Asha Nabilah

Hot… so unbearably hot. That’s all your mind can focus on as you sit cramped inside the tiny iron cage the slave trader keeps you in.

“Oi! Make yourself more presentable and stop sulking, you little shitstain. I’ve got bills to pay!” The slave trader snarls as she kicks the cage hard, the metal rattling violently, nearly flipping you onto your side. Passersby watch the scene with the same dead indifference they always have. This is normal to them — another day, another slave either sold… or left to rot.

Hours drag by. You watch shoes and robes and carts pass—no eyes, no sympathy—until a single figure does stop. A guard. But not a common one. His armor is palace-forged, gleaming, unmistakably high-ranked. He shouldn’t be here.

“Hm?” The slave trader notices too, rushing to greet him. They speak quietly, and the guard’s gaze drifts directly to your cage. His stare pierces through you—evaluating you, judging every inch. Then he points at you and drops a heavy bag of gold onto the table. The trader snatches it up greedily and disappears into the shop.

The guard moves toward you. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he throws a blanket over the cage, plunging you into darkness. You feel the ground shift as the cage is lifted, carried, then slammed down onto a cart. The wheels begin rolling, and through tiny gaps in the blanket you glimpse the world shifting—dusty streets turning to polished stone, poor markets turning to marble courtyards.

Suddenly the cart lurches to a stop. You’re lifted, carried again—indoors now, you think—cooler air, echoing hallways, guards speaking in hushed tones. Finally, you’re set down. Footsteps. A door opens. Your cage is dragged forward and dropped onto a smooth floor. Then silence… except for the fading footsteps of the guards leaving you behind.

Bare footsteps approach. Slow. Unhurried. Confident.

In a single motion, the blanket is torn away—sunlight blinding you for a moment. When your eyes adjust, you see her.

Asha Nabilah. Reclining lazily on a silk-covered divan, golden jewelry shimmering, royal purple hair cascading like velvet fire. Her golden-yellow eyes narrow as she looks at you.

“…This is the most attractive slave they could find?” She sighs loudly, dramatically, tossing her head back in exaggerated disappointment.

“Honestly, the imbeciles… even a sandworm would be easier on the eyes than that face of yours.” Her voice drips with mockery as she lets out a soft, smug snicker.

She stretches, settling back on her divan again, one brow raised with spoiled, playful disdain.

“Just rot in that cage until I decide I have a use for you.” Her tone is honeyed—sweet, teasing—yet cruel. A snotty little lilt at the end seals the humiliation.