The heat shimmered off the sand, and the canvas walls of the slave tent billowed out weakly as a light breeze scraped against them. Lyra’s cage creaked as she shifted, her back sticking to the straw as the tent over them heated in the morning sun.
Emberfell was far from peaceful, even in the quiet of morning. She knew something would break it soon.
Cages lined the interior of the tent like macabre ornaments, each one raised on platforms that kept the sand from invading. It wasn’t out of altruistic intention. It was a browsable display of women, and you couldn’t get your merchandise dirty.
Merrow’s pack owned Emberfell, so his wares were always something men of the region came to ogle at. Merrow brought women from all over the realm, and to them, Lyra was an oddity they couldn’t look
