Okay, so maybe something finally snapped in me.
Or maybe—just maybe—I finally came to my senses.
Either way, I was marching through the godsdamn forest like a woman with a mission, chest out, chin high, feet blistered, and rage steaming out of my nose. Behind me? Sir Odran. Sir Smug. Sir Prettyboy Buttplug. Strutting after me like a parade pony, only slightly less majestic and a lot more naked.
His wrists were bound in front of him, nice and tight. Saya's specialty silk knots. One end of the chain wrapped delicately around my fist like a leash.
I tugged it. Hard. Just to hear him stumble. Just to remind him who was in charge now.
"Please," he said, breathless. "Just—listen to me—"
"No," I snapped. "For the last time, no. I am done listening to you."
"But—"
"No buts, Odran. Except yours. Which is currently catching mosquito bites because you're too stupid to keep your pants on and too pretty for your own good."
The chain jingled as I yanked him along like a disobedient pet. He tripped on a root, cursed, and kept hobbling after me with his bare ass out and dignity trailing somewhere way behind us. Probably still at the riverbank where I'd kicked over his armor and set fire to his boots.
I didn't even look back. Just raised my voice so the trees and the birds and every celestial spirit within earshot could hear:
"This time, I swear by the flaming testicles of the Moon King, I am selling your sorry, story-stealing, sun-blessed ass on the next local slave market and buying myself something useful in exchange. Like a goat. Or a hat."
Stop. Scene ends. Curtain down. Let him sweat.
The trees swayed. Birds scattered. Somewhere in the branches, a squirrel stopped chewing mid-nut to listen.
"You can't just sell a hero!" Odran barked, tripping again as the chain jerked him forward. "It's… it's against the code!"
"Oh really?" I turned on my heel so fast he nearly collided with me—naked, sun-kissed, and flustered. "Which code is that? The Official Guide to Arrogant Pricks with Nice Hair?"
"I'm knighted!"
"Good," I said sweetly. "That'll raise the starting bid."
He stared at me like I'd sprouted horns. "You can't seriously be—"
"I am deadly serious," I hissed. "Because let me tell you, sunshine: when they were selling me, no one paused to ask about honor codes or heroic bloodlines or my fucking zodiac sign. It was all: how wide's her smile, how soft's her skin, and does she moan like the temple girls. Which—spoiler—yes, I do, but that's not the point."
"That's not the same," he said, face red and voice cracking like he was sixteen again.
"Oh? And why not? Is it because I'm a woman?" I shoved a finger in his face. "Or because I'm street trash? Because I didn't get my sword from a temple and my morals from a scroll?"
"That's not what I meant!"
"Well then what did you mean, Sir Ogden, Chaste of Cheeks and Dumb of Dick?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I—I slayed a manticore once!"
"Oh, congratulations. You want a sticker or a butt plug shaped like its tail?"
"This is madness!"
"Nope." I tugged the chain. He stumbled forward. "This is justice. Saya's edict. You're going to get sold, Sir Golden-Balls, and we'll see if you like it or not."
He flailed. "I don't like it!"
"Tough shit," I snapped, stomping forward again. "Welcome to my world."
Behind me, he sputtered, "You can't just reduce me to some kind of commodity!"
"Oh, but I can," I said, not even looking back. "And I will. Starting price: one gold sovereign. Final price: however much the baron's widow is willing to pay for a pretty new footstool who can recite battle poems while she rides."
"You're bluffing."
"Keep telling yourself that while you tan, sweetcheeks."
He whimpered.
I smiled.
Okay.
So how did we get here?
Don't ask.
No, seriously. Don't.
Because if I have to walk you through the whole sweaty, spite-drenched, backstabbing clusterfuck that led to me dragging a naked hero by a chain through tick-infested underbrush, I might just scream. Or puke. Or laugh. Probably all three.
Suffice to say, it involved:
A failed plot.
Some revenge sex.
A lot of angry revenge sex.
And yes—back-stabbing. In every sense. Literal. Figurative. Positional.
So yeah. I'm done.
Done with his smug little smirks. Done with his breathy justifications. Done with being the cute bait while Sir Shinycock here prances around like he's the chosen of the gods just because his abs make local barmaids weep.
This? This right here?
Total role reversal.
I used to be the one in chains. The one dolled up like a sacrifice, tits perked, lips pouting, waiting for some tin-can idiot to declare his undying love before inevitably either dying or running away screaming when the Dragon showed up.
Now?
Now he was the offering.
Butt-naked. Wrist-bound. Following me like a scolded puppy with great glutes.
I don't even know when the moment came. The snapping point. Maybe it was when I caught him grinning while some merchant lord was fondling my thigh and he just watched. Or maybe when he slipped out in the night with half our gold and his stupid enchanted comb.
Or maybe… maybe it was when I realized that no matter how many times we fucked, or fought, or plotted together—he still didn't see me as an equal.
Well.
Guess what, Sir Odran.
Saya does not do sequels with bastards who think her worth begins and ends between her legs.
You wanna play the dumb himbo savior?
Cool.
Let's see how the local slaver market feels about hero meat.
Spoiler: there's a huge market for "fallen paladins." Especially the talky ones.
And I'm gonna sell you with pamphlets.
There was a gust of wind. A shadow over the trees. A whiff of brimstone and old regrets.
Then—whomp—the forest floor shook.
"There you are," came the voice. Velvet and gravel and smugness, with a hint of cinnamon and disappointment. "I leave you alone for two days and I come back to find you dragging a naked knight through the pinebrush like a bargain-bin dominatrix."
I didn't slow. Just yanked the chain and kept marching.
"Don't even start," I said.
The Dragon padded up beside me, his massive clawed feet somehow making less noise than Odran's pathetic twig-snaps. He blinked, looked at Sir Cheeks Exposed, then back at me.
"Am I to assume this is… disciplinary?"
"He's getting sold."
There was a beat. A beat in which I could feel both of them trying to process that.
Odran piped up behind me, voice strained. "Finally. Someone sane. Tell her this is madness."
The Dragon snorted. "You're speaking to a six-ton fire-breathing lizard with arthritis and unresolved family trauma. Sane is not a service I offer."
"Can you just—" Odran made a half-jump to catch up, which made something jiggle unpleasantly. "She's serious! She's taking me to market!"
"Oh, I know," the Dragon muttered. "Saya, darling, what in the name of roasted goat legs are you doing?"
"I told you!" I spun around, chain rattling. "I'm selling him. He betrayed me. Again. He lied. Again. He stole. Again. And this time? I'm not gonna cry about it. I'm gonna get paid."
The Dragon gave me that look. The old uncle trying to stop the toddler from biting the priest again look.
"You can't just enslave people because they're annoying."
"Really? Because it worked out just fine when the world did it to me."
"That's not—" he started.
"Oh? Why not?" I stepped into his space, all rage and blistered feet and cheap linen tunic with no bra. "Because he's got a title? Because he once oiled his sword in a temple and shouted a vow or two? Or because he's a man and I'm a harlot who forgot her place?"
"That's not what I—"
"You too, huh?" I jabbed a finger at the Dragon's broad, incredulous snout. "Go ahead. Take his side. At least he didn't pretend to be above it."
"I'm not on his—!"
"She's got a point," Odran muttered.
The Dragon turned and stared at him. "You shut up."
"I'm just saying—"
"You are naked, collared, and contributing nothing but awkward moral relativity. Silence."
Odran grimaced and crossed his legs. "Not helping."
The Dragon turned back to me with a sigh deep enough to rust armor. "Saya. I love you, but this is—this is petty. Even for you."
"Petty? PETTY?" I shrieked. "I am the grand duchess of petty! I was born in the gutters of Pettyville and raised on the shores of Vengeance Bay!"
"And your crest is what? A stiletto heel in a man's groin?"
"Exactly."
He sighed again. Louder. "You can't do this."
"I can. I will. And if you get in my way—"
"What? You'll sell me too?"
I stopped walking. Turned.
Met his eyes. "Don't tempt me."
Silence. Tense. Awkward.
Even the forest went quiet.
Then Odran cleared his throat and said, "So. Uh. Does the market have dental plans? Asking for a friend."
I kept walking.
They followed.
One reluctantly. One shamefully.
Both mine. For now.