I squat by the river, dip my fingers in the pouch, and scoop out a pinch of black powder—charcoal, salt, crushed mint, and a hint of clove. Smells like a holy man on fire.
I stuff it into my mouth with all the grace of a drunk bandit and start scrubbing with a chewed twig. Back and forth. Circular. Jab and twist.
I look like I'm exorcising demons out of my molars.
The Dragon watches from his perch across the river, neck curled elegantly, claws folded, the picture of judgmental serenity.
He blinks at me.
I grin through the foam.
"Morning, sunshine," I gargle.
He doesn't blink again. Just stares. "Do you have to make it look like a violent crime?"
I spit.
A dark, minty glob hits a rock with a satisfying splat.
A beetle rolls over and dies from the fumes. Maybe.
"Beauty," I say around the twig, "requires sacrifice."
"Someone is being sacrificed," he mutters. "Your dignity."
I rinse with river water. Spit again. Then stand up, still brushing, one hand on my hip like a queen in warpaint.
"You'd be amazed what fresh breath can do," I say, pointing the twig at him. "I've talked men into giving me rings, horses, citizenship papers. All because I didn't reek like last night's sins."
He looks mildly sick. "You gargle sin, Saya."
"Exactly. That's strategic branding."
Another spit. Another gargle. The river churns.
"Besides," I continue, "I like the feeling. The sting. The clarity. Like I'm scraping off everything I said and did and swallowed last night."
He lifts his massive head and tilts it. "You make tooth care sound like repentance."
I grin, showing off black-streaked gums and a sparkle of white.
"Who says it's not?"
He sighs. Long, ancient, and very tired. "There are mornings I wonder if you were meant to be a cleric."
I rinse one last time, toss the twig, and beam.
"And there are mornings I wonder if you were meant to be less of a judgmental fossil, but here we are."
He closes his eyes, muttering about karma, chaos, and the collapse of civilization.
I skip past him, barefoot and minty, spitting one last time behind me.
"Clean mouth, dirty life," I sing. "Balance, darling. It's all about balance."
I toss the last bit of riverwater at a rock and spit again with flourish—
A high arc.
Excellent velocity.
Would've won a spitting contest if anyone sane judged such things.
Then I glance back at him, still perched like a grumpy monument to ancient superiority.
"You should try it sometime."
He opens one golden eye. "Try what."
"Brushing your teeth."
He makes a sound like someone stepped on a relic.
"My mouth," he says stiffly, "is cleansed by fire."
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly lose balance. "Oh please."
"It is," he insists, rising slightly. "My breath is a forge. A holy cleansing flame."
"Your breath," I say, "smells like roasted sheep, old coins, and death threats."
He squints at me. "Mint is a mortal crutch. Dragons burn impurities from within."
"Oh, that's cute. You think halitosis is a personality trait."
He snorts. A puff of smoke curls around his muzzle.
I stomp back up the riverbank, dripping, wild-haired, grinning like a lunatic.
"Next time we rob a city, I'm finding a brush your size. Maybe a ship's mast. Tie some moss to it. You can even pretend it's ritualistic."
He glares. "If you try to climb into my mouth with a toothbrush, I will bite."
I wink. "Kinky."
He groans and lays his head back down with a thud.
"Every morning with you," he mutters, "feels like blasphemy wrapped in dental advice."
"Exactly," I say, flopping down beside him, still naked, still minty.
"You're welcome."