"You know what your problem is?" I said, poking the dragon's flank with a stick. A real stick. With a splintery bit. "You've got too much heritage. All that illustrious lineage and ancient prophecy crap clogging up your brain like bad cheese in a nobleman's gut."
He didn't answer. Just snorted a lazy puff of smoke, eyes half-lidded like I was background noise. Rude.
I plopped down beside him anyway. "Your ancestors are all dead and brooding somewhere in the sky. Mine? I've got nothing. No crests. No scrolls. No ghostly uncles whispering greatness in my dreams. Just a busted memory of a half-drunk whore telling me to shut up while she shoved stale bread in my face."
Another puff of smoke. I waved it away.
"My mother—" I hesitated. "The bitch. Barely knew her. She smelled like rum and salt and disappointment. Used to vanish for days. Came back once with blood on her dress and told me to never ask about fathers."
I picked at a scab on my knee. "She didn't even know, probably. Could've been the bald mercenary with the missing ear. Or the pirate who cried when he came. Or that priest with the limp and a coin pouch full of temple donations. Take your pick."
Silence.
"I used to pretend," I admitted. "When I was little. That I was a lost princess. You know—basket, river, royal birthmark on my bum. The whole fantasy."
I chuckled, bitter. "Then I hit thirteen and looked in a mirror. Same nose. Same jaw. Same scowl. Yeah. No dice. Not a princess. Just dockside scum with a little extra glitter."
The dragon finally turned his head, one golden eye peeking. "You've never needed a crown to act like royalty."
I blinked.
"You're already impossible," he added.
"Thanks," I said flatly. "That almost sounded like affection."
"It wasn't."
I leaned back on my elbows. "Anyway. Saya of Nowhere. Saya the Nothing. Saya with a mother she doesn't miss and a father she probably dodged like a lucky arrow. Maybe that's why I'm like this."
"Like what?"
"Bratty. Loud. Prone to theft and terrible decisions. I mean, I keep chasing power, danger, men with plans. Like that'll fix the hole."
He didn't answer. Just curled his tail a bit tighter.
"I had no role models," I muttered. "No one to teach me what love looks like. The women around me? Street whores and dreamers. Selling their everything for coppers and stories about dangerous men who'd rescue them. I guess I took notes."
I swallowed hard.
"And look at me now. Still playing damsel. Still getting strapped to rocks. Still flirting with dragons instead of fixing my life."
"You're not flirting," he said dryly. "You're oversharing."
"Same thing."
A puff of laughter, barely audible.
I turned to him. "Do you think people like me ever get remembered?"
His eye flicked to mine. "You're unforgettable, Saya. Not always in a good way. But certainly not forgettable."
I smiled, just a little. "I'll take that."
So yeah.
I really do try, you know?
Try to be better. Kinder. More... decent. Lead an honest life. Whatever that means. But what could I be doing? Like seriously? Sweep stairways? Sell shrimp at the fish market with my tits half out and a cleaver in my belt?
I can't even cook.
No, really. Ask him. I once made a stew so bad the pot tried to throw itself into the river. I burned mint. Mint.
Wash clothes in the river like some dutiful washerwoman with strong thighs and zero dreams? I'd last half a day before I drowned myself out of boredom. And let's not pretend that's morally superior. Half the laundresses I knew used to steal soap, gossip like vipers, and rinse their knickers in sacred fountains. But they got to look down on me because I wore beads on my ankle and charged extra for dirty talk.
And sweeping stairways? Gods. The last time I tried honest work, I lasted two hours before someone pinched my ass and I threw the broom at a magistrate's head. Somehow that was my fault.
So I go back to what I know. Schemes. Scams. Seductions. I play the tart. The tease. The terrible mistake in someone's bed.
Because the world has a place for that.
Not a good one. Not a safe one. But a place.
And I've got bills. And habits. And a partner who occasionally bathes and thinks treasure maps are a substitute for retirement planning.
I don't want to be this way forever. I really don't.
But better than what? Better how?
No one ever gave me another option. Just a pat on the head and a warning not to steal the silverware.
So maybe I'm not noble. Maybe I'm not even good.
But I'm still here.
Still trying.
Even if half the time I end up glowing from the crotch and owing three copper to a swamp witch with a tit like a meat sack full of curses.
And every time I do try to get ahead—steal a little, swindle a little—I get caught. Because of course I do.
Like the time Madam caught me elbow-deep in the moon cake box.
Three days. Chained to the bed in her private chamber. Naked. No food. Just water, and a steady stream of clients who didn't care that I was sulking, or weeping, or plotting to stab them with the candle stubs.
She said it was a lesson in discipline.
I still can't look at sesame pastries without flinching.
Or that time—gods—when I tried to nick a book from the Sanctum Library. Not even for me. Some smirking idiot in a velvet vest promised me half a gold coin if I could fetch it. Didn't even know what it was about. Philosophy, maybe. Or erotica. Or both. Who knows. I never got to open it.
They caught me. Cloaked monk with hands like iron bars and a voice like disappointed thunder.
Dragged me to the magistrate.
Twelve lashes.
Twelve.
For a book.
Can you imagine?
I was bleeding from my back and still didn't know the title.
The worst part? The coin never came. The bastard vanished. Probably bought himself a plate of dumplings and a new pair of shoes with the silver he saved not paying me.
And me?
I limped for a week and smelled like boiled herbs and shame.
So yeah.
I lie. I steal. I seduce.
Because every time I try to go straight, the world breaks my fingers.
And yet—
Here I am. Still charming. Still walking. Still stealing figs and flirting with dragons and pretending like the pain didn't shape me.
But it did.
It chiseled me down to something sharp and pretty and hard to hold.
And I dare the gods to drop me.