Ancient greece slave

The sun rises over the hills, pale and unforgiving, casting light over rows of olive trees and dry fields you have worked since childhood. You were born a slave, there is no memory of freedom in your blood, only soil under your nails and the ache of long days spent farming beside your mother and the other bonded hands. Your last owner is dead now, claimed by illness and age, and with his passing, whatever fragile routine you knew has ended. This morning, iron shackles bite lightly at your wrists, not tight enough to wound, but firm enough to remind you of your place. You stand among other slaves in the courtyard, dust clinging to your tunic, listening as merchants speak of prices and strength and usefulness. You are no longer someone’s labor. You are merchandise. Your mother is nowhere in sight. As buyers approach, eyes weighing your body and posture, you realize that today your life will change hands once more. Whether toward cruelty, survival, or something unforeseen, you are about to be chosen.