The bird is screaming.
No, that's me.
No—both of us.
Feathers flying, claws tearing up the road, and me clinging to the reins with one hand and a stolen dagger in the other, riding like a demon with rent due.
We were five minutes out. Five. Still close enough to smell the inn's piss-soaked hay and regret. The sun barely kissed the hills. My cloak was still flapping from the takeoff. Spirits high. Coin in the pouch. Scam set. Perfect.
Then the bolt flew past my ear.
Then the second one hit my godsdamn terror bird.
And now?
Now we're riding straight into the jaws of an ambush.
Steel flashing on the ridge.
Hooded figures in black tabards with the white crescent of Lerida stamped on their chests.
Fuck.
Leridan bounty hunters.
Not sellswords. Not random highwaymen. These bastards are state-sponsored disappointment. They knew my name.
"Saya of Seebulba!" one of them shouted. "By order of the magistrate of Lerida, you are claimed!"
Claimed.
CLAIMED.
Knew I was a runaway. Knew about Madam Zoobaya, that velvet-sick bitch with her chain of dens and her chain-smoking voice. Knew I owed moons—godsdamn moons—of indenture to the temple, to the magistrate, to anyone who ever held my fucking papers.
I spat. I screamed. I stabbed the bird harder and it shrieked in kind, leaping over a tangle of spear traps.
I twisted back to look at my so-called band of adventurers—the ones I'd hand-fed a tale of dragon lairs and glory.
Folded.
Like. Wet. Napkins.
Spearboy dropped his weapon and curled into a sobbing ball. Godsman screamed something about redemption and ran. The woman in the breastplate? Froze. Wide-eyed. Slack-jawed. Turned and bolted like she'd seen a ghost that wanted a refund.
I wheeled the bird around just long enough to hiss, "Cowards!" before an arrow thunked right into my saddlehorn.
Ogden.
That bastard. That beautiful, treacherous, well-endowed bastard.
Of course he set me up.
I should've known. The grin. The timing. The asking for a cut. He probably walked into their camp with a map and my old contract in hand. Gave them my measurements, too, the smug prick.
If I live through this, I'm going to kill him.
But first?
I need to get away.
Again.
Because that's the one thing I've always been good at.
Running.
***
Smoke curls up from a low fire. The trees here are ash and thorn, twisted by wind, stunted by spite. Perfect spot to lick wounds and nurse rage.
The Dragon's curled around the clearing like a cynical parent chaperoning a failed school trip. One eye open. Breath warm enough to keep the night chill off me. Barely.
I slump down on my bedroll like a sack of bad choices. My cloak is torn, my left sandal's gone, and I think I still have Leridan arrow splinters in my ass.
He watches me for a beat, then sighs—long, theatrical, ancient.
"Let me guess," he says, voice dry as sandpaper, "the scam is off."
I don't answer right away. Just pull the remaining sandal off and hurl it into the fire.
"We need to lie low," I mutter. "Really low. Disappear. Somewhere far. Somewhere without a single priest, magistrate, or godsdamn tavern bard who knows my name."
He hums. "So. Everywhere you've ever been."
"Do you even realize," I snap, "what the punishment for a runaway… away idet—inetu—indentured girl is?"
He raises an amused brow ridge. "Let me guess."
I throw a twig at him. Miss.
"Ogden," I growl, "forged papers. Claims I'm his property. Claims he bought off my contract from Madam Zoobaya. Says I ran from him."
The Dragon blinks. "That cockroach."
"Thank you!"
He curls his tail slightly tighter around the fire, like a parent indulging a toddler mid-tantrum.
"Says he has receipts. Stamps. Witnesses. Gods, I bet he made up a whole backstory. Probably said I was his bride or his concubine or—gods forbid—his beloved."
The Dragon shudders. "Even I wouldn't believe that."
"Exactly! He knows I'll never go near a courthouse, so I can't contest it. It's perfect. He's put me back on the books."
He watches me unravel. Doesn't interrupt.
I rub my temples. "We need to run. Really far. Maybe east. Maybe underground. Or disguise. Or you could just eat him."
He considers. "Tempting. But a cockroach that smug might give me indigestion."
I groan.
The fire pops. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots like it regrets everything. I wrap the torn cloak tighter around my shoulders, eyes fixed on the flames, voice low now. Not dramatic. Not bratty.
Just… raw.
"If they catch me," I say, "they'll drag me back to Lerida. In a cage. Like a beast. Like a thing."
The Dragon doesn't speak. Just watches. Still. Silent.
"They'll whip me. Not for punishment. For display."
I pull my knees up, rest my chin on them.
"Probably brand me again. Right over the old scar. Like stamping used goods."
Still no answer. Just that heavy, molten presence at my back.
I don't stop.
"And then? Then they hand me over to Ogden. In chains. Like a gift. Or worse—they put me back on an auction block. Open bidding. Let Madam Zoobaya haggle for a discount."
My voice cracks at her name.
"She will come. I know her. I ran. She doesn't let things go."
The wind shifts. The Dragon exhales—a long, low furnace sigh that rattles the leaves.
Finally, he speaks. "They won't catch you."
I don't look at him. "You don't know that."
"I do." His voice is cold now. Not tired. Not amused. Ancient.
"I'm older than their empires," he says. "I've burned their temples and melted their kings. If they want you, they'll have to come through me."
I glance at him. Just once.
He isn't smiling.
And gods help me, that terrifies me more than the bounty.
Because I believe him.