it was empty.
Then her gaze shifted to the long armchair by the window, where he usually lounged, sipping wine as sunlight spilled across the floor. But it was empty too.
Then her eyes swept to the desk, where scattered scrolls and letters usually lay, the familiar chaos of his work.
There he was, seated rigidly by his oak-carved table, quill in hand; the faint scratch of ink against the parchment was the only sound in the chamber.
His brow furrowed as he wrote, the importance of the message reflected in the steadiness of his hand.
Every now and then he paused, tapping the feathered tip of the quill against the table.
He did not look up when Joya entered the chamber.
Joya remained still, her gaze lowered, watching him from beneath her lashes, unsure whether to speak or simply continue waiting.
"You look… busy," she said softly after a thought, her fingers tightening around one another.
It was a bold thing to say, because he had not given her permission to speak.
She swallowed, her fingers tightening together until her knuckles ached.
He had summoned her; she wanted to leave as soon as possible, but leaving without permission would bring worse consequences than being dismissed by silence.
At last, she took a small step forward.
He didn't react.
So she took another, slow…careful, the quiet shuffle of her feet barely audible over the steady scratch of his feather ink pen in his hand.
Her curiosity tugged at her, stronger than her fear of overstepping. If he refused to look at her… Perhaps she could look at what held all his attention.
She leaned in slightly, stretching her neck just enough to catch a glimpse of the parchment.
From where she stood, she could only make out sharp lines of ink, the beginning of a seal, and a few clipped words that meant nothing to her.
But still she tried to piece together the message, narrowing her eyes as though squinting might reveal its meaning.
He finally raised his gaze.
"What are you doing?" he asked, setting the quill down with a faint click.
Her breath brushed against the side of his neck, close enough that he could feel the warmth of it.
"Trying to help," she replied, not even looking at him. Her eyes remained fixed on the half-written scroll as though the ink itself had summoned her closer.
His jaw tightened.
"Get back," he ordered, voice low and steady.
She didn't move.
"Why?" She shot back, her tone edged with scornful boldness.
"Do you not think I am capable of helping?"
That made him look at her, fully this time.
"It is not your place to decide what you are capable of," he said quietly, though the warning beneath his words was unmistakable.
"And it is certainly not your place to stand over my shoulder."
She lifted her chin a little higher, refusing to look away.
"You look down on women; you think we are incapable of understanding…"
"Do not say another word."
He warned before she could finish her sentence. He puts the quill down, then rises to his feet, then brushes past her.
Joya remained silent, standing there, until she felt a strong hand wrapped around her from behind, pulling her close against a familiar, solid frame.
Her pulse leapt into her throat, muscles tensing instinctively.
His hand traced slowly around her waist, then moved upward to her shoulders.
"You seem to be getting… fatter," he remarked casually, his tone teasing yet observing.
"Is that a problem?" She asked coldly, then turned around, her eyes sharp, searching for any hint of malice.
"No," he replied, his voice steady.
"In fact, it's evidence that my men are treating you the way you are supposed to be treated."
"Why… Why do they treat me differently?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Because they know what you are to me," he replied, his tone calm but edged with possessiveness, as she slipped a strand of her hair behind her ear.
"What am I to you?" She breathed, her chest rising and falling with a hitched rhythm.
His gaze locked with hers for a split second, sharp and intense.
Then he looks away.
"Take off your clothes."
He says, walking towards the bed, and she bites her lips.
"Why don't you just say it? I am your whore, and my body is like a toy...."
"Take off your clothes!