Ogden.
That rat-faced, grease-slicked, smug little cockroach of a man.
There he was. Propped at the corner table of the Rusty Eel, nursing a goblet of spiced wine like he owned the godsdamn continent. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway like he thought he had chest hair worth showing, and his boots were up on the bench like someone wouldn't come along and saw his legs off for the leather.
I marched straight up to him, slapped his goblet out of his hand, and hissed:
"Ogden, you cunt. You forged my idnet… idnetur… my indenturship papers, you absolute pig's foreskin of a human being!"
He didn't even flinch. Just grinned up at me with all the smugness of a man who's recently wiped himself with silk.
"Technically," he said, "I now hold the papers to your freedom."
My jaw clenched. My nails dug into my thighs. If I had venom glands, he'd be foaming at the eyes already.
"You mean the forged papers where I supposedly still owe moons of service to the Temple of the Bleeding Heart, Madam Zoobaya's House of Unrelenting Moans, the High Magistrate of Seebulba, and — oh what was it? — yes, the Most Serene Godsdamn State of Seebulba herself?"
He shrugged. "They were very thorough with your file. Surprising amount of footnotes. Some drawings."
I seethed.
This bastard had weaponized bureaucracy.
He leaned closer, tapping the sheaf of parchment in his coat like it was a love letter and not my chains reborn in ink. "I'm your manumitter now, darling. Your liberator. Your paperwork daddy."
I nearly choked on my own bile.
"Give me those papers," I said, stepping closer.
He tutted and wagged a finger. "Careful, Saya. You touch me, and you're violating your parole from the Temple's Sacred Flesh Registry. Might get you rebranded. On the tongue this time."
Oh, I wanted to stab him. I wanted to throw him into the fireplace, piss on the flames, and sell tickets.
Instead, I smiled. Sweet. Poisoned honey. "Ogden," I cooed. "You absolute sphincter. How much?"
He blinked. "What?"
"For the papers," I said. "You slimy, limp-dicked wart on the ass of society. How much to buy back myself?"
He blinked again. Then smiled.
"Oh, sweetheart. It's not about the coin. It's about leverage."
Oh gods. I was gonna have to kill him. Again. This time properly. No shallow grave in the mushroom wood. I'd burn him. Scatter the ashes. Sell the shovel.
He leaned back smugly. "You'll come around. Sooner or later, everyone needs their past cleaned up. And when you do—"
I snatched his wine jug and poured it on his lap.
"Oops," I said, and turned on my heel.
Behind me, he howled.
"See you at auction, sweetheart!"
Gods help me, I might actually go back to the Temple just to set the place on fire. With him in it.
***
The fire crackled between the Dragon and me. His coils were curled just close enough to keep the wind off, but not touching. Like he knew I was about to explode and didn't want to get singed.
"He sent them," I hissed. "Ogden. The bastard sent bloody slave hunters after me."
The Dragon raised a scaled brow ridge, not even opening his other eye. "Yes. And?"
I whirled on him. "And?! You don't get it. You don't understand!"
"Correct," he drawled, coiling tighter like he was settling in for a bedtime story. "Because — and please, correct me if I'm wrong — you've been on the run since I met you. You were indentured when I found you chained to a rock. You were indentured when we robbed that spice barge. You were definitely still indentured when you offered yourself as a virgin to that hedge knight with the lazy eye. So. What exactly is new here?"
I clenched my fists. My nails dug into my palms.
"It's not the same," I snapped. "I was nobody. Street trash. A ghost. A half-naked harlot with three fake names and a blurry sketch on a wanted poster. I was... I was just some runaway with missing paperwork. There was no bounty. No one really cared."
I swallowed, and the taste in my throat was worse than swamp wine.
"Back then, bringing me in barely covered feed for one horse. For half a day. If that. I wasn't worth the chains it took to drag me back. I was a rounding error in someone's record book."
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. I could tell he was listening now.
"But now?" I spat the words. "Now that flesh-maggot Ogden has papers? Stamped and sealed like they're the gods' own truth? He can wave that parchment around like a deed to a villa and claim he owns me."
I turned to the fire, voice dropping.
"And worse. Worse than all of that... I've got sentimental value."
That made him blink.
"Sentimental," he repeated, flatly.
I turned, jabbing a finger at the air.
"He wants me back. Not for resale. Not for coin. No, no — he wants me for leverage. For fun. For the smug pleasure of having the girl who got away, who outfoxed him, outplayed him, who mocked him in front of the magistrate's wife—dragged back in chains and paraded like a trophy."
The Dragon's eyes flickered gold. Not fire. Not rage. Something else. Something cold.
"Is that what he said?"
"He didn't have to. I know men like that. I served tea naked to men like that. And worse. You think he's going to resell me? No. He's going to keep me."
The Dragon was quiet.
I kept going. Couldn't stop. Wouldn't.
"He'll offer double, triple, whatever it takes to get some merc with a net and a sense of humor to bring me back. Dead, if needed. Just so he can own me again. Properly. With receipts."
There was a long silence.
Then, the Dragon exhaled.
The fire flared tall. Crackled hotter. His voice, when it came, was like iron cooled in snow.
"Then we burn the parchment."
I blinked.
"You what?"
"You said he has papers," he said. "I say we burn them. And him. In either order. Whichever is more dramatic."
I tried to answer. But I couldn't. Not immediately.
So I just sat down next to him. Close. Not touching. Not yet.
And for once, I didn't say anything snarky.
Because that? That was the first thing anyone ever offered to do for me. Not to own me. Not to sell me. Not to save me.
Just… burn it all down. For me.