The Velgarth was beside himself at breakfast.
"A paladin, Prophetess!" he boomed, nearly slapping the porridge out of my hands. "A knight of pure steel and divine virtue! He rode in just after dawn, blazing like the sun itself. With your foresight and his sword arm, we'll march on Lerida by week's end!"
I resisted the urge to stab him with my spoon. "How thrilling."
He grinned like a dog sniffing its own shit. "Go make ready. He'll be paying you a visit."
No name. No banner. Just… a paladin. I braced for a pompous hymnal jackass with a holy complex and questionable hygiene.
What I got?
Shining armor. Windswept hair. A jaw chiseled by bad decisions and my terrible taste in men.
Sir. Bloody. Odran.
I froze. Mid-sip. Mid-thought. Mid-life crisis.
He ducked into my tent like he owned the place—of course he did—eyes scanning for thunder and brimstone, or maybe a floating cauldron.
Instead, he saw me.
In a shawl. Barefoot. Half-drunk. And entirely me.
His face twisted into that familiar, constipated expression of disbelief. "You?"
I rose, slow and theatrical. "Sir Odran," I said, dripping venom like honey.
He blinked. "You're the Prophetess?"
I gestured lazily at my ceremonial garbage. "Apparently I'm a very spiritual woman now."
He snorted. "You couldn't find a real profession, so you started bullshitting full-time?"
"Better than swinging a sword and calling it virtue," I snapped. "Still overcompensating for something, are we?"
He stepped closer. "You running another scam?"
I stepped closer too. "You still pretending you're not just a stiff cock in plate armor?"
He let out a breath—half-laugh, half-growl. "The gods really do have a sense of humor."
I cocked my head. "Well, they made you, didn't they?"
We stared each other down, the tent heavy with unspoken threats, half-remembered nights, and the ghost of some very creative fornication.
He looked at me like I was a fire he couldn't put out.
I looked at him like a rash that had come back worse.
He folded his arms. "You're a fraud. Always were."
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my past lives. "And you're still a pompous prig with a hero complex."
He stepped forward, voice low and sharp. "What's stopping me from going to the warlord right now and telling him what you really are? That you're no prophetess. Just a brothel brat with good aim and a worse temper."
"Oh please," I wailed, flinging my arms wide like some martyr mid-rant. "Yes! Do it! Report me. Get me flogged. Whipped. Tossed into the mud. Anything to get out of this walking death trap!"
He blinked.
I jabbed a finger toward the tent flap. "Open your godsdamned eyes, Odran. This isn't a crusade. It's a goat raid with delusions. They've got rusty pots for helmets and prayers stapled together with piss for a siege plan. They think they can take Lerida."
I leaned in, voice sharp now. "Lerida. With what? Half-cooked stew, mismatched horses, and dreams of divine glory spoon-fed by me in a fucking shawl."
He didn't answer. His expression shifted just enough for me to know—some part of him already knew.
I sank onto my cushion, waving a hand like I was dismissing life itself. "So yeah. Expose me. Blow the whole thing wide open. Just do it before I end up nailed to a pole as someone's morale-boosting martyr."
I slumped next to him on the cushion, close enough to smell metal, sweat, and whatever stupidly expensive oil he still used on his hair.
"You pompous prick," I muttered.
He raised an eyebrow. "That's the thank you I get for not ratting you out?"
I let my head fall back. "No, that's the thank you you get for being right."
A silence. Uncomfortable. Heavy.
"I'm in too deep," I said softly. "It was just supposed to be a bit of flair. A giggle. Torch a haystack, read a few fortunes, roll in some cheese and silver, and vanish."
I turned to him. "But then they built me a fucking hut. Started worshipping my farts. Called me their savior. Then this asshole of a warlord shows up with dreams of conquest and not a single working map."
His eyes scanned my face. No smirk. Just that frustrating knight-face of his. Calm. Stoic. A little too handsome.
"It was perfect," I whispered. "And now it's a death sentence."
"This campaign is suicide," he said.
His voice was low, brittle. Like the last thread of bravado had finally snapped.
I didn't argue. For once.
"At least you can leave," I muttered. "Slip off in the night. Climb into some innkeeper's daughter and vanish."
He didn't laugh.
"You don't understand," he said.
I looked at him properly now. His jaw clenched. Hair tousled. Armor scratched. Somehow still infuriatingly handsome in that bastard-knight way that made me want to punch his face or sit on it.
"Oh please," I said. "Since when do you care about honor?"
"It's not that."
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.
"It's the Guild. Of Adventurers. I'm already on probation. Too many oaths broken. Too many fines unpaid. I blew off that escort contract in Trisken. Ditched the escort from Braggen's wedding. Skipped two temple blessings."
He looked at me then. Eyes bloodshot. Mouth tight.
"One more offense, they'll suspend my status. Maybe exile me. Definitely fine me. I don't even have that kind of coin."
I blinked. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh."
We sat there a moment.
"Wait," I said. "So you're telling me… you're stuck here. With me. And this half-starved goat-militia. Because you don't want a bureaucratic slap on the wrist?"
He looked at me like I'd asked him to lick a scorpion.
"It's not a slap. It's my livelihood. My license. Without the Guild, I'm just a guy with a sword and no paperwork."
I snorted. "Welcome to the rest of us."
He didn't laugh again.
So we just sat there. Me in my veils, stinking faintly of dried sage and goat butter. Him in his scratched-up armor, bruised pride and all.
Outside, drums beat. Men sharpened rusted blades. Someone argued over lentils.
Inside, we stared at each other in the quiet truth of what we both knew.
We weren't getting out of this.
Not before Velgarth got butchered.
Not before Lerida burned.
Not before we both got dragged down with the wreckage.
Sir Odran exhaled.
"I should've kissed that duchess."
I raised an eyebrow. "Which one?"
He shrugged. "Any of them."
I reached for the wine. "Next time, maybe marry one."
"You offering?"
"Fuck off."
He smiled. Just a little.
And for the first time in days, I did too.
But only a little.
Sir Odran shifted, pulled his boots off with a grunt, and leaned back on his elbows.
"So… what about that dragon of yours?"
I froze mid-sip. Lowered the cup.
"That's the problem," I muttered.
He frowned.
I gestured vaguely skyward, as if the bastard might hear me through canvas and clouds. "The scaly sack of nap-addicted smugness is probably curled up in some cave, thinking I'm still out there shaking bones and peddling fortunes to goat herders. He's got no idea I've been forcibly promoted to state prophet and war criminal."
Odran raised an eyebrow. "So… summon him?"
That did it.
"Why does everyone assume I can just summon the dragon?"
I was on my feet, spilling half the wine, voice rising despite myself.
"He's not my familiar! I'm not some enchanted virgin with a soul-bound beast! I'm a con artist with nice tits and a working knowledge of metaphors! He's my partner. In crime. And naps. And occasionally poetry. We split the loot fifty-fifty unless he's feeling dramatic. That's it."
Odran blinked. "Okay. Okay. Calm down."
I was pacing now. The tent flaps rustled like they were afraid of me.
"He shows up when he feels like it! Or when there's treasure. Or if someone mentions ancient grudges in his bloodline! He's not a damn watchdog I can whistle for when things get inconvenient."
Odran sat up straight. "Saya."
"Or maybe if someone baked a giant honey cake and set it on fire! Maybe then—"
"Saya. Stop. You're going to get us killed."
That hit like a bucket of goat piss.
I stopped pacing. Stared at him.
He leaned in, voice a whisper now. "If Velgarth hears you… ranting about how the dragon isn't under your control? We'll both end up hanging from a tree before breakfast. He thinks you're some divine oracle with a scaled god on speed dial. You disillusion him now, you won't even get a last meal."
I sat down.
Hard.
The pillows exhaled beneath me like they, too, had given up.
Odran poured what was left of the wine into my cup and handed it back.
"Drink," he said.
I drank.
He rubbed his temple. "We're so fucked."
"Profound insight," I said. "Truly divine."
I slumped back onto the pillow, rubbing my temples. My skull felt full of bees.
"Okay. Okay. I can't leave the camp. But you can."
Odran raised a brow. "I can?"
"Yes. Go scout the area. Forage for fodder. Check the wind for omens. I don't care. Just saddle your ego and ride out."
"For what, exactly?"
"To go find my dragon," I said, trying not to bite the words.
He blinked. "You're sending me—me—a dragonslayer, to visit a dragon."
I started rummaging through my blankets and found a scrap of parchment, probably stolen from some scribe's prayerbook, and a nub of charcoal. "Do you have a better idea?"
He didn't answer.
I started sketching.
"Head east until the air smells like wet copper. There's a hill shaped like someone mid-scream. That's his den. If you hear dramatic sighing and poetry recitation, you're close."
Odran stared at the map like it was a death sentence written in crayon.
"You realize this is madness."
I looked up. "No. Madness would be waiting here for Velgarth to realize I'm not a real oracle. This is desperation."
He still didn't move. I jabbed the map at his chest.
"Go unarmed. Wave a white flag. Underwear, a rag, your shirt—he doesn't care. Just don't start with 'I come in peace' or anything heroic. He hates that."
Odran made a face. "And if he breathes fire?"
"Then at least I won't have to hear you whining anymore."
He looked at me, deadpan. "I'll haunt you."
I grinned. "Get in line."
He took the map like it might explode and stood.
"Tell him," I said softly, "that I'm in real trouble. That I'm chained to this delusional warlord playing divine priestess to a death cult. And if he ever wants to see his share of that silver from Sabrabena—he better haul his scaly ass out of retirement."
Odran paused at the tent flap.
"And if he tries to eat me?"
I smirked. "Lie. Tell him I'm pregnant with his child."
His expression cracked. "Please gods, let him believe that."
"Good luck," I said, waving him off. "You'll need it."