"They say I'm a guest," I muttered.
My luxurious hostage tent was… fine. Cushions. Rugs. A little table with a cracked mirror. All the comforts of home if home came with eight very stupid, very beefy orcs positioned around the perimeter like decorative meat statues.
They stood there, slack-jawed, spears upside down, breathing like overworked donkeys. One of them had a feather in his helmet. It was bent.
I paced in tight, frantic circles, chewing my lip and my sanity.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I hissed to myself. "Ruined. Absolutely ruined. Because the scam worked too well. Good job, Saya. Brilliant. Top marks."
I spun on my heel. "You couldn't just enjoy a week of grift and goat cheese, could you? Nooo. Had to stretch it into a month-long divine revelation roadshow. Greedy bitch."
One of the orcs grunted outside. Another farted. I kept walking.
"If I keep pacing like this, I'll dig a tunnel," I muttered. "Some weirdos say the world is round. Maybe they are right. Maybe if I go deep enough, I'll pop out the other side. New continent. No warlords."
I paused. "No. Focus. Focus, you moron."
I peeled back a corner of the tent flap and peeked outside.
Still there. All eight. One picking his nose with the butt of his spear.
"How long until he notices I'm gone?" I whispered.
The Dragon. Lazy sod. He was probably curled up somewhere warm, sleeping on altar cloths and dreaming of cow thighs. He wouldn't even start to wonder until I missed fig delivery.
"Three days," I said aloud. "Minimum."
I collapsed onto the nearest cushion and pressed my palms into my eyes.
"Fuck."
***
Middle of the night. No moon. Just the groan of canvas in the wind, the distant wheeze of an orc snoring outside, and my own thoughts grinding like millstones soaked in regret.
I was cocooned in blankets, half-asleep, half-cursing the gods, when the tent flap snapped open like a whip.
I jolted upright, blanket clutched to my chest, heart hammering. A gust of cold air rushed in, followed by Lord Velgarth himself—disheveled, sweating, eyes wide like he'd seen a ghost riding a war elephant.
Shit.
Shitshitshit.
Okay. Okay. I knew what this was. I knew exactly what this was.
Of course it would come to this. Sooner or later. Men like him always thought power included late-night access to anything that breathed and smelled vaguely like incense.
I steeled myself. Pulled the blanket tighter. I wasn't new to midnight visits. I'd seen worse than pig kings with sword collections.
But he didn't reach for me.
He didn't leer. Didn't even seem to notice the bare shoulder peeking out from under the blanket.
"I had a dream," he said, voice low and shaking. "Just now. It was... vivid."
I blinked.
He stepped forward like a man possessed. "It was powerful. Too real to ignore. I need you to tell me what it means."
A long pause.
My mouth opened. Then closed again.
Finally: "Wait, that's why you stormed in here like a lunatic?"
He nodded earnestly. Sweat rolled down his temple.
I exhaled through my nose. "Well thank fuck for small mercies."
He sat, reluctantly. The cushion let out a pathetic wheeze beneath his armored ass.
I gave him my best mystic-sage-serpent face. "Tell me your dream."
"There was a fire," he muttered. "Red silk. A bed. She was there—eyes like daggers. She whispered things I couldn't understand. I reached for her, but my hands were covered in blood. She laughed. Then vanished."
I squinted. "That's it?"
He nodded, dead serious.
I sighed. "Right. And this woman—was she anyone you recognize?"
A pause. A shift. A grunt.
"She resembles my newest concubine."
Boom. There it is.
"Aha." I crossed my legs under me and leaned forward like I was sniffing out divine secrets. "She's fancy, right? From some coastal palace or gemstone-humping duchy. Perfumed. Poised. Probably uses too many forks at dinner."
He scowled, which was how I knew I nailed it.
"She's a princess."
Oh yes.
I let out a long breath, like I was communing with the spirits when really I was communing with every insecure man I'd ever conned.
"You're afraid of her," I said.
"I am not—"
"Not like that. You're afraid you'll disappoint her. She's silk. You're leather. She's poetry. You're blunt-force trauma. She probably got taught how to fake a sigh in finishing school. You—" I pointed at him— "grunt like a man trying to win a farting contest."
He blinked. Processing.
"Your dream wasn't an omen, it was performance anxiety in costume."
He was frowning. But not storming out. Which meant I was onto something.
I smiled. "You don't need prophecy, my lord. What you need is coaching."
"Coaching?"
"Carnal coaching. Spiritual instruction. The mysteries of rhythm and breath and... finesse."
"Finesse?"
"Don't worry. You've got good raw material. Just needs some polish. Like a warhammer dipped in wine."
Now he was really staring.
"Don't look so shocked," I said sweetly. "Your cock deserves better. So does she. And frankly, so do the gods watching this trainwreck."
He opened his mouth.
I patted the cushion. "Lesson one begins at dawn. Bring fruit. I teach better on a full stomach."
***
Morning.
Everything was sticky—pillows, blankets, egos. Lord Velgarth lay beside me, sprawled like an overworked ox, panting and gleaming with effort.
"You are… a powerful sex witch," he gasped, eyes wide with something like reverence.
I didn't roll my eyes.
Barely.
Not magic, darling. You're just a highland bore with the finesse of a tavern chair.
Out loud, I murmured, "Shhh. The spirits are still listening."
He nodded solemnly. Poor man looked like he'd glimpsed the divine through a haze of muscle cramps and low self-esteem.
I straddled him again, palms on his damp chest, and tapped his forehead lightly.
"Right. Now. Let's talk pacing," I said. "You're still rushing the opening act. The overture matters."
He blinked.
"No more growling, either. You're not storming a fortress—you're seducing a duchess."
He looked unsure. "But I thought the duchess liked—"
"No," I said, flattening him with one hand. "She pretended to like it. Out of fear. Or boredom. Possibly both."
He groaned, nodding like a student at war college.
"Yes, prophetess."
"Good boy."
"Also," I said, tapping his forehead again for emphasis, "your tongue technique."
He blinked. "My...?"
"Your opening act," I clarified, slowly, like speaking to a concussed mule. "You don't open a banquet by throwing the roast on the floor. You start with appetizers. Presentation. Delicacy."
His face contorted in confusion and dawning horror.
I sighed. "You lick like a man trying to clean soot off a frying pan. No nuance. No grace."
"But I thought—"
"Wrong." I held up a finger. "Lick like you're writing poetry. No—runic poetry. With flourish. With cadence. Letters. Shapes. Spirals."
"Spirals?" he echoed.
I nodded solemnly. "The sacred spiral. It's a Seebulban technique passed down by temple courtesans. Legend says one priestess used it to tame a wyvern."
He looked both terrified and wildly intrigued.
I folded my arms. "Practice. On a peach. On your own elbow. On your damn boot if you must. Just don't go in like you're hunting truffles."
He swallowed. "Yes, prophetess."
"Good," I said, stretching like a satisfied cat. "Lesson three after lunch. You'll need citrus."
So.
Upside: I bought myself time.
Downside?
The princess screamed so hard she woke up the entire camp.
Not just a dainty sigh. Not a sultry moan. No—screamed. Like a banshee orgasming inside a temple bell during a lightning storm. I think even the gods turned their heads.
I had barely rolled off my cushion when the drums started. Horns. Shouting. Someone claimed the stars rearranged themselves into the shape of my thighs.
Then Velgarth burst into my tent, shirtless, glistening, euphoric.
"You heard her!" he shouted, eyes wide with holy glee. "Did you hear her?!"
"Hard not to," I muttered.
"She was transcendent! You've unlocked her divine essence! You are truly a prophetess! A witch! A miracle-worker!"
He grabbed both my hands like a man proposing marriage to a loaded crossbow.
"This changes everything! We don't waste time on Almon. Or Eldric. We march straight for Lerida!"
My stomach flipped.
"Lerida?"
"With you beside me, we cannot fail! You are my secret weapon! The gods sent you!"
I smiled. I think. Hard to tell when every nerve in my face was screaming internally.
Because Lerida had walls. And catapults. And a standing army of bloodthirsty mercs with matching banners and actual logistics.
Meanwhile, Velgarth had six tents, a smug grin, and a pile of sweaty hubris.
Fuck.