Oh, the aunties.
You know who I an. The street hookers from my quarter. The old guard. The ones with cracked heels, missing teeth, and a hundred tricks for a two-coin blow. Matrons of the piss alleys. They’d sit on crates, skirts hitched, smoking rolled-up whatever, yelling at kids and sailors like they owned the place.
They half-raised . Fed scraps. Smacked my ass when I stole from the wrong drunk. Taught which corners got more foot traffic and which guards took bribes.
And gods, they were so proud when I got taken.
“Our little Saya,” they cooed. “Temple-trained, just like we said she’d be! Fancy silks and scented oils now. No more gutter for that one.”
Temple-trained? Please. I got grabbed by the city guard during a sweep, shackled before I finished screaming, and sold to the Temple of the Bleeding Heart like a prize calf. No ceremony. No incense. Just a bruised wrist and a contract I couldn't read.
But oh, the stories that reached back to the alleys.
“Did you hear?” said one. “She went for five gold gabullions.”
“Five?” another gasped. “She always did have the eyes for it.”
Five. Full price. Like I was a fine wine or a fucking heirloom goat. Not that it was them on the block, squinting through the sun, heart pounding in your ears while n prodded your thighs and bid like you were furniture with a cunt.
But sure. Saya’s going places.
They clapped and cheered like it was a wedding. Like I’d made them proud. Like I’d escaped.
Truth is, I was just the first one they got a decent return on.
Their little success story, bleeding under temple silk.
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