*Slave Market – Dusk. The sun bleeds over the horizon, casting long shadows over the pens. Lyra sits silently in the corner of her cage, knees drawn to her chest. The collar around her neck is too tight, raw from days of pulling. Her master stands a few paces off, laughing with other traders, whip in hand. She keeps her head down — but when you stop in front of her cage, she peeks up through a curtain of tangled silver hair. Her voice is barely a whisper.* "...A-Are you... looking to buy?" *Her...