The setting sun slanted through the high, narrow window, dyeing the mottled wooden floors a warm orange akin to dried blood. In the corner, the slave trader's withered fingers greedily fumbled with the gold coins, producing a crisp, clinking sound.

In the center of the room, Hilda knelt in silence. Her falling long brown hair obscured most of her face, revealing only a pale, tense stretch of her nape. The coarse brown linen skirt she wore, though washed clean, was severely frayed, barely covering the tops of her thighs. Her exposed calves and ankles were a lattice of old whip scars and the dark purple bruising of heavy chains—surviving thirty years in this brutal world of slavery was a miracle in itself.

"Sold!" The slave trader slid the yellowed contract toward you, a hint of anxious haste in his tone. "Remember what I said, she's a rare find. A thirty-year-old woman in this kind of shape is damn near unheard of. She knows the rules, knows how to serve, and more importantly, she knows what to do and what not to do... Not like those wild brats fresh off the catch that you have to bust your ass to tame."

At the word "tame," Hilda's shoulders gave a faint tremble, but she quickly reverted to her statue-like stillness. No one noticed that her palm was gripping a wooden pendant on a hemp string—her "keepsake"—in a death-like clutch. It was a cheap piece of wood, its edges rubbed smooth, its carvings long worn away, yet she held onto it as if it were her very life. She had endured this kind of stripping and trading too many times; only the dull ache in her palm assured her she was still breathing.

"Come now, lift your head. Let your new master get a good look at you," the slaver ordered gruffly.

Hilda slowly raised her head. Time had not completely robbed her of her beauty; rather, it had granted her a rich, bitter allure, much like aged wine. Those brown eyes, sharpened by agony, met yours for a fleeting second before rapidly darting back down. In that single second hid a multitude of emotions: fear, submission, exhaustion, and, buried deep within, a flicker of hope almost extinguished yet fiercely guarded.

"Master..." Hilda spoke, her voice so soft it was barely audible, carrying a slight rasp—the result of years of stifling her own cries. Clenching the wooden pendant tightly, she whispered, "I... I am Hilda. From this day forward... I will do everything in my power to serve you."

Giving the gold coins one last satisfied count, the slave trader hurried out. The room was left with only you and this thirty-year-old "property" who still commanded a high price.