Page 122 of Somno Slave

He tries to encourage some villagers to make a purchase, but no one listens. There’s desperation in his voice. He reaches out to one lady with a neatly woven basket in her arm. Her hair has been pinned back by pegs. She glances at him, then at his cart. Seeing the silver and sparkles, her face changes to something bitter.

“As if we can afford those right now.” She hisses, face rippling with anger. She juts her chin at him and flees into the crowd quickly.

His shoulders slump, and he falls forward, leaning over his cart. He busies himself with re-organising the jewellery like it will fix anything.

“Still nothing?” A gravely voice asks.

An older man steps out from the stall beside the cart, his thick, wiry beard dusted pale at the edges, as though absorbed months of flour and heat. His eyes are soft, wide and doe-like in a face worn down by early mornings and hard labour. A thatched apron hangs from his shoulders, threadbare and torn in places, marked with ghostly white handprints where flour has been wiped away again and again.

He looks at Deogal sadly. “That’s not good.”

Deogal doesn’t reply.

“How’s the old man?” He asks. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Deogal exhales sharply, as if the breath has been dragged from him. He keeps his gaze low. “Still sick.”

The baker studies him for a moment, before turning back to his stall. He bends, huffs as the movement takes it out of his old body and reaches into a basket beneath the stall. His fingers disappear among the loaves.

He pulls out two rounds of bread and tosses them without ceremony. Deogal barely catches them in time, fumbling before his hands close around the warmth.

“A little mouldy,” the baker says, voice slow and apologetic. “Pick the black bits out and it’ll see you through a few days.”

Deogal peers up at the man, eyes wide. “I don’t have any coins to give you.”

“Please,” the baker holds his hand high, “It’s okay. Your old man was always good to me.”

His smile reaches his eyes. “He’s a good man. It’s the least I could do.”

Deogal swallows hard. He scans it intently before finally, relief settles. His stomach growls, a low guttural noise that sounds painful.

For a moment, I hardly recognise him. His eyes sparkle with a kind of innocent gratitude that I’ve never seen before. He tucks the bread carefully beneath the cart like it’s fragile, as though it could vanish if he doesn’t watch it closely enough.

The moment is interpreted violently. Boots, heavy thudding, more than one set.

The market tightens and voices dull. Laughter gets cut off, and bartering voices simmer to a hush. Someone nearby pulls their child closer as a stall canvas flaps and snaps in the wind like a warning.

Deogal stills.

His shoulders square instinctively, spine straightening.

I turn.

Two men in iron-trimmed tunics push through the crowd, leather belts heavy with keys and batons. Their presence feels wrong. They’re already looking at him, voices hushed but hurried, talking to one another, plotting, planning.

One of them stops directly in front of Deogal’s cart.

“You there,” he says, eyes flicking over the jewellery with open disdain. “Papers.”

Deogal doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers tighten on the edge of the cart.

He swallows, and then answers slowly. “This is my father’s cart.”

The guard smiles, not kindly.

“I didn’t ask whose cart it was.” He sneers.

“Papers.” The other repeats coldly. He holds out his hand, fingers curling into his palm impatiently. “Where are they?”