It starts with me admiring it.
The collar.
I'm sitting on a rock near the cave entrance, turning it in the light like it's a crown jewel instead of what it actually is.
It's iron. Not crude. Forged deliberately. A thin band that sits snug at the throat. On the front — a small wolf's head stamped into the metal.
Revolution chic.
Dragon watches me in complete silence for a full minute.
Then:
"…What," he asks carefully, "is that."
I smile without looking at him.
"It's a symbol."
"I am going to require more words."
"It's the mark of the movement," I say proudly. "Only those committed to the cause wear it."
He leans forward slightly.
"It is a collar."
"It is not a collar," I snap. "It's a— a sigil of solidarity."
"It is around your neck."
"That's where symbols go."
"They usually go on banners."
I roll my eyes.
"You're being intentionally obtuse."
"I am being anatomically observant."
He shifts, claws clicking softly on stone.
"Saya," he says slowly, "that Vael guy placed an iron ring around your throat."
"He bestowed it," I correct.
"He fastened it."
"It was ceremonial."
"He buckled it."
"It was symbolic!"
Dragon's tail thumps once against the cave floor.
"Have you," he asks very evenly, "lost your mind."
I sit up straighter.
"Oh for gods' sake. It's not like that."
"It is exactly like that."
"It represents unity."
"It represents ownership."
"It represents resistance," I insist. "We are reclaiming what was used to shame us."
He stares at me.
"You are not a wolf."
"That's not the point."
"He collared you."
"He invited me into the pack."
"He placed a band of metal around your neck."
"You hoard metal," I shoot back. "Don't pretend you have moral objections to iron."
"I hoard metal in piles," he says. "Not on you."
I cross my arms.
"You don't understand symbolism."
"I understand containment."
I stand up now, heated.
"You think everything is about control. That's because you've spent centuries sitting on gold."
"And you," he says flatly, "have spent years escaping men who believed they owned you."
That lands.
I hesitate.
"It's different," I say, quieter but stubborn.
"How."
"It was voluntary."
He tilts his head.
"So is kneeling."
I glare at him.
"You're twisting it."
"I am describing it."
"It's about solidarity," I insist. "About belonging. About showing the baronies we won't be ashamed."
He gestures vaguely with one claw.
"By wearing the apparatus of domestication."
"It's reclaimed."
"It's still a collar."
"It's not the same as—"
"You once told me," Dragon interrupts, "that the first thing you learned in Madam Zoobaya's was never to let anyone clasp something around your neck."
I freeze.
"That was different."
"Yes," he says softly. "That one cost coin."
I yank the collar slightly, defensive.
"This is about revolution."
"It is about optics."
"It is about class con—conshus—"
"Consciousness."
"That."
He exhales smoke in a thin ribbon.
"You are not awakening politically," he says. "You are imprinting."
"I am not imprinting!"
"He fastened a collar and spoke of liberation."
"It's a symbol of chosen restraint!"
"Restraint is rarely chosen by the one wearing it."
I bristle.
"You are impossible."
"You are dazzled."
"He speaks truth!"
"He speaks beautifully," Dragon corrects. "That is not the same."
I yank the collar off my neck and hold it up between us.
"It means something."
"Yes," Dragon says.
"What."
"It means he knows exactly where to place pressure."
I hesitate again.
Then snap back because I refuse to lose this argument.
"Well excuse me for believing that maybe discipline can be empowering."
Dragon blinks slowly.
"Discipline," he repeats. "From a silk-cloaked heir with a crate."
I throw my hands up.
"You're just threatened because someone else is commanding loyalty."
"I do not command loyalty," he says dryly. "I command fear."
"Exactly!"
He looks at me for a long moment.
"Saya."
"What."
"If a movement must collar its converts to prove their freedom," he says quietly, "consider what it intends to do to its enemies."
The cave goes very still.
I look at the iron band in my hands.
It suddenly feels heavier than it did in the forest clearing.
I lift my chin anyway.
"You're dramatic."
"I am ancient."
I hesitate.
Then, stubborn as ever, I slip the collar back on.
"It looks good on me," I say.
Dragon closes his eyes.
"Of course it does."