The Dragon was polishing a coin with the corner of an old tapestry like it had personally offended him.
I flopped down beside his foreclaw.
"You will not believe," I announced, "what Vael told me."
He didn't look up. "If it involves you joining a movement, I shall pre-emptively faint."
"No, no, listen. He explained me to myself."
That got an eyelid.
"He said," I continued, sitting up straight like I was about to recite sacred poetry, "that my entire life trajectory has been shaped by struc—struc—struccural ex-plo-tatative… paradigms."
The Dragon stopped polishing.
"By what."
"Para-dimes," I repeated confidently. "Like the little silver coins but more philosophical."
He stared at me.
"He said," I pressed on, "that I have been subjected to 'intergenerational commodifi—comodi—comodi-fication.'"
"Commodification."
"Yes, that. But he said it with this voice. Like he was blessing me with it. Commodi-fi-caaation." I wiggled my fingers dramatically.
The Dragon sighed. "And what did this enlightened furball mean?"
"That my body was turned into capital before I even had proper hips." I beamed. "Isn't that gorgeous? Capital. I always thought it was just rent."
He resumed polishing. "You were sold, exploited, branded, and discarded. We have discussed this."
"Yes, but he said it was 'systemic.'"
"It was."
"And 'late-feu-dal internalized market performa—performa—performativity.'"
"Performativity."
"That."
I leaned closer, lowering my voice like we were sharing scandal.
"He said I adapted by weaponizing my own desirability in a hostile acquisition economy."
The Dragon blinked slowly.
"You flirt and steal."
"Yes! But when he says it, it sounds like I'm a scholar."
He exhaled smoke through his nostrils.
"Saya. You have always known you were exploited."
"Yes."
"You have always known you turned that exploitation into leverage."
"Yes."
"You have always known you are not a victim, but neither were you given a choice."
I waved a hand.
"Of course I know that. I lived it."
"Then what precisely is new?"
I grinned at him, unable to help myself.
"He made it sound expensive."
The Dragon's claw paused mid-polish.
"He said," I continued, delighted, "that I am a 'self-curated agent of subversive erotic autonomy.'"
"You seduce men and take their coin."
"Yes but agent of autonomy sounds like I should be paid double."
He gave me a look. The long, ancient, weary kind.
"And did this wolf also explain that you enjoy what you do?"
I hesitated a fraction.
"He said my pleasure is 'both authentic and socially mediated.'"
The Dragon's tail twitched.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning sometimes I want it. Sometimes I need it. Sometimes I sell it. Sometimes I pretend." I shrugged. "But the system makes it messy."
Silence stretched between us, warm as banked coals.
He finally said, dry as dust:
"You did not require a baronial cub in a fur cloak to tell you that."
"No," I admitted. "But he used the word 'dialectical.' Twice."
"And you know what that means."
"Absolutely not."
He closed his eyes.
I leaned back on my hands, staring up at the canopy.
"He also said," I added cheerfully, "that I have been navigating a 'post-indentured identity reclamation arc.'"
"That," said the Dragon, "is called surviving."
"Yes, but he said arc. Like I'm epic."
He finally looked at me fully.
"Saya."
"Yes?"
"You were exploited."
"I know."
"You were hurt."
"I know."
"You turned yourself into something sharp instead of something broken."
I smiled faintly.
"Yes."
"And you require no theoretical validation from aristocratic brats with curated trauma."
I snorted.
"They were very moisturized, to be fair."
He groaned.
I rolled onto my stomach, chin on my hands.
"I just liked," I said lightly, "that someone described my entire messy life with words that sound like marble statues."
He studied me for a long moment.
"You have always known the truth," he said quietly. "You simply prefer it dressed in silk."
I flashed him a grin.
"Exactly."
Smoke burst from his nostrils.
"Agent of autonomy," he muttered.
"Subversive," I corrected proudly.
The Dragon kept polishing the coin for a while after that, the firelight sliding across its face like it was trying to escape him.
Then, without looking up:
"And when," he asked, voice thin with suspicion, "did this… enlightening conversation take place?"
"Last night," I said.
The coin stopped moving.
"At the inn."
Now he looked at me.
"What were you doing at an inn, Saya."
I blinked at him slowly.
"The usual."
His eyes narrowed.
"The usual usual."
"Yes."
A pause.
Then, with the patience of someone asking whether the sky is still above us:
"Did you bed him."
I scratched my cheek.
"Well."
His gaze sharpened.
"It was actually two of them."
The coin slipped from his claw and landed in the dirt with a dull, offended clink.
"Two."
"Mhm."
"The theorist and his… fashionable bitch?"
"They were doing a joint discourse. Also don't call her bitch."
He closed his eyes.
"Of course they were."
We sat in silence for a moment, pine sap popping in the fire.
Then he asked, very carefully:
"Did they pay you afterwards?"
I opened my mouth.
Paused.
Closed it again.
"…Huh."
He watched me think.
I replayed it.
The wine.The talking.The big words.The enthusiastic practical demonstrations of "reclaiming embodied autonomy."
My brow slowly furrowed.
"…Come to think of it."
He didn't move.
"No," I admitted.
The Dragon inhaled slowly, deeply, like a volcano reconsidering its career options.
Then he said, with terrible calm:
"They scammed you, Saya."
I blinked.
"They what."
"They took advantage of you. Engaged your services. Extracted the fruits of your labor." His lip curled. "And did not compensate you."
I thought about it again.
The wine had been theirs.
The room had been theirs.
They had talked the entire time about liberation while I did most of the… participatory work.
I slowly nodded.
"…There was a lot of labor."
"Yes," he said darkly. "I imagine there was."
I squinted into the fire.
"They kept calling it a 'mutual exchange of empa-emaci-emancipatory intimacy.'"
"They call it that when they don't want to pay."
"Oh."
He leaned closer, smoke curling from his nostrils.
"They intellectualized you, seduced you, and then appropriated your professional output without remuneration."
I stared at him.
"That's exactly what he said about feudal systems."
"Yes," the Dragon snapped, "and he just enacted one on you."
I gasped softly.
"Gods."
"Yes."
"They commodified my commodification."
"Yes."
"And I didn't even set a rate."
"No, you did not."
We sat with that for a moment.
The fire cracked.
An owl hooted like it knew something scandalous.
I frowned.
"…They did offer to read me a pamphlet afterwards."
The Dragon made a sound somewhere between a snarl and a cough.
"Did you at least rob them."
I brightened slightly.
"I stole one of their gigglgrass pouches."
He pinched the bridge of his snout.
"Gigglegrass."
"It is very nice blend. I smoked it afterwards."
"Saya."
"Yes?"
"You allowed yourself to be seduced by theoretical flattery and performed unpaid labor for a speech-addicted revolutionary and his fashionable she-wolf."
I considered this gravely.
"…When you say it like that it sounds bad."
"It is bad."
I sighed.
"They said my body transcends transactional frameworks."
"And yet," he said dryly, "they transacted nothing."
I groaned and flopped onto my back.
"Gods. I got gentrified."
"Yes."
"By wolves."
"Yes."
I covered my face with my hands.
"They even took notes."
The Dragon went very still.
"…During?"
"After," I said. "I think. Hard to tell. One of them was scribbling slogans."
Smoke poured steadily from his nostrils now.
Finally he said, in a tone of deep ancestral disappointment:
"You are charging triple next time."
I lowered my hands, peeking at him.
"You think they'll let me come back?"
He snorted.
"Saya. You are a field study to them."
I grinned slowly.
"Oh."
"Yes."
"Then I'm raising my academic consultation fee."