I cannot. I literally cannot.
"So get this," I say, plopping down beside the fire with all the grace of a drunk satyr in silk. My ankles are still jingling from the fair, my eyes all wide and wicked with leftover awe. "This girl? This woman? She took a gods-damned sword, a real one—not a dagger, not a prop, not a little fancy toothpick for cheese—and she just... slid it down her throat. Like schhhhhhlick. Whole thing."
The Dragon barely lifts his snout off his tail coil. One eye half-lidded. Utterly unimpressed. "Please don't make that sound again."
"No, no, no, listen!" I wave my hands, bangles flashing. "She didn't gag. Not once. Not even a little cough. It was like… like poetry. If poetry was steel and came with a death risk bonus. I swear, I felt it. In my soul. Or somewhere slightly lower. Maybe my ovaries."
"Your ovaries are not a unit of measurement," the Dragon mutters.
"Neither is your mood, but here we are." I grab a fig from the pouch. "You ever seen someone deepthroat a broadsword, Ashbreath? She tilted her head back like a goddess mid-offering and just—gulp. Gone. Like me with cock. But with a blade. A blade, mind you! It wasn't thin. It had a crossguard."
He finally lifts his whole head. That's how I know I've got him. Not intrigued, no. Horrified.
"I don't like where this is going," he says, slow and cold as a glacier curse.
"Oh, you're gonna hate it," I beam. "Because I absolutely need to learn how she did it."
"You're not putting a sword down your throat, Saya."
"Why not?" I pout. "It's elegant. It's art. It's talent. And imagine the coin! A little hip wiggle, a flutter of lashes, and then—fwoop!—Saya swallows the blade of Lord Dremmel's ceremonial bastard sword and everyone gasps and throws gold. Some cry. Some get hard. Some do both."
"You'll die." He narrows his eyes. "Your throat isn't armored."
"My gag reflex is," I say proudly.
"Tragically, I believe that," he growls. "And yet you've survived long enough to ruin my life."
"Exactly! I'm gifted." I stretch like a smug cat, basking in my own perverse ambition. "I'm not saying I'll do it tonight. I'll start with spoons or maybe a sausage link. But eventually—"
"I'm burning every sausage in this camp."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Oh, I would."
I roll onto my side and waggle a toe at him. "You're just jealous I'm the star of our little circus. Admit it."
"I'm the dragon," he mutters, curling his tail tighter. "You're the disaster."
"Semantics," I say, popping the fig into my mouth. "But fine. I won't swallow a sword."
He relaxes.
"Until I find one pretty enough."
I glance at my dagger.
Just a glance.
Long. Slim. Bronze, polished to a dull glow. Double-edged. It's not even that wide. I've had worse down my throat. Let's not pretend.
I wiggle it between two fingers, thoughtful. "I could totally do it."
The Dragon doesn't even look up. "No."
"What do you mean no?"
"No, Saya."
I sit up, dead serious now. "You weren't there today. That girl? That artist? That sensual steel-sucking sorceress? She made it look easy. Graceful. I bet she makes a fortune in tips and underwear."
"You are not swallowing your dagger."
"I've had worse!" I say, holding it up like a challenge. "Sir Ogden, for one. His thing curves. It curves. And then there's Gregory."
Now that makes him look up. The snout lifts. His eyes go all squinty and judgmental. "The demon?"
I grin. "You know how big Gregory is."
"I also know he's not made of iron."
"Well, neither was Sir Ogden. Not that night. Or morning. Or afternoon." I wave the dagger again. "This is child's play."
"It's a weapon."
"So was Gregory's," I smirk.
He lets out this ancient, withering sigh like my whole existence personally offends him.
I ignore it. "Besides, I was temple trained, remember? I still recall the instructions. 'Back straight. Neck loose. Mind open. Breathe through your nose. No teeth.'"
"Was that Mother Oralia?"
"Mother Oralia-Organa," I say proudly. "She had a scroll about it. With diagrams. I got extra scroll time for technique."
He buries his face in his tail like the world is ending.
I scoot a little closer to the fire, dagger still in hand. "I'm just saying. How hard can it be?"
"Hard enough to kill you," he mutters.
"But imagine the tips," I say, staring at the blade again. "Imagine the show. Saya the Serpent. Saya the Sword Swallower. Saya of the Sacred Gullet."
"I will eat that dagger before I let you try."
I pout. "You're such a killjoy."
"I'm the only reason you're still alive."
"Oh come on. Just the tip?"
"Saya."
"Fine. Later. When you're asleep."
I'm not done. Not even close.
I lean forward, eyes all bright and dangerous. "And then—wait till you hear this—there was this guy at the fair. Big crowd. No shirt. Muscles. But not the gross kind. Greased, though. Definitely greased."
The Dragon lifts his snout again. That one eye does a tired blink.
"He was breathing fire."
Everything stops. The air stills. The Dragon stares at me like I just pissed on a shrine.
"That's not funny."
"I'm not joking!"
"Saya. That is downright offensive."
I blink. "What? Why?"
His voice drops like a falling mountain. "Because humans don't breathe fire. It's not a trick. It's not something you learn with a godsdamn stick. It is sacred. It is the birthright of flame-born blood. And now you're telling me some shirtless grease boy is pretending—?"
"Ok yes—yes!" I raise my hands in surrender. "I know it's a party trick. But, gods, it was so cool! He had these long sticks, like torches, right? Lit both ends. Swallowed the flame, then turned around and blew it out in this giant woosh. People screamed. Hair got singed. It was amazing."
The Dragon looks like he's going to throw up from secondhand shame.
"Let me get this straight," he says slowly. "You were impressed by a sweaty half-naked man—"
"Yes."
"—who shoved burning sticks into his mouth—"
"Twice."
"—and then spit them back out while standing on a wooden stage next to children."
"Yes!"
He blinks. "Saya. That's not fire-breathing. That's arson with applause."
"I know," I say, clutching the dagger to my chest like a fangirl. "But if you saw him—his stance, the drama, the timing—he made it look like he was conjuring flame from his soul."
"You are banned from fire. Forever."
"You can't ban me from elements. That's not how elements work."
"You tried to cook once and nearly created chemical warfare."
"Oh please, that stew wasn't even on fire. It was just… minty. And crunchy. And possibly flammable."
"Exactly."
I sigh, flopping backward into my bedroll, dagger still in hand, brain still aflame. "Fine. No fire. No sword. I'll just be boring old Saya."
"Finally," he mutters.
Pause.
"But if I find a fireproof throat charm—"
He snarls, tail flicking like an insulted cat.
"In holy hell, Saya," he growls, "why are you fawning over some town clown with oiled pecs and a death wish when you—you absolute little gremlin—live with an actual dragon?"
Before I can answer, whoomph—
The tree behind me explodes in flame. A proper tree, too. Big. Solid. Now it's a torch. Crackling. Screaming sap. Heat slaps my thighs.
The Dragon exhales through his nose like it's just another Tuesday. "That is fire-breathing," he says coldly. "No trick. No torch. Just metabolism. I do it daily, girl."
I blink. "Well now you're just showing off."
"Correct."
"Ok, fine," I sit up, brushing cinders off my tunic. "You're a dragon. You breathe fire. Big surprise. But imagine if I could do it."
He doesn't blink. Doesn't twitch.
Dead serious: "Saya."
"No, listen!" I scramble to my feet, grinning. "No one expects me—little slutty, barely-dressed, ankle-jewelry-jingling me—to walk up, bend over, and breathe hellfire. Think about it. Think about the drama. The sheer surprise. I could light a cigarette with my tongue. I could toast marshmallows on command. I could defend myself."
"You have a dagger."
"Yes, but it's not theatrical. Fire is sexy. Fire is power. Fire gets you tips and fear."
His eyes narrow. "You'd set your own tits on fire within the week."
"That's a risk I'm willing to take."
He exhales. "Saya."
I beam. "Yes?"
He leans in. Real low. Voice like ash and thunder. "If you ever try to swallow flame, I will lock you in a wet cave and tell everyone you're on a silent meditation retreat."
I pout. "But I'd be iconic."
"You'd be crispy."
"…Still iconic, though."
***
Next morning. Early. Sun barely up. Mist still clinging to the moss like regret.
And there I am. Standing in front of our cave like some barefoot woodland harlot in training, wearing nothing but a scarf-wrap skirt and determination. I've bent a bunch of green branches into a giant hoop—tied with my hair ribbon, no less—and I'm trying to twirl the damn thing around my hips like I wasn't born in a brothel but in a traveling circus.
The Dragon slinks out, blinking at the sunlight like it personally offends him. He watches in silence. I twirl. It drops. I pick it up again. Twirl. Drop. Again.
He tilts his head. "Are you… hula-hooping?"
"I'm learning," I say, catching it with one thigh and twisting. "Now be useful. Light it on fire."
He blinks. "I beg your what?"
I grin, holding the hoop up like an offering. "Come on, just a puff. A whisper. A tickle of flame. I need it to catch but not explode."
He doesn't move. Just stares at me like I'm a forest raccoon asking for matches.
"You want me," he says slowly, "to set fire to your homemade twig ring while you spin it around your hips."
"Yes."
Pause.
"Why?"
"Because—" I spin again, this time managing three full rotations before it clatters to the dirt. "There was this other girl at the fair. She did this whole dance. Like belly dancing, but with the hoop on fire. It circled her waist, her shoulders, her arms, and everything glowed. The crowd went wild. I wanted to tip her. I wanted to be her."
"She was likely a professional. Trained. Fireproofed."
"She was a goddess." I pick up the hoop again. "And I am going to become one. So come on, Ashbreath. Be a dear. Light it up."
He steps closer. "What happened last time you tried to cook?"
"Unrelated."
"You lit your own braid on fire."
"That was mint tea, not performance art. This is different."
He eyes the hoop. Then me. Then my hips. His nostrils flare.
Finally, he sighs. "If you burn off your own ass, I'm not helping regrow it."
"That's fair."
A tiny puff of heat. The hoop catches.
And then—I twirl.
Fire follows me, a ribbon of heat and motion. I squeal. It's beautiful.
Until it slaps me in the thigh.
"Aaaugh!"
The Dragon facepalms with a claw. "I give it ten seconds before you're naked, screaming, and flaming through the woods like a cursed lantern."
I'm already hopping in a circle, patting my skirt.
So yes...
A moment later...
I am on fire.
Rolling in the dirt. Screaming. Cursing. The stupid hoop's somewhere in the bushes, still smoldering like the smug circle of doom it is. My skirt is gone—just ash and singed ribbon scraps—and my braid… oh gods, my braid smells like roasted goat ass.
I flop over, panting. Covered in soot. Scraped elbows. Probably lost a toenail. Definitely lost dignity.
I stagger upright. Naked. Charred. Hair smoldering like a bad omen.
The Dragon is sitting there.
Smug as hell.
Claws crossed. Tail curled. Watching me like I'm the finale of a play he didn't pay to see.
"Well," he says, deadpan. "At least now you don't need a torch. You are one."
I glare. I am one puff of wind away from spontaneous combustion and this ancient bastard is smirking.
I hiss. "You couldn't have warned me?"
"I did. Repeatedly. With increasing clarity."
"You didn't say it would spread that fast!"
"It's fire, Saya. It does that. It's sort of its thing."
I look down at myself. Blackened toes. Smoke rising from what used to be a very cute hip scarf. My nipple has soot on it.
I jab a finger at him. "You're enjoying this."
He exhales a long, satisfied puff of smoke. "Immensely."
I grab a piece of burnt twig, wrap it in what's left of my pride, and stomp—limp—toward the cave.
Behind me, he calls out, "On the bright side, you've now performed the legendary 'Dance of the Flaming Idiot.' It's rarely done with such conviction."
I flip him off with the hand that isn't blistered. "Next time I ask you to light something, just incinerate me outright. It'll be faster."
"Duly noted."
Smug bastard.