The stars were out, scattered like broken promises across the black. I poked at the fire with a stick, because poking at my own self-worth seed too ambitious tonight.
“So,” I say, voice casual like I’m not trying to dig at the universe’s moral plumbing, “if karma works the way they say—like, screw up one life, co back as sothing worse—then I must’ve kicked a puppy and burned down an orphanage in my past life.”
The Dragon rumbles softly. “You’re human. Beautiful, even. Doesn’t sound that bad.”
“Exactly,” I say, eyes narrowing. “That’s the trap. The worse the cri, the shorter the life. Real assholes co back as insects. Leeches. Flesh-eating fungi.”
He hums. “They could’ve made you a tapeworm.”
“They almost did,” I mutter. “But then they rembered I had tits and a knack for sinning photogenically, so they went with ‘sexy beggar girl’ instead.”
He huffs, smoke curling lazily out of his nose. “That’s quite the theology.”
“I make do.”
Long pause.
He stares into the fire like it’s a mirror to his millennia. “I’ve lived three thousand years.”
“Exactly,” I say, wagging the stick. “You must’ve been a saint in your last life. Fed orphans. Hugged lepers. Probably donated your wings to a soup kitchen.”
He snorts. “I torched a library for giving my poetry a bad review.”
I blink. “That’s the most you thing I’ve ever heard.”
He shrugs. “Still think I was a saint?”
“Yes,” I say. “A petty, vengeful saint who hoarded scrolls and held grudges.”
He sighs. “And you think you were what? A warlord’s accountant?”
“I think I probably ran a brothel on top of a cursed temple. Or sold fake relics to widows.”
“Would explain a lot.”
I glare. “Anyway. I got orphaned. Grew up in gutters. Passed around like plague wine. anwhile you get wings, poetry, and a digestive system that can handle live sheep.”
“And gout.”
“Gout is karma’s seasoning.”
He actually chuckles. Bastard.
I toss the stick into the fire. Sparks fly. “Reincarnation’s a scam.”
“Everything’s a scam,” he says, curling his tail around us like a question mark. “But so scams co with treasure and a travel partner who doesn’t stop talking.”
“Admit it. I make eternity more annoying.”
He smirks. “You make it louder. Which, for a dragon, is saying sothing.”
I grin. “You love .”
He yawns. “I tolerate you.”
“That’s basically karmic love.”
We sit there in silence. His warmth next to , ancient and unshakeable. My chaos humming under my skin. If I got cursed into this life, maybe it wasn’t all bad. Could’ve been worse.
I could’ve been a tapeworm.
And not even a pretty one.
I tuck my feet under , flicking a twig into the flas. The stars are still up there, smug and unbothered. I wish I could say the sa.
“So,” I say, in my best speculative philosopher voice, “maybe I poisoned a well. Or stole holy relics. Or maybe I was a noble who taxed orphans for breathing.”
The Dragon doesn’t even look up. “That seems… likely.”
“Rude.” I toss another twig in. “Or maybe I started a war. Slept with the wrong general. Made off with a temple's donation box and blew it all on perfu and soft cheeses.”
“You do have a type,” he says dryly.
“And if karma’s real,” I continue, ignoring him, “this—” I gesture to myself, “—is payback. Life as a half-starved, oversexed stray with a silver tongue and a chronic inability to shut up.”
“You’re also pretty,” he says, deadpan. “So clearly you didn’t totally piss the gods off.”
“Maybe they wanted to suffer with style.”
He exhales a thread of smoke. “And what makes you so sure this is about karma? Past lives? Reincarnation?”
I shrug, pulling my cloak tighter. “I don’t know. Just makes more sense than being randomly screwed by the universe. Besides, I like the idea that I used to be soone important. Soone terrible. Soone worth recycling.”
He arches a brow. “Do you rember any of it?”
“Hell no.” I poke the fire again. “I can barely rember last week. And I’d rather forget half of this life anyway.”
That gets him quiet.
For a while, we just sit. Embers crackle. Sowhere an owl makes a noise like it’s choking on its own wisdom.
Then he says, softly, “That we have in common.”
I glance over.
He’s staring into the fire like it’s showing him sothing he wishes he hadn’t seen.
I nudge him with my foot. “What did you do in your last life? Steal celestial fire? Eat a god?”
He shrugs one wing. “Probably wrote poetry no one appreciated.”
“You still do that.”
“Exactly.”
Another pause.
I grin. “Maybe we were lovers in a past life. You, the brooding bard. , the jewel-thief queen who betrayed you for a basket of dates and a bathhouse boy.”
He snorts. “Would explain the trust issues.”
“And the weird sexual tension.”
“Speak for yourself.”
I lean back, arms behind my head. “Whoever we were, we’re here now. A girl and her dragon. Trying not to die poor.”
He sighs. “Trying.”
I glance at him.
He’s not smiling. But he’s not flying off either.
Progress.
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