The dungeon was trying very hard to be dramatic.
Dripping ceilings. Chains on the walls. Rats with showmanship. It even smelled like old sins and weak bladder control.
I sat on the floor, wrists chained above my head like I was posing for a particularly niche sculpture. One sandal gone, one boob half out, hair full of straw. Classic Saya.
Next to me, the blonde girl gave me a look. Big eyes. Dirt-smudged cheeks. The sort of helpless damsel nonsense that gets you torched by noon.
Then, in this breathy, tragic voice, she said, "Thank you."
I glared at her. "Oh, shut up."
She blinked.
"I didn't do it for you. I did it because I'm stupid. Chronically. Terminally. A condition with symptoms including my big mouth, smaller sense of self-preservation, and a deeply misguided sense of dramatic timing."
"Oh," she said, like I'd told her the weather.
"Oh," I mimicked, voice high and airy. "Oh, thank you, brave stranger, for ruining your life in solidarity with mine. I am but a humble plot device."
She winced. "Sorry."
"No. I'm sorry. For having a pulse. For speaking out. For thinking this festering potato orgy of a town had a shred of sense left in its collective hay-filled skull."
She murmured, "They grow wheat, not potatoes."
"I swear to five minor gods, girl, if you correct me again, I'll bite you."
She went silent.
I sighed, rolled my neck until something cracked, then muttered, "Okay. Fine. Explain. What exactly did you do to end up on the fire menu?"
She hesitated, then whispered, "I'm accused of witchcraft."
"Yes, I gathered that, thanks. Details?"
She looked down. "The mayor's son had… dreams."
I raised a brow.
"Of me. Apparently, erotic ones. Vivid. Repeated."
"Oh gods."
"He claims I visited him in the night. As a spirit. Naked."
"Did you?"
"I knit socks. I go to bed at eight."
I snorted.
She continued. "Then he tried to climb into the maid's window. Tripped. Broke his leg. Naked."
"Still sounds like a him problem."
"He screamed, I enchanted him. That my body haunted his thoughts. That my bosom—" she swallowed "—compelled him."
I blinked. "Did it?"
"I wear three layers and a chastity ribbon."
"Witch."
"They said I lured his seed through the ether!"
I gagged. "Ew."
"They said my bread rose too quickly. My cat looked judgmental. That I used rosemary with intent."
"Oh, you're definitely a witch. A rosemary slut."
She nodded solemnly. "I also cured the cooper's rash with a vinegar poultice. They said I usurped divine healing."
"Unholy vinegar whore."
"Yes."
We sat in silence.
I stared at the ceiling, sighed, and said, "My name's Saya. I got arrested for yelling. Also I once hexed a donkey by accident, but that's beside the point."
"I'm Elira. I bake. Badly."
"I hate this place."
"Me too."
A rat paused in front of us, looked us over like a food critic judging ambiance, and waddled off.
I muttered, "If I ever get out of this, I am burning this entire town to the ground."
Elira blinked. "That's what they're accusing me of."
I smiled sweetly. "Yes. But when I do it, it'll be on purpose."
I shifted, trying to scratch my ass with my elbow. No luck. Chains clinked above me. Sweat pooled in unmentionable crevices. The glamour was simply overwhelming.
"So," I said. "What now?"
Elira shrugged as best she could, which wasn't much. "They'll probably put you on trial."
"Right."
"They might put me on trial again, too."
I blinked. "Again?"
"Yeah. Just for fun."
I stared at her. "They recycle trials?"
"Oh yes. They really get into it. Fire, brimstone, man in robes yelling about moral decay. You know, pageantry."
"Gods," I muttered. "They secretly enjoy torturing women."
Elira gave me a look. "Not so secretly."
I tilted my head back against the damp stone wall, stared at the cracked ceiling, and whispered, "Stupid, Saya. Really stupid."
I was supposed to be better than this. At least sneakier. Or at the very least not voluntarily jump on the pyre bandwagon.
My neck ached. My wrists itched. And my mood had officially graduated from 'regret' to 'existential facepalm.'
Where was he?
My dragon.
Surely, surely, he'd figured out I was missing by now.
Right?
No, who was I kidding...
He'd just assume I was on one of my little "errands."
A wine-and-orgy binge. A spontaneous roadside hustle. Another sleeping-with-the-barbarian-and-stealing-his-pants situation.
He wouldn't even raise a scaly eyebrow until a week passed and I hadn't returned with a bag full of gold, a black eye, and a new tunic made entirely of ribbons and poor choices.
By that time, I'd be charcoal.
Crispy. Smoky. One very angry Saya roast, seasoned with spite and bad timing.
I huffed and flopped my head sideways to stare at Elira.
She stared back.
We sat there.
Sweaty. Shackled. Absolutely fucked.
"Wanna fake a seizure and see what happens?" I asked.
"Already tried," she said. "They clapped."
***
I was having a very long morning.
Specifically, I was having it horizontally, wrists and ankles locked into a wooden monstrosity the size of a wedding bed and about as romantic as tetanus.
They called it The Clarifier.
I called it Oh Gods My Spine.
Two shirtless men in leather aprons turned the crank with the reverence of monks polishing a holy relic. The rack groaned like an old pervert at a brothel window. I groaned louder. It became a competition. I was losing.
At the foot of the device stood the Witchfinder General—face red, eyes bulging, jaw clenched as if contemplating a strenuous bowel movement. Honestly, I respected his consistency.
"Confess!" he bellowed, spittle flying.
"To what, exactly?" I snapped. "A bad sense of direction? Terrible ex-boyfriends? That one time I slept with a bard and regretted it instantly?"
He jabbed a finger at me. "You cavorted with demons!"
I gasped dramatically. "Gregory? That bastard still owes me a goat!"
He snarled. "You howled in the moonlight and smeared your thighs with unguents!"
"That was for a rash!"
"You brewed potions in a stolen cauldron!"
"That was soup, you inbred porridge gnome!"
The crank turned again. My joints protested with alarming pops. Somewhere in my lower back, a vertebra quietly packed its bags and left.
Then the worst part began.
"Strip her," the Witchfinder ordered.
"WAIT—what?! Hey!" I tried to twist, but all I accomplished was making my shoulder crack ominously.
The aproned men moved in, brisk and businesslike, and in three horrifying seconds they had yanked my tunic open, pulled it down, and exposed far more Saya than anyone paid for.
The room fell still.
One guard sucked in a breath.
The other crossed himself.
The Witchfinder leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Look! SIGILS!"
I blinked. "Those are brand marks, you idiots! Look—here, see the pattern? That's a brothel chain's mark. Means I was a slave girl! Not a witch!"
He gasped like I'd confessed to murder, arson, and tax evasion.
"So you ADMIT you are a slave of the Devil!"
I screamed. "No! I literally mean a slave—like commerce! Economics! Supply and demand! Whips!"
The Witchfinder nodded sagely, as if this confirmed every suspicion he ever had. "Yes. The Devil's whips."
I groaned. "Oh for FUCK'S sake."
Then he raised his staff. "We have also seen the serpent-demon circling the sky above the town."
My stomach dropped. "Serpent demon? What serpent—oh gods. Him."
"He is clearly your infernal consort!" the Witchfinder declared.
"He's GAY!" I yelled. "He wouldn't touch me if I were rolled in gold dust and tied up with ribbon!"
He ignored me.
The crank turned again. My spine stretched another inch. I was going to leave this village taller than when I came in, assuming I didn't leave as smoke.
"CONFESS YOUR WITCHERY!"
"I confess you're an idiot!"
"You summoned tempests!"
"I queefed next to a lantern ONE TIME!"
"You hexed the baker's daughter!"
"She stole my muffin—I SNEEZED, THAT'S IT!"
"You rode a broomstick naked across the sky!"
"That I would remember!"
He slammed his staff down. "ADMIT YOUR SOUL IS DAMNED!"
I let my head loll dramatically. "My soul's been morally declining since puberty, Harold. But that's not a crime."
He bristled. "It's Witchfinder General."
"Do you introduce yourself that way at parties?"
The crankmen paused.
His face went from red, to purple, to a color I can only describe as boiled plum.
"You will break," he hissed.
I smiled sweetly through the pain. "Honey, you'd be amazed what I can take. I've been tied to headboards by people twice your size with actual stamina."
Everyone froze.
Then the rack creaked again. So did my dignity.
My sarcasm reserves were nearly empty. My joints were about to pop off like cheap doll limbs.
Still, I spat at his boots and hissed, "That all you've got, General Tickl—"
And then—
thoomp.
The earth trembled.
Just a little.
Enough to make dust fall from the rafters. Enough to make every torch flicker.
The crowd gasped.
A distant shadow passed over the window slit.
Ah.
There he was.
My lips curled.
"Oh," I whispered. "Someone's late—but fabulous."
The Witchfinder turned sharply. "Throw her in the dungeon! Now! Before the demon comes for its harlot!"
And that's how my rack morning ended.
With terror. Screaming. And one very unceremonious toss into the nearest hole.