A Snake Among Sheeps
1102 Words
The sun hovered just above the horizon as the slave merchants finally reached the borders of the Dam-Nighade Pack. The guards posted at the gate stepped forward, grim-faced and alert, halting the caravan with silent suspicion.
One of the merchants stepped down, unfurling a parchment of identification and stamped trade permits. A few tense moments passed as the guards scanned the names, faces, and cargo.
Then came the nod of approval.
“You may proceed. Report directly to the Slave Registry Office,” one of them said gruffly. Due to the pack's need for money for development after the ruins of the war, Damian had ealier approved for Theo to accept the selling of slaves for taxes.
The caravan rolled through the gates, the groan of wooden wheels and the clink of chains echoing against the high stone walls of the pack’s outer district. Samantha, tucked between sacks of hay and feed, peeked through the cracks of the cart with sharp eyes, already calculating her next move.
Soon, they reached a small outpost beside the pack's administration sector—where slaves were officially logged, taxed, and sorted. An iron sign creaked above the building: Slave Registry - Property & Taxation Division.
There, the merchants haggled over prices with a bored-looking clerk while guards circled the group of bound captives. The stronger, healthier ones were noted, priced, and sold—some instantly transferred to noble homes to serve as laborers, stable hands, or personal servants. The rest—those less desirable or too weak to fetch a high price—were marched toward the designated slave quarters for processing and eventual reassignment.
Hidden among them, Samantha’s heart raced.
“If I’m sold to some bitter, cruel Lasy of the house... everything will fall apart, she thought, her eyes darting with growing panic.
Then—an idea came up.
Just as the merchants turned toward her, she let her body go limp. Her knees buckled, her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the ground with a weak, strangled gasp. Dust swirled around her crumpled body as gasps and murmurs rose among the others.
“What happened to that one?” a merchant asked, annoyed.
“Looks like she fainted,” another shrugged, nudging her gently with his boot. “Didn’t she look fine before?”
Samantha remained motionless, breathing slow and shallow like someone on the verge of death. Her torn gown, dirt-smeared skin, and trembling lashes completed the picture of a fragile, useless girl.
“Tch. No one will pay for that,” one muttered. “Throw her in with the rejects. Maybe she’ll live long enough to scrub floors.”
The slave master on duty made a brief note on his slate and waved his hand. “Send her to the general quarters.”
Samantha was lifted again, this time gently, as if she might shatter. Internally, she smiled.
“Perfect”.
Laid among the weak and rejected, she was taken to the communal slaves’ quarters—a large, crumbling building on the outskirts of the pack’s inner ring. But Samantha’s eyes gleamed as she peeked from beneath her lashes, already plotting her next move.
“Step one—completed. Step two... win their trust. Step three... get inside the Alpha’s estate”.
And with that wicked smile hidden behind her filth-covered face, the serpent began to coil.
—
The sun had long dipped behind the walls of the Dam-Nighade Pack when the newly acquired slaves were herded into the cramped, musty building known as the quarters. Straw beds lined the walls, the air thick with the scent of sweat, damp, and hopelessness.
Their ankles ached from walking, their backs sore from the merchants’ whips and prods—but no one dared complain.
The moment the creaky wooden doors slammed shut behind them, a sharp, commanding voice cut through the dimness.
“You are not guests. You are not free either. You are tools—and if you fail to be useful, I’ll see to it that you’re disposed of like broken ones.”
Standing before them, arms crossed and eyes colder than steel, was a broad-shouldered, middle-aged woman with streaks of silver in her dark hair. Her name was Paula. The head maid.
She moved like someone used to obedience, her presence enough to make even the most defiant of slaves bow their heads. Her reputation preceded her—firm, unyielding, with a special love for breaking spirits and bending wills.
As the others stood stiff and terrified, Samantha kept her face blank, eyes low, all while drinking in every detail.
“So that’s the infamous Paula... The older slaves who came to welcome them in, had being mumbling about ?" Samantha thought. “Hmm... This pack is going to be easier than I imagined”.
Life in the slave quarters had never been kind. But now, ever since the new slaves arrived, it became something else entirely—paranoid, tense, and soaked in suspicions of each other.
And what once held the fragile bonds of shared suffering had slowly begun to rot beneath the weight of mistrust. All because of one girl.
All because of Samantha…
And no one suspected her.
By day, she still wore the mask of humility—quiet, soft-spoken, helpful to a fault. She scrubbed floors beside the others, ate the same bland stew, even offered her share of rags when someone tore their uniform.
But behind their backs, her true nature took form—clever words, sly glances, and seeds of discord dropped like poison into eager ears.
Over the next few days, Samantha kept her head down, speaking softly, working slower than usual, but just enough to avoid lashes. She made herself look pitiful but obedient—too fragile to pose a threat, too quiet to be suspicious.
But her ears were always open.
She quickly discovered what she needed: most of the slaves hated Paula. They called her a "snake with a collar," mocked her behind her back, and secretly cursed her name.
Only a few—those favored by Paula—acted like watchdogs, running to her with every little gossip or report. They thrived on crumbs of power.
And Samantha?
She chose a different path.
Instead of joining the rebels or the lapdogs, she walked the invisible line between.
She began by carefully befriending the outcasts—offering to help with chores, sharing water when they ran low, pretending to listen when they vented. But she always remembered who said what… and how it could be used.
So, she started with someone first…
It Began With Mei...
- Writer
