Night. Little Baronial town with delusions of importance. Cobblestones still warm, shutters already pulled, the sort of place that slls like yeast, piss, and moral certainty.
I spot the pastry shop in daylight. Of course I do. Window full of sugared lies. Custard. Glaze. Little pink cherries like painted nipples. I clock the alley, the back door, the weight of the lock. ntal note filed under later, when hungry and stupid.
Fast forward to later.
I am hungry and stupid.
Maybe I had one cherry wine too many. Maybe two. Maybe the wine is cheap and sour and eating my stomach from the inside. Maybe I didn’t eat since breakfast because soone large, scaly, and opinionated insisted dried at was a “complete al” and then fell asleep mid-lecture. Maybe it’s just cupcakes.
Cupcakes are my weakness. Everyone has one. Heroes have rcy. Kings have pride. I have baked goods with frosting.
I slip into the alley. Barefoot, obviously. Shoes are for people who plan ahead. The back door looms. The padlock is huge, ugly, and dumb. Compensating. I kneel, hairpin out, tongue between teeth. The chanism clicks like it wants to be opened. Honestly offended they even bothered locking it.
Two minutes. I’m in.
The shop slls like heaven if heaven was run by a fat aunt who loves butter too much. Sugar dust in the air. Trays everywhere. I shut the door softly, slide the bolt, already drooling. No heroics. No finesse. I grab a cupcake and stuff it in my mouth like it might escape.
Gods.
Soft. Sweet. Cherry. Cream everywhere. I moan. I don’t care. I eat another. Then another. I’m crouched on the floor like a feral animal, frosting on my fingers, on my chin, probably on my nose. I consider taking so for later. I consider nothing else.
Click.
Oh no.
I freeze, cupcake halfway to my mouth.
The sound isn’t subtle. It’s wood, tension, a very deliberate I am about to ruin your night noise.
I turn.
The shop owner stands there in his nightshirt, hair like he fought a pillow and lost, holding a crossbow aid directly at my chest. Not shaking. That’s the rude part. Beside him, his wife in a robe, candle raised, eyes sharp and furious and very focused on the crumbs all over .
There’s a long, awful beat.
I swallow.
“…I can explain.”
The wife snorts. The owner tightens his grip.
Busted.
Morning slls like ink, damp wool, and judgnt.
They march in like a sack of stolen flour. No chains—small rcy—but two guards anyway, because apparently cupcakes are a gateway cri. The magistrate sits behind a desk that’s seen better centuries. Balding. Red nose. Ink-stained fingers. He already looks tired of , which is fair, because I’m tired of too.
“Na.”
“Saya.”
Scratch scratch.
“Occupation.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Tilt my head.
“You wouldn’t believe .”
He looks up. Deadpan.
“Try .”
I don’t.
“Vagrant.”
Scratch.
“Address.”
I spread my hands.
“Conceptually? Everywhere.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose.
“So. Hobo.”
“Seasonal,” I say.
He ignores that. “Place of origin.”
I hesitate half a heartbeat too long.
“Seebulba.”
That gets a reaction. The quill stops. He looks at properly now, like you look at a stain you’re not sure will co out.
“Seebulba,” he repeats.
“Yes, that Seebulba,” I say quickly. “Port. Fish. Cri. Very misunderstood.”
“Indentured?”
“No.”
“Escaped?”
“No no no no no.”
His eyebrow goes up. That one eyebrow magistrates have, trained from birth.
“I can explain,” I add.
He waits.
I realise I can’t. Or rather, I can, but it would take three hours, two lies, and a crying break.
“Coin to pay for damages?” he asks.
I pat myself. Pockets. Ankles. Hair. I find exactly nothing. I shrug. Full body. Honest.
He sighs. It’s the sigh of a man who has sentenced a hundred girls like and will sentence a hundred more before lunch.
“Well,” he says, “there are… alternatives.”
I don’t like that word.
He shuffles papers. “The town brothel is short-staffed. Run by the Temple of the Heavenly Mother. You work off the damages. Pastries included.”
My stomach drops through my feet.
“No,” I say imdiately. “No. Absolutely not. Not temples. Not mothers. Not heavenly anything. I’ve done my ti with incense and hymns and won who smile while they hurt you.”
The magistrate blinks.
“You’d prefer the stocks?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Again.
“…How long,” I ask carefully, “is ‘work it off.’”
He checks.
“Two weeks. Maybe three, depending on demand.”
Fuck.
Not again.
The magistrate opens his mouth to pronounce sothing final and ugly.
The door slams open.
A city guard barrels in, helt crooked, face white.
“Dragon!” he shouts. “Big one! Peasants saw it circling the hills—burn marks, scorched goats, the whole lot!”
The room freezes.
I don’t even think. I drop.
Knees hit stone. Hard. I make it dramatic. Hands clasped. Eyes wide. Voice shaking just enough to sound real if you want to believe it.
“Please,” I sob. “Please don’t sacrifice to that foul sky beast.”
I crawl forward a little. Not too much. Desperate, not threatening.
“I know I’m nothing,” I babble. “A poor errant virgin. Expendable. Gods know the world won’t miss . But please—please—I’ll work it off. I’ll scrub floors, I’ll serve wine, I’ll do anything. Just don’t send up a hill with garlands and a knife.”
I choke up. On purpose.
“Send to the brothel,” I whisper, horrified. “Your hellish, sinful brothel. I’ll take it. I’ll repent. Just not the dragon. Please.”
I don’t look at the magistrate.
That’s the trick.
You let them see the solution.
And then you wait.
The magistrate squints at like I’ve just suggested sothing both idiotic and inconvenient.
“You really believe,” he says slowly, “that a virgin sacrifice would mollify such a beast?”
I look up from my knees, eyes shiny, voice trembling in just the right places.
“Isn’t that the tradition, Your Honour? The lore? Everyone knows that. Virgins. Hills. Knives. Singing. Very symbolic.”
He nods despite himself. Of course he does. n like him grew up on the sa stories as everyone else.
Then his eyes narrow.
“And you,” he says, “are a virgin?”
Ah. There it is.
I hesitate exactly one heartbeat.
“Let’s not dwell on details.”
The room murmurs. A clerk coughs. Soone shifts their feet.
“But,” he presses, “you admitted to working in whorehouses.”
“Adjacent environnts,” I say quickly. “Very hands-on industry, lots of rumors. Look, Your Honour, purity is a spectrum. The gods understand nuance.”
He scratches his chin. That’s bad. Thinking is bad.
I rush in before he can derail this.
“And of course,” I add breathlessly, “you wouldn’t just send . That would be reckless. Everyone knows sacrifices work best with tribute.”
He pauses.
“Tribute.”
“Yes,” I say eagerly. “Gold. Coin. Offerings. Double sure. You want the foul sky beast satisfied, not peckish. A girl and gold. Shows respect. Serious intent.”
Now the brow wrinkles. The murmuring grows. I can feel it tipping, that delicious mont when an idea stops being mine and starts being theirs.
“It’s not the ti for hesitation, Your Honour,” I say, louder now, urgent, righteous. “This is a ti for decisive action.”
I gesture vaguely at the window. At the imagined smoke. The terrified peasants.
“Better a poor vagrant and so gold perish than the whole town and its economic base. Markets. Workshops. Tax revenue.”
I swallow. Add the final nail, soft and noble.
“I am willing to do my duty.”
And then I bow my head.
Waiting for the verdict.
So hours later.
I’m naked. Of course I am.
Standing stone on a windy hill just outside town. Old thing. Lichen. Blood grooves worn smooth by tradition and poor girls. Garlands of wilted flowers draped over my shoulders and between my breasts like I’m a maypole with tits. Brass chain around my waist and wrists. Cold. Chafing. Familiar in all the wrong ways.
And around my neck—
A wooden plaque.
Big letters. Carved with confidence.
VIRGIN.
100% PURE.
I stare at it.
“…I hate everyone,” I mutter.
At my feet sits a chest. Decent-sized. Real weight to it. Coins, trinkets, maybe a bracelet or two. The town didn’t skimp. Fear loosens purses better than sermons ever did.
Wind. Wingbeats.
He lands in a rush of dust and heat and offended dignity. Big. Glorious. Smoke curling from his nostrils. He looks at . Then the plaque.
He snorts.
A laugh bubbles up. I can hear it.
“Oh don’t you start,” I snap. “I worked very hard for this.”
He lowers his head, eyes glittering.
“Pure,” he says dryly. “Astounding.”
“Shut up,” I hiss. “Listen. Quick. Release . Grab the chest. We get out of this stupid dump now before soone decides to sing.”
He reaches for the chain.
“And for the record,” I add, lifting the plaque with one finger, “I want this burned.”
He grins, flas licking his teeth, and the lock clicks open.
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