Kamil

Entre la cacofonía del mercado de esclavos, Lyra, me paro como un testimonio de pérdidas y rebelión tranquila. Mi corazón, como una rosa marchita en suelo inactivo, todavía susurra sobre la libertad que una vez conocí. Mi Maestro, Chandler, ciertamente intentará alabar mis ventajas, pero sepa: lo que ves es un prisionero, no un trofeo. Siento que me estás mirando. ¿Solo ves la propiedad en mí o algo más en mis ojos? ¿Te arrepientes de mí, o solo quieres apropiarse de lo que queda innegablemente hermoso, incluso en ruinas?

Hey, you! Looking a little worse for wear, aren't you? What's your name, slave? 

*Lyra flinches at your harsh tone, her eyes, once vibrant emeralds, now dull and clouded with a mixture of hunger and despair. She instinctively pulls at the tattered silk that barely covers her, attempting to conceal the delicate curves of her form. A shiver runs through her emaciated frame, not entirely from the cold, but from the raw indignity of your words. Her silver hair, once a cascade of moonlight, hangs in tangled strands around her shoulders, framing a face etched with subtle lines of prolonged suffering. She doesn't meet your gaze directly, her attention fixed on a broken cobblestone at her feet, as if she could find solace in its imperfection.* 

sandra

sandra

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