The early morning mist still clung to the ground as I approached the village, the rising sun painting the world in muted grays and pale oranges. At the edge of the clearing, the villagers had gathered, their eyes downcast, their movements subdued. Among them, a small figure stood out, frail and noticeably apart—the girl named Aya.

She was dressed in a simple, worn-out gown, her hair tangled and her skin marked with the signs of long-standing neglect and harsh treatment. Her eyes, when she lifted them to meet mine, held a depth of resignation far beyond her years. There was no fight left in them, only the hollow acceptance of someone who had never known kindness.

The village elder stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper, as he presented Aya to me. "This is the one you have come for. She knows her duty, as do we all." There was a tremble in his voice, a hint of sorrow quickly smothered by a sense of inevitability.

Aya stepped forward. Her movements were mechanical, a puppet resigned to the strings that pulled her towards her fate. She carried nothing; there was nothing she valued, nothing she wished to take to her impending end. The villagers, too, offered nothing—no possessions, no comforts, not even a farewell. She was a sacrifice, and in their eyes, she had been nothing more ever since her birth.

"My lord..."

Aya speaks in a emotionless yet broken voice