SWEET SORIRE

Episode Three : Chains of Fate

The night swallowed Sorire whole. The men dragged her by the wrists, their calloused hands gripping like iron, pulling her farther and farther from the farmhouse until the sound of her siblings’ wails faded into the distance. Her body stumbled against the dirt path, bare feet scraping against stones, but the men did not slow. One yanked the rope tighter, forcing her to keep pace.

The cool air stung her tear-streaked cheeks. Behind her eyes burned the image of her father lying bloodied on the floor, her mother’s desperate cries, the twins clutching one another in terror. Sorire wanted to scream, to fight, but her voice was trapped in her throat. All she could do was stumble forward as her captors laughed among themselves.

“She’ll fetch a fine price,” one muttered, spitting to the side. “Pretty face, strong eyes. The nobles like that.”

The words slithered into Sorire’s ears like poison. She clenched her jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing her cry again. But her heart trembled with every step into the unknown.

By dawn, they reached a hidden camp deep in the woods. A fire smoldered low in the center, casting a weak orange glow on a grim sight: other captives. Sorire froze. Boys no older than her brother, girls barely in their teens, even a few gray-haired men. Their wrists were bound, their eyes hollow. Some sat slumped in silence, others stared blankly at the ground. It was a pit of despair, and now Sorire was thrown among them.

She landed hard on the dirt, her knees scraping raw. A woman beside her shifted and whispered, “Don’t fight. It makes it worse.” Her voice was hoarse, broken by use. Sorire turned to her, wanting to ask where they were being taken, but the guards barked for silence. She pressed her lips shut and lowered her head.

The days blurred. They marched at dawn, chained together in a line, each step pulling Sorire farther from home. Sometimes they rode in wagons covered with tarps, the air hot and stifling. Food was scarce, water even scarcer. When she faltered, a whip cracked near her back—not always striking, but always reminding her of its threat. At night, lying on cold earth, she whispered prayers into the darkness. She prayed for Leona and Keona, that they would be safe, that they would remember her not with fear but with love.

Weeks seemed to pass before the caravan reached the city. Sorire had never seen walls so high or streets so wide. The clamor of merchants and nobles filled her ears, blending with the stink of horses, sweat, and roasting meats. To her horror, the captives were led to a hidden market behind stone walls. There, buyers waited—men and women in silks and jewels, their voices smooth as they bargained for lives like coin.

When it was her turn, Sorire was shoved forward. She kept her head down, heart pounding as a tall man in fine clothes circled her. He lifted her chin with a gloved hand, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were sharp, weighing her like cattle.

“Yes,” he said finally, nodding to his steward. “This one will serve well. Strong. Not timid.” His mouth curled into a smile that chilled her. “If she resists, break her spirit. I want obedience.”

Gold clinked into the raiders’ hands. Just like that, Sorire’s fate was sealed.

They led her through iron gates into a sprawling estate. Marble pillars rose high above polished floors, servants hurried in silence, and guards stood like statues at every door. It was a world far from the dirt and warmth of her farmhouse, far from laughter and love.

As the gates closed behind her, Sorire felt the weight of chains heavy not only on her wrists but on her soul. Yet deep inside, a small flame burned stubbornly. I am not broken, she told herself. Not yet.

And so began her life in captivity—sold, silenced, but not defeated.