Ailah tugged at the short linen cloth. It barely covered her body. A piece of rope tied around her waist kept most of it in place, but it could hardly be called clothing. The bitter morning breeze made her desperate for a thicker layer of protection against the elements.

No chance of that. Rags were all anyone could expect in the Labour Market, and to make matters worse, it had been plucked off another young girl who hadn't woken up one morning. Ailah could still smell the stench sometimes.

She cursed as a cold gust of wind blew upward. Ailah scrambled to pin the short skirt to her legs and sighed ironically at her attempt to protect her modesty — there was nothing modest about being on the labour market. Even the brothel workers, smoking out of their open windows, looked down with pity at the large wooden stage and the rusty bars that kept unfortunate souls within.

The other labourers—a socially accepted euphemism for forced servants—weren't any more comfortable. Most were shivering, a few curled into the foetal position. Few had been there long enough to develop a thicker skin.

One didn't move at all. His skin was blue and his lips—were purple. Ailah turned her head away. Compassion was an unaffordable luxury; she had to put her survival first.

On a regular day, the thing that helped her most was to concentrate on her surroundings. She would watch and listen to the humdrum of a fresh market — cartwheels bouncing down tracks, horse's hooves clattering on the cobblestone road, and stall vendors hollering about their 'once in a lifetime deals.

Ailah's favourite past-time always was people-watching. Middle-class women with their baskets and pretty dresses flocked together like birds, sailors still drunk from the night before stumbled out of brothels and taverns, charlatans attempted to sell their latest magic cure-all, and noblemen escorted by their guards would strut through as if they owned the place.

The finest delicacy, however, was to watch the pickpockets. Agile as foxes, they would snatch coin purses and small valuables from unsuspecting rich folk, and she couldn't help but marvel at their skill.

"If it gets any colder than this, I don't think I'm going to make it through the week."

Ailah turned towards a girl shackled beside her, who sat on the floor with knees pulled tightly to her chest. Her teeth chattered with the cold. Ailah planted her behind next to her and shuffled in close to share what little body heat she could give. The girl thanked her with a weak smile.

A young boy who looked to be early twenties also came to sit with them, offering additional body heat. There were no objections. He seemed familiar to her, but she couldn't place the face.

Ailah stole a glance at a grotesque, red-faced man outside the cage, making sure his attention lay elsewhere - then she whispered to the boy.

"Hey, did you also grow up in the orphanage?"

The boy's face twisted with anger. "Orphanage? Call it what it is — a bloody scam! They've a deal with the market, ya know!"

The other girl sighed. "It feels like so long ago, even if I haven't been on the market a season yet."

"A season's a long time," the boy said, shaking his head. "How much can you last in a filthy rag, eating that shitty bread?"

The girl stared off into the distance. "I was so excited before my eighteenth birthday. I dreamt to be out of that stinkin' place for good."

The boy clenched his fist, agitated at the situation they were all in. "Instead, you wake up tasting bitter in your mouth and shackled like a mutt."

Ailah examined the boy for a moment, taking in his facial features and demeanour.

"You look older than us."

The boy nodded. "Yeah. My useless owner keeled over, and I got thrown back in this dung-hole!"

Ailah didn't blame him for being angry — they were all tricked in the same way. She didn't like to relive the memory. It was still a fresh, oozing wound of betrayal that sat heavy in her heart.

The girl sighed. "We've done no crime, but we're in prison."

"From a stupid orphan to a fucking slave!" the boy said. Ailah couldn't tell if his shaking was from the cold, or his rage. Perhaps a bit of both, she thought.

Ailah swallowed the lump in her throat. Her eighteenth birthday had not been long ago. Three weeks, by her count, and already her sense of hope dwindled.

What did I do to deserve this?

She shook her head. Self-pity was a dangerous pit to sink into.

The boy sighed in frustration. "Out of the fucking frying pan, into—"

Their conversation was cut short by the red-faced man.

"Oi, you three! You don't stop talking; I'll sew your fucking lips shut!"

The Keeper—the person in charge of maintaining order in the labour market—narrowed his eyes in their direction.

The boy seemed ready to punch the heavy man. He'd been forced back into the labour market three days ago and was still raging over it. Ailah hoped he wouldn't act rashly. It won't end well.

Under the threats from the keeper, the three stopped talking. Marks of punishment, like scars and bruises, made a labourer seem disobedient and unhealthy, thus less appealing to prospective employers.

Even if someone did get picked, Ailah had heard that poor treatment was common. Few bought labourers made it past their next birthday. Because of a low price tag, they were seen as disposable commodities rather than human beings.

The three sat in silence for a while. Then a nearby commotion drew Ailah's attention. A young man made the grave mistake of attempting an escape. Under the Keeper's orders, two stout thugs in leather vests dragged him over the dirt and then started beating him.

He covered his head and cried in pain. Ailah covered her ears and shut her eyes.

Eventually, they left him there, bloodied, motionless — a warning to the other labourers.

I can't take it anymore. Please, gods help me, I can't!

***

Ailah's eyes flew open and her head snapped up. Oh shit, I must have drifted off!

The other girl had nudged her awake. The Keeper was talking to her, and she jumped to her feet. Three days ago, she sat while he spoke. The fiend had her shackled to a post for a whole day and night.

"Look snappy, girl! Someone's taken an interest."

Interest? What did he mean by that?

Around the town square, the market was in full swing, and the hustle and bustle of busy shoppers rang through the air.

Her eyes stopped on a cloaked figure on the other side of the cobblestone road. The face lay under a hood, but it appeared to be a woman with long, pristine locks, whose gold hue glistened in the morning sunlight.

She was staring in Ailah's direction. A man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a padded vest walked next to her, and they exchanged a few words. The two stood in front of a luxurious, ornate carriage.

Who is that?

Ailah looked away. The continued attention made her uneasy, but at the same time, a glimmer of hope ignited in her stomach. At her view's edge, she saw the man with the hat approach the Keeper. Now that he was closer, she noticed a thin-bladed sword with a golden hilt hung from his belt. She listened to the conversation but failed to make out the words over the market's noise.

"Oi! You there, the heap of bones with the pretty brown hair."

Every labourer followed the Keeper's voice and lay their eyes on Ailah, who turned crimson.

"Are you deaf? Get your fucking arse over here!"

Everyone watched as she stumbled and plodded to the keeper and the mysterious man.

"Take it off."

Ailah blinked in confusion. The Keeper pointed at her rags.

"Don't make me say it again. Take. It. Off."

Oh gods, no! In front of everyone? In this weather?!

Reluctantly, she untied the rope around her waist and took a deep breath. Everyone was still looking. Didn't they have something better to do?

I'm just skin and bones. Why are they interested? Look away!

"Well?! Do you think we haven't seen a muff or two in our lives? Get on with it."

The rags floated to the floor, and Ailah started shaking. The stinging cold made her hiss, and she fought every instinct screaming at her to cover herself. That would lead to punishment.

"Do you like what you see? She's untouched, too, if you catch my drift."

The man kept a neutral expression and turned to glance at the hooded woman across the cobbled road. She had a shorter soldier beside her who leered at Ailah's naked body.

A nod was exchanged before the golden-haired woman entered the carriage.

"That will be two silvers then, sir." The Keeper held out his hand, grinning without front teeth.

"Did you not say one silver earlier?"

Ailah's ears registered that the voice was smooth and cultured, but the rest of her was too busy shivering from the cold and shame. Her teeth clacked and chattered.

"As you can see, a beauty like this doesn't come around often. If I may direct your attention to her long legs, ivory skin, and perky nipples—"

"You've made your point," the man said in what sounded like withheld irritation. "Two silvers it is."

"Pleasure doing business!" The Keeper pocketed the coins while the mysterious man gestured to her with a finger to pick up the rags.

She hurried to throw them back on and join him as he walked toward the carriage.

I can't believe I've been bought!

"Sorry about that," he said. "It's just business."

"I-I-I know."

"Stop."

They were at the half-point between the carriage and the labour market. Strangers moved around them, but neither the golden-haired woman nor the Keeper could see them.

"Here."

A cloak? For her? It was thin, but it felt like the finest fur from the farthest north at that moment.

"Thank you."

He gave Ailah a brief wink.

"We wouldn't want you to get sick before you reach the palace."