People keep saying life's cheap in this gods-forsaken world. That it doesn't mean anything. That no one cares. Ugh. Amateurs.
Life here has exact value. You just need the right scales to weigh it on. And believe me — around here, everyone's weighed.
Slave girls? Tagged and tallied. Property of whore-masters who track them like goats. Knights? Bought and armored by their lords. Lords bow to dukes, who lick the boots of kings, who in turn polish the crowns of emperors like good little boys. Harlots belong to pimps. Priests to temples. Temples to gods. Merchants dance for guilds. Gongs — poor sods — to sacrificial altars. And even the Sisters — all that "No Sons, No Masters" noise? Please. They belong to ideology harder than any chain I've ever worn.
Everyone's owned. Everyone's price is somewhere in a ledger.
Me?
Well, once upon a time — during one of my more radiant moments, mind you — I was bid on for twelve gold coins. Twelve.
…Okay. Fine. Ten and a half. But the man had gout, bad eyesight, and excellent taste, so I'm rounding up. Girl's gotta maintain standards.
Now? There's a hundred silver shekels for my head. Not even for me alive, just the severed part. Real charming. Poster's got a sketch and everything. Little exaggerated on the cleavage, if we're being honest. And beside me, guess what? Fifteen hundred for him. The Dragon. Mister Ancient-and-Scaly himself.
Fifteen hundred.
Which, first of all: rude. Yes, yes, he breathes fire and flattens buildings, but I'm the strategist, the negotiator, the bait, the brains, and the whole damn marketing department of this enterprise. He just shows up late, burns stuff, and complains about back pain. But he gets the royal bounty? I get silver change and a footnote.
So yeah. Don't tell me life's cheap. Life has value. Market value.
And sure, it fluctuates. One day you're a virgin sacrifice. Next day you're wanted dead. And maybe, just maybe, one day you'll name your own price.
And I promise you this: it won't be cheap.
Not anymore.
You grow up in the docks, right? Mind your own business. Keep your head down. Maybe hustle a little. Pick a pocket here, flash a smile there. Add a little flair to a merchant's story so he feels exotic for surviving the slums. Spice up a sailor's tale with a ghost or a sea hag. Local folklore, local flavor. Tourist trap vibes, but make it art.
And what do they say?
They say you're worthless. That you'll end up face down in a gutter, or spread on a cot for coppers. So they swoop in. Doll you up in some smoke-scented temple with oil and incense and "sacred discipline." Teach you whorecraft. Teach you how to moan in three dialects and fake six types of orgasm depending on client's region and religion. Add a little poetry, a little shame, and bam — twelve gold coins.
Ten and a half. Shut up.
You run. You escape. You take your pretty little curses and all your pent-up sass and you hitch a ride with a cranky old reptile with back problems and a gold addiction. Start scouring the countryside. Start causing a tiny bit of chaos. And oupsie — next thing you know it's a hundred silver shekels for your head on every signpost from Seebulba to Hanigalbat. Bonus if delivered with both nipples still attached.
See, the more of a menace you are, the higher your value goes.
Be a barefoot street brat? Worthless. Be a well-trained slut? Twelve gold. Be a con-woman on the run with a fire-breathing lizard and a penchant for scandal? Hundred silver. Minimum.
So yeah. What's a girl to do?
I'm not broken. I'm not evil. I'm just a product of my bloody society.
A very marketable product.