Saya and the Dragon Chapter 160: Worth Every Coin

My forehead hit the bar with a dull thunk.

Gods. Not again.

"Why do I keep seeing you?" I mumbled into the sticky wood.

A familiar voice, thick as gravy and twice as salty, replied beside . "I wonder the sa thing."

I turned my head, just enough to see him. There he was. Sa stubby beard, sa mismatched boots, sa damn twinkle in his eye like he’d just farted in church and gotten away with it.

"You follow ?" I accused, still half-mashed into the bar.

He snorted. "I was already here when you walked in."

I squinted. "...Were you?"

"Second stool from the left. I waved. You were busy pretending not to see . You do that a lot."

I groaned and sat up, rubbing my face like I could wipe him out of my reality. "How do you always know what I’m up to?"

He shrugged. "You’re not exactly subtle, sweetheart."

"Oh." Fair.

He raised a bushy brow. "Another ale?"

I nodded, defeated.

He flagged the innkeep with a grunt, and two chipped mugs slamd down in front of us. Foam spilled over the rim and soaked my sleeve. Of course it did.

I glanced sideways at him. "We ever figure out if we...?"

He just gave that sa smirk. "Does it matter?"

I stared into my ale.

Gods help —it really didn’t.

I took a long swig. It tasted like regret and river water.

Then, against all better judgnt—my better judgnt, which, to be fair, is usually drunk and face-down in a gutter—I asked:

"...Was I good?"

His grin stretched slow, like a cat catching a pigeon.

“Worth every penny.”

I groaned and dropped my face into my palms. “Gods. That bad?”

He chuckled. “I said every penny, not many pennies. Though I think the first ti it was half a smoked sausage and a flask of plum brandy.”

I peeked at him through my fingers. “And I took that deal?”

“Oh no. You demanded the sausage upfront. Said you were starving and wanted to see the goods before committing.”

I slamd my head gently back onto the bar. “Tell I at least faked enthusiasm.”

“You wept into the ceiling beams and yelled ‘I am a golden goddess!’ twice.”

I squinted. “That... does sound like .”

He lifted his mug. “To golden goddesses and selective amnesia.”

I clinked mine against his with a sigh. “And to you, you ridiculous little bastard. May your beard always sll slightly of piss, and your mory remain rcifully spotty.”

He grinned wider. “Too late for both.”

I drank.

He drank.

The silence settled between us, weirdly comfortable.

“D’you think we’ll ever figure out why this keeps happening?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You’re chaos in heels. I’m a drunk with a soft spot for bad decisions. Universe keeps pushing us together like two stains in the sa laundry cycle.”

“Romantic,” I muttered.

He winked. “Tragic.”

I smiled, despite myself. And maybe—just maybe—I stopped wishing he was imaginary.

Almost.