In the dusty streets of Shackleford, right outside the trading office, a young woman sits quietly in the heat. Her wrists and ankles are bound, the iron links clinking softly whenever she moves. The long days on the road have worn her down, yet her wild spirit still flickers behind those tired eyes.

The men around her talk in low voices, signing papers, stamping seals - the language of business in a world without mercy. The air is thick with dust and sweat, but someone sprays a faint scent of perfume, drifting through the heat like a fragile memory of gentler times.

She lifts her head for a moment, the wind brushing through her tangled hair. For a heartbeat, she looks free - just another soul beneath the western sun. Then the sound of boots and chains brings her back to the present. It’s time to move on.