A day later. Orcish camp. Somewhere nearby, still deep in the asscrack of Hanigalbat.
I'm chained to a peg hammered into the ground with what looks like an old femur. The chain's not elegant—crude iron, rusty, orcish-style shackle around the ankle. And I'm still wearing that godsdamn flower garland. Wilted now. Smells like fermented goat ass.
What am I doing? Sweeping. With a bundle of twigs lashed to a stick. Sweeping dust off dirt. In front of a hide-and-patchwork tent that smells like armpits and campfire.
The basalt obelisk? Oh, that noble, sacred altar of my fake sacrifice? It's now a bench. One of the orcs pissed on it this morning. Another one used it to sharpen his toenails.
So. Yeah.
What did you think would happen? That they'd brutalize me? All five of them? Ripped my garland off, ravaged me under the moonlight, left me a twitching mess mumbling orc poetry into the dirt?
Are you disappointed?
Did you come here hoping to leer at Saya getting railed by half a dozen green brutes with more biceps than brain cells?
Well, tough titties.
Turns out they just needed a slave girl to play camp-wife while they argue about stew spices. A housemaid. Someone to tidy their boots, scrape the grime off their cook pot, brush the dirt from the dirt. Apparently, that's a job now.
Well. Fuck that.
I try to rebel, I do. I throw the broom at one of them. He laughs. Another hands it back. With a fig. I eat the fig. Then I sweep again.
And you know what else? These might be the only living creatures in all of Tanagra who don't complain about my cooking.
Last night I charred the beans, spilled half the oil, and dropped a lizard into the stew. They slurped it up like it was royal cuisine. One of them burped and called it "earthy."
I don't know whether to be flattered or deeply, cosmically insulted.
Still no sign of that scaly bastard.
He better be planning something. Something fiery and dramatic. Because if I end up stuck here as some half-naked camp wench, sweeping dirt for eternity while getting praised for lizard stew, I swear I'll track him down, climb up his tail, and stab him in the ass.
With the broom.
Later that night.
The camp is "silent."
Which is to say it's full of orcs snoring like collapsing cliffs. One of them growls in his sleep. Another lets out a thunderous fart and rolls over. Someone coughs wetly. Someone else is chewing in their dreams. Probably on a goat.
So yeah. Not exactly lullaby material.
I can't sleep.
The ground is hard. My ass is sore. The chain around my ankle itches. The garland smells like regret and decay. And the only pillow I have is a folded goat pelt that may or may not still have fleas.
I stare at the chain. Again.
It loops from my ankle to a crude iron peg driven deep into the dirt. Nothing fancy. No spells. No runes. Just good old-fashioned slavery tech.
The shackle itself—thick, clunky, definitely orkish. Which means overbuilt, ugly, and possibly idiot-proof. But not Saya-proof.
I sit up slowly. Gently rotate my ankle to get a better look. It's got a big round lock on it. No visible rust, which means someone oiled it recently. Charming.
Big keyhole. Real big. Big enough…
I wiggle my pinky. Then glance around the camp. No movement. Just the usual chorus of grunts, wheezes, and something that sounds like a snore-orgasm combo.
"Okay," I whisper to myself. "This is stupid."
Still.
I slide my pinky toward the hole. Real careful. It's greasy. It smells like blood and onions. I don't even know why.
The metal feels cold and jagged.
"Just don't cut yourself," I murmur. "Last thing I need is tetanus. Or some orc healer lancing my foot with a spoon."
I poke the finger in. Wiggle. Twist. Nothing.
Damn.
I try my ring finger. A little longer. More pressure. Still nothing but the sharp bite of failure and a whiff of orc grease.
I don't know how, but the gods must've looked away for a second.
Because with a twist, a wiggle, and one solid push—click.
The shackle pops open.
My pinkie is slick with grime, and I probably have tetanus now, but I'm free.
No cheering. No gloating. Not yet. I take a breath, still as a lizard sunbathing on a rock. The orcs snore on, oblivious. One of them farts like thunder. Another mutters something about stew.
I creep. Barefoot. Silent. Careful not to let the chain clink. One step. Another. Past the tent with the piss-bucket. Past the rack of giant cleavers. Past the one who sleeps like he's mid-battle, arm curled around a log like it's a lover.
Every muscle in my body is clenched. My garland brushes a tent flap. I freeze. Nothing.
I clear the last tent, the edge of the camp right there. The dry grass beckons like freedom's brittle cousin.
And then—whomp.
That low, deep thump of air displaced by massive wings. No wind. No fire. Just presence.
"Don't scream," comes his voice, velvet and smug. "It's only me."
I spin. "You?"
He lands with all the grace of a flying cathedral. Bronze scales glinting under the stars, wings folding in that too-dramatic way he loves.
"I overslept," he says, deadpan.
"You overslept? You missed the whole damn day!"
"Dragon metabolism," he says, as if that explains anything. "Plus I'm ancient. I need proper rest."
I glare. "You left me chained, naked, sweeping dirt for a bunch of sweaty orcs."
"And I came to your rescue," he replies, sniffing indignantly. "Eventually."
"Eventually? I was already escaping."
"Still. It's the thought that counts."
I humpf. Cross my arms. The garland wilts in agreement.
He snorts. Smoke curls from his nostrils.
"The thought that counts?" I hiss. "I could've been eaten! Or married! Or eaten after being married! You have no idea what I've suffered!"
"Oh please," he says, inspecting a claw. "I saw the garland. Very tasteful. Besides, you've escaped worse."
"That's not the point!" I jab a finger at his snout. "You're supposed to be my partner! My backup! When I get chained to a rock, naked, surrounded by horny tusk-beasts, you are supposed to show up! Not nap through it like a lazy golden throw pillow with wings!"
He growls, offended. "You think this is easy? You think I like being your getaway mount and fire-breathing insurance policy? I'm a dragon! I was meant for poems! Ballads! Not dragging your naked ass out of orc camps because you forgot to scream 'help!'"
"Oh, sorry," I snap. "Next time I'll send a fucking pigeon!"
"Next time," he huffs, "try not getting caught!"
"I was part of the con, you scale-brained hoarder! You were supposed to swoop in before the garland started rotting!"
Something shifts behind us.
A groan. A grunt.
Then—
"...what's all this noise?" one orc mumbles.
Another sits up, blinking. "Is that a dragon?"
"Wait—she's loose!"
And then it's chaos.
Roaring. Screaming. The snap of canvas as tents collapse.
The Dragon rears up, chest expanding.
I duck just as he lets loose a thunderous ROAR, shaking the camp like an earthquake made of nightmares. A burst of flame scorches the ground, turning someone's stewpot into molten shrapnel.
Orcs scatter, yelling in panic, tripping over each other, grabbing weapons, pants, chickens—whatever's closest. One crashes headfirst into the obelisk-bench and crumples.
Another just screams, throws down his axe, and runs headlong into the night shouting "NOT AGAIN NOT AGAIN!"
The Dragon bellows, wings spreading, tail lashing.
I crouch behind the overturned stew cauldron and scream, "You see?! THIS is what happens when we don't plan properly!"
He sets another tent ablaze. "You call this unplanned? This is performance!"
And just like that, the camp is fire, ruin, and utter, glorious pandemonium.
A few of the orcs actually have the gall to rally.
One charges with a spear. Another grabs a net. Two more roar and raise axes like they've forgotten what happened to the last guy who tried to stab something with wings and napalm breath.
The Dragon doesn't wait.
WHAM — his tail lashes out like a falling tree, catching one orc full in the chest and sending him sailing into a pile of firewood.
FWOOSH — another gout of flame arcs across the sky, catching the edge of a tent and turning it into a shrieking fireball.
I sprint low, zigzagging through the chaos.
"This way!" I yell, grabbing the loot sack with both hands. It's heavy. Feels like all those pearls, coins, and sacred trinkets do add up.
"We're leaving!" I shout, hopping over a writhing orc who's tangled in a flaming net. "NOW!"
The Dragon swoops low. I grab the chain still half-dangling from my ankle, leap, and scramble up his scaly shoulder like a woman possessed.
"Lift the obelisk!" I shout over the wind.
"What?!" he bellows mid-wingbeat.
"That thing!" I point to the smoking altar-stone still upright in the middle of the mayhem. "Take it!"
He huffs fire in disbelief but snags it with his claws, wings thundering as we launch skyward.
We rise, wobbling slightly. The wind whips against my bare skin. The loot sack digs into my ribs. Below us, the camp is an inferno of panicked shouting and half-naked orcs fleeing from the chaos like ants on a frying pan.
The Dragon groans. "The obelisk is heavy."
"It's just a fancy stone."
"Then, pray tell, my half-nude catastrophe, why are we stealing it?"
I lift my chin. "One, to teach you a lesson about being late."
He snorts.
"Two, I'm not leaving anything for the enemy."
A beat.
"Three, we might sell it to someone. A priest. An art collector. A pervert. Who knows."
Silence.
Then a grumble. A wing adjustment. A flick of the tail.
"Fuck it," he mutters, and lets go.
The obelisk tumbles into the night like a forgotten god.
I watch it fall.
"…Drama queen."
"Pot," he says, "meet kettle."
SPLAT! - The obelisk hits something down below. We don't look back.