Summer night. Somewhere out where the dusty Leridan highlands taper into the crueler stones of Hanigalbat. No towns. No lights. Just stars above, dry grass hissing in the breeze, and the Dragon curled around me like some overgrown lizard-shaped quilt.
He's snoring. Of course he's snoring. Not fire-breath snores—no, those are rare and dramatic. These are more like old-man huffs, annoyed little exhales that puff my hair every few minutes. I'm tucked into the curve of his belly with a patchy quilt over me. It smells like mildew and lavender. And regret.
I'm not asleep. Haven't been for a while.
There's a dagger under the quilt. I'm holding it like it'll help. Like a little tooth of bronze will do more for me than the ancient beast coiled around me who can turn villages into craters and has, more than once, turned godsdamned heroes into ash piles. But here I am. Still clutching a dagger in the dark like some alley rat on her first night out of the brothel.
It's not about protection. It's about habit. It's about comfort. It's about… me being me. Saya the idiot. Saya the liar. Saya the walking pile of trauma wrapped in sex appeal and poor decisions.
The stars are so sharp out here. Like the sky is cracked glass and every crack has a name I'll never learn.
I try to tell myself I'm just thinking. Reflecting. Maybe even learning.
Liar.
Truth is—I'm not learning anything. I never do. I run the same scam in different towns, fall for the same bastards with different faces, spend every coin I steal like the world's ending tomorrow, and wrap myself in the same old lies like they're silk and not threadbare rags I've been stitching since Seebulba.
I tell myself I'm free. But I don't even know what that means. I ran from a cage, right into the mouth of a dragon. And yes, he's warm. Yes, he's mine. But he's still teeth and fire, and I'm still holding a knife in my sleep.
Will I ever change?
Maybe. Probably not.
Still. I'm not dead. And I've got the stars, the snoring, the mildew-quilt, and a blade that means nothing except that I'm still the kind of girl who sleeps with one under her breast.
Gods. Someone up there must really fucking hate me.
I mean, I've thought about it, trust me. The karmic math doesn't add up otherwise. Maybe in a past life I was a mule. A stubborn one. A dumb shaggy thing with shit-stained hooves and no sense of reverence. Maybe I trotted right up to the Temple of the Golden Radiance and took a massive steaming dump on the sacred steps. Mid-ritual. While the high priest was chanting about purity and divine grace. Maybe that was me.
Would explain a lot.
Because this life? This life is cursed.
Not dramatic-curse cursed, no. No prophecies, no runes, no glowing symbols on my ass. Just… the slow grind of every godsdamn door slamming in my face. Kicked like a mangy dog at a county fair, tolerated only long enough for someone to steal my shoes or squeeze my tits or slap a price on my back. And I play along, don't I? Smile, flirt, steal a peach, stab a groper, move on. Like that's normal. Like this is how people live.
Maybe it is. For gutter girls like me. For whorespawn and temple-trash and alley rats with big eyes and quick hands and no one waiting for them to come home.
They say every soul gets the life they earn. Well if that's true, then I must've earned this one by pissing off some seriously vengeful god with a petty streak and a mean sense of humor. Probably wears sandals with socks. Probably eats figs with a knife and fork.
I glance at the Dragon. His tail shifts in his sleep, curls tighter around me. Protective. Possessive. Warm.
Maybe it's not all punishment. Maybe the gods didn't hate me quite enough to leave me completely alone.
But they came damn close.
But then… maybe some divine bastard up there took pity.
Saw this poor little skunk of a girl—naked, bruised, chained to a rock, shouting obscenities at fate—and said, alright, let's throw her a bone. Or, you know, a beast. A big, winged, fire-snorting, sarcastic bastard of a beast.
And that is something.
I mean, who else gets a dragon? Not a tame one, not a shiny fairy-tale one, but him. Old, aching, fussy. Sharp-tongued. Warm when he wants to be. Cold when he forgets how not to be.
And he puts up with me.
Gods know why. I wouldn't.
I'm loud. I spend too much. I flirt with anything that blinks. I can't cook, can't fight, can barely read, and I lie like it's a bodily function. I've driven off priests, lovers, mercenaries, even that one goat I tried to befriend.
But he's still here. Still flying me out of messes I caused. Still curling around me like I'm something worth guarding.
And maybe that's the real curse, right? Not the whorebrand, not the beatings, not even the temple. The real curse is not knowing why. Why he stays. Why he hasn't flown off yet.
Because he could. Any time. No warning. Just whomp-whomp, up into the night sky with those big leathery wings. Gone. Like everyone else eventually is.
I'd probably curse at the stars. Throw something at the moon. Cry into my stolen quilt.
Then I'd lie to myself again. Say I never needed him.
But we both know that'd be the worst fucking lie of all.
He stirs.
One big eye cracks open, molten gold catching a sliver of starlight. His voice comes low and scratchy, thick with sleep.
"…Saya. You all right?"
Gods.
I suck in a breath and wipe my face with the back of my hand, but it's too late. My voice comes out cracked. Ugly. Childish.
"Shut up," I whisper.
Not angry. Not even bratty. Just broken. Just… tired.
He doesn't ask again. Doesn't poke or prod or make a scene. Just shifts slightly, exhales through his nose like a rumbling sigh, and coils his tail around me tighter. Like a fortress. Like a vow.
"Stupid little monkey," he mutters.
Not cruel. Not dismissive. Just the way he says things when he doesn't know how to say other things.
I bury my face in the curve of his belly and let the tears come. Silent. Hot. Pointless.
He says nothing more. Just stays.
And for tonight… that's enough.