The heat in Zeila's market clung to the skin like a curse. Even the flies, too fat on blood and rot, buzzed lazily above the auction yard. Baran's wrists ached from the iron manacles as he stood, bare-chested, in a line of trembling men. He didn't flinch when the slaver's whip cracked across the back of an older man next to him—he had learned long ago not to react. Still, his eyes burned with restrained fury.
"Ayyo! Look at this one!" a merchant shouted, gripping Baran's chin roughly. "Strong legs. Broad back. Could haul a wagon full of grain."
Baran yanked his head away, earning a cuff across the ear.
