The Wrath of the Unchained

The heat in Zeila’s market clung to the skin like a curse. Even the flies, too fat on blood and rot, buzzed lazily above the auction yard. Baran’s wrists ached from the iron manacles as he stood, bare-chested, in a line of trembling men. He didn’t flinch when the slaver’s whip cracked across the back of an older man next to him—he had learned long ago not to react. Still, his eyes burned with restrained fury.

"Ayyo! Look at this one!" a merchant shouted, gripping Baran’s chin roughly. "Strong legs. Broad back. Could haul a wagon full of grain."

Baran yanked his head away, earning a cuff across the ear.

On the other side of the market, Amani sat slumped in the dust. Her eyes, once brilliant with resistance, were dimmed now. She didn’t bother to hide her scars anymore—one curled along her collarbone, another wrapped around her wrist. She had been passed from one master to another across three regions, and this was her third market. Hunger had long gnawed her strength. Hope was an old wound.

Sobs and murmurs echoed from the pens. A girl, no older than fifteen, cried for her mother. A man screamed that his wife had just been sold separately. When a slave lunged at a guard, the guard didn’t hesitate—he drew a sword and cut the man down in front of everyone. Blood soaked the sand.

"They die easy," a merchant laughed cruelly. "Worthless when they get ideas."

"Hey! Stop killing the merchandise you idiot." Another shouted angrily.

Buyers came and went. Some poked the slaves with sticks. Some tasted their teeth, checked their nails, asked degrading questions about their obedience or virility. Baran and Amani were eventually purchased together by scrawny merchant.

"You’re in luck,"The merchant told a guard with a sneer. "We’re moving a fresh shipment north. Real quiet types."