So.
We're camped in the ruins of the old chapel. The fire's low, the night's full of crickets doing unspeakable things in the bushes, and the Dragon is sulking as usual.
I'm polishing a stolen goblet with the hem of my skirt—which, by the way, is not even my skirt. Got it off a dead baron's mistress. She won't miss it.
Anyway, I decide it's story time.
"So," I say, twirling the goblet on one finger like a bard with a flair for poor decisions, "do you wanna know how they brand you?"
The Dragon doesn't look up. Just makes this soft snort, like maybe I'm a passing fart he's trying not to dignify.
"It's not as bad as you think," I continue. "Okay. It sounds bad. Like, branding. Scorching. Pain. Screaming. But it's honestly kinda... not that dramatic."
Still no comment. Typical.
"The first time, sure, I screamed," I admit. "Mostly out of panic, not pain. I mean, yes, they use a hot iron. Yes, it smells like roasted pork and despair. But they give you something to bite on. Well. They offered me a rag. I bit the table leg."
The Dragon grumbles something about "barbaric rituals."
I grin. "You get used to it. I mean, they heat the thing up, pin you down—usually two big guys, sometimes three if you're squirmy—and then pffft! Sizzle. Done. Hurts, sure, but not as bad as when they pull wax off your bits. And no one makes a big fuss about that."
Now he's staring at me, golden eye unblinking, like he's wondering how the hell I haven't been accidentally killed by gravity yet.
"I was... um… indenchured," I say, trying to sound fancy.
He raises a scaly brow ridge. "Indentured."
"Right. That. I got the collar and everything. Brass, with little bells. Not my best look. Well, okay, maybe it was kind of cute. Anyway—branding came with the package."
"You're talking about it like it's a spa treatment," he rumbles.
I roll onto my back, stretching like a cat. "It's not that bad. Worse things happen in Seebulba. Trust me. Like getting stuck behind a fat priest in the soup kitchen line. Or waking up next to a dwarf with a foot fetish."
Pause. His tail twitches.
"They called it a 'mark of service.' Said it was for identification." I poke my side. "But I think mine was just so no one else would bother. Like branding spoiled meat."
The Dragon exhales smoke. Not in anger. More like he's exhausted from the sheer density of human awfulness. "And they call me the monster."
I chuckle. "Well. You are. But at least you don't charge interest."
He doesn't laugh. Of course he doesn't. He just lowers his head, resting his snout near the fire, staring into the flames like he's counting all the gods that failed humanity.
"You ever been branded?" I ask.
"I'm a dragon."
"That's a no, then?"
"I bear runes carved into my bones from ancient wars," he says, voice like an avalanche wrapped in velvet. "Sigils of power. Names of kings long dead."
I whistle. "Sexy."
He groans. "I regret everything."
I blow him a kiss and turn back to my goblet. "You'd miss me if I was sold again."
He doesn't answer.
But he doesn't deny it either.
I shift closer to the fire, dragging the goblet with me. It's warm on the stones, and the Dragon's watching me now, more out of curiosity than judgment. Progress.
"Wanna see?"
He snorts. "I doubt there's a part of you I haven't seen."
I pull my tunic aside anyway. "Look. Here." I point to a faint mark on my upper hip—just above where the strap of a sandal might sit if I had any shoes left worth the name. The skin there's paler than the rest, puckered slightly, a ghost of some old sigil. "That one was from Madam Kishara's House of Harmonious Whispers. The name was a lie, by the way. Kishara shouted like a fishmonger."
The Dragon leans a little closer, squints. "That's a... bird?"
"Supposed to be a phoenix," I say. "They had aspirations."
He hums.
I hitch up the hem of my skirt, just a little, to reveal the inside of my left thigh. Another faded mark. This one's more like a brandy stain than a symbol. "That was the Guild of Gracious Companions. Sounds nice, right? They kept us on rice and vinegar water and beat you if you squirmed."
"Monsters."
"And here," I say, twisting around to show the back of my right shoulder, just under the strap. "This was from some auction in Nerabash. I was property number seventeen. Lucky number, I guess."
He says nothing. The fire crackles. His eye is steady on me, unreadable.
I tug my tunic back up. "Had two more," I add, waving my hand vaguely at places I don't feel like pointing out. "But elven ointment rubbed them off. Eventually."
He tilts his head. "Elven ointment?"
I nod. "Yeah. Fancy stuff. Real posh. Elves make it for their noble daughters when they decide to go slumming. You know, play whore for a week before their wedding to some tree-humping duke. Doesn't leave scars. Even fixes stretch marks."
His brows lift.
"Also for runaways like me," I add. "Madams keep a stash for premium girls. Or to wipe marks off ones they wanna resell without too many questions."
He gives a long, low sound. Might be a growl. Might be indigestion.
"I had a little left when I escaped," I say, poking at the fire with a stick. "Used it on the worst ones. Ones that burned through dresses. But then... well. Got hungry. Sold the rest. So." I tap my hip. "Souvenirs."
Silence.
Finally, the Dragon murmurs, "And yet, they call me the beast."
I glance up, grin, but there's a bit of bite in it. "Yeah. Funny, right? You show up, look scary, steal some gold. They scream monster. But a man with ink and coin can carve a girl like a roast pig and still get called 'sir.'"
His eye flares faintly gold.
I toss the stick into the flames. "Anyway. That's the past. Not like I'm letting anyone hot-brand this ass ever again."
Pause.
I shoot him a look. "Unless it's symbolic. Or for fun. With candles. Under the right circumstances."
He groans. "You are incorrigible."
"I've been called worse. And branded for less."