The fire crackles like it's judging me for the way I roast this onion. I stabbed it on a stick. That's it. That's the recipe. The stick is slightly burnt now. The onion is still raw in the middle and singed outside. It's my signature dish.
The Dragon stretches his enormous clawed toes toward the flames and exhales like a world-weary aunt.
"How is a city girl like you," he drawls, "coping with this endless exile among rocks, goat shit, and mud?"
I shrug.
Because what am I supposed to say? That I cry myself to sleep? That I dream of silks and smoke and waking up to the smell of bread instead of my own armpit?
"You talk about cities," he adds. "Like you miss them."
I sigh. Not dramatic. Just tired. Real tired.
"Cities are full of roofs," I say. "And food you don't have to kill yourself. And if you know where to sleep, you don't wake up with slugs in your underwear."
He doesn't laugh. He usually does when I say underwear.
I poke the onion. Still raw.
He doesn't say anything. So I do.
"I can't go back. Not really."
He tilts his head.
"If I'm caught," I say, "and someone actually takes the time to check the brands on my thigh and hip—"
I lift the hem of my tunic just slightly, let him see the faint scar-ink under my skin, ugly where it should have been ornamental.
"—then it's game over. I'm not just some runaway tart. I'm property."
The word sticks in my mouth like bad wine. I say it anyway.
"They'd drag me back, naked. In chains. Paraded. Whipped maybe, but not too much. Can't bruise the merchandise. Might shave my head again. Make sure I understand I'm not clever, or free, or special."
He's not blinking. Not even pretending to nap like usual when I get morose.
"In Seebulba? They'd pillory me naked in the harbor district. Let dockhands grope me just enough to humiliate but not damage. Then auction me off with a sign that says Returned Runaway—Partially Broken In."
He flinches at that. Just a twitch in the corner of his mouth, but I see it.
"In Toemacha, it's classier. They'd lock me in a marble cell and bathe me in rose water while whispering about purity and repentance. But it's still a cage. And when the buyers come, they'll smile while checking teeth and breasts and how pink the inside of my thighs is."
He growls low in his throat. A sound like mountains grinding their teeth.
I keep going. I don't know why.
"In Lerida? It's paperwork and ink stamps and public shame. They'd clip my ear maybe. Or slap an iron collar with my registry number. Then back on the block I go."
I bite into the onion. It's disgusting. My eyes water.
"I'd rather eat this every night than ever go back to being someone's thing."
He stares into the fire.
"And you think wandering with me is safer?"
I grin.
"No. It's stupid and dangerous and full of fleas. But at least I'm stupid and dangerous and flea-bitten on my own terms."
He huffs smoke through his nostrils.
"Then sleep, stupid girl," he mutters, curling his tail around me. "And dream of cities with no chains."
I lean into the warm scale of his belly.
"Only if there's a bakery."
"Fine. But you're still not getting curtains."
"Rude."
And we sleep. Just a girl and her monster. Better than gilded cages and perfumed lies.
The fire's low now. Just embers. The Dragon shifts, tail coiled like a bored cat, head resting on his claws.
"There are other cities," he says, voice soft, like he's trying not to wake the stars. "Delvida. Iolika. Even Tanagra, if we stayed low."
I snort. Not amused. Not even close.
"And what would I do there?" I ask, flicking a pebble into the dying fire. "Sing for coppers on a street corner? Spread my legs in some alley behind a tavern? Freelance under the archway by the market gates like the rest of the untethered meat?"
He doesn't answer.
"I've no craft but whorecraft and thieving," I say. "And let's be honest—I'm better at lying on my back than picking locks. And I wasn't even temple-trained properly. Got kicked out for swearing mid-ritual and biting a priest."
Still no answer.
"You couldn't come with me," I add, staring up at the moonless sky. "Not into the walls. Not into the real cities. No dragon in Delvida. You'd never fit through the gates, and they don't exactly have a perch for you at the city square."
Silence stretches. Tight.
"And me?" I whisper. "Without you, I'd be back to being furniture with a heartbeat. Priced by the hour. Stripped of name, again. And this time, I'd probably let it happen."
He shifts. The ground groans under him.
"You wouldn't," he mutters.
I don't respond.
Because maybe I would.
Because maybe the scariest part of freedom is not knowing what to do with it.
Because maybe chains at least come with purpose.
And out here—this fire, this wind, this dragon—it's chaos. It's cold. It's wild.
But it's mine.
So I pull his wing over me like a blanket and whisper, "I'll stay, lizard. Just... don't die on me before I figure out who the fuck I am."
He grunts.
"Rude," I add, curling up under the leathery warmth. "I didn't even say good night."
"Because you never shut up," he murmurs.
And I sleep. Because I can. Because no one owns this silence but me.