I’m running.
Over a hill. Through wet grass. Wind in my face. Mud between my toes. Dressed in troll rags that sll like smoked moss and misplaced dignity.
Behind ? Nothing.
No shouts. No chasing. No broken-hearted bellow echoing across the valley.
Of course not. He wouldn’t chase .
Trolls don’t chase.
Trolls sit.
They sit under bridges. They wait for goats and carts and confused travelers. They collect tolls. They fry eggs. They… bang you senseless in a mossy little nest full of pinecones and damp blankets. Then they grunt, snore, and do it all again the next night.
And the next.
And the next.
Forever.
So yes. Yes, I ran.
Fine. Call a slut. Call a terrible person. Call a greedy, flighty, cold-hearted, ungrateful, two-faced bitch in a burlap poncho.
You wouldn’t be wrong.
Because I didn’t just leave the troll.
I stole from him.
Tucked into my ragged little satchel is his beloved toll pot. A clay thing, misshapen and ugly, decorated with carvings of squirrels for so godsdamn reason. Full of silver coins collected one sad copper at a ti from villagers with hay in their hair and breath like turnips.
And now it's mine.
Or at least... it’s buying breakfast and a pair of shoes in the next town.
Because I couldn’t. I couldn’t live another day as a troll’s wife.
Gods.
That was a sentence I never thought I’d say.
But it’s true. I tried. I tried to be content. To let my hips recover. To smile when he brought flowers (lichen, technically, growing on a rock shaped like a heart).
But that troll had no ambition.
None.
He didn’t want to see the world. Didn’t care for politics or treasure or poems or shoes. He had no dreams. No sches. No plots. No scams.
All he wanted was tolls. And eggs. And sex. Then more tolls.
It was like being married to a warm, affectionate doorstop with a ten-inch cock and a cast iron skillet.
And yes, yes, I know that sounds nice. Stability.Kindness.Regular orgasms and crispy bacon.
But what about ?
What about Saya?
I’m a girl who’s been places. Who’s done things. I’ve sweet-talked heroes into bed and out of armor. I’ve danced on tables in Toemacha, bathed in wine in Seebulba, and escaped from five brothels and two slave markets. I’ve had gold dust in my hair and sapphires in my garter. I once bedded a duke and stole his underpants just for the thrill.
I can’t settle.
I won’t.
Not for a bridge. Not for a mossy bed. Not for a lifeti of egg yolk and quiet affection.
One day—I think it was a Tuesday—I looked at myself in a cracked mirror and didn’t recognize the woman staring back. My hair was tied up in a practical bun. My thighs were covered in flour. I had moss under my nails and a daisy behind my ear.
I looked dosticated.
And sothing inside just snapped.
So I grabbed my blanket. And my satchel. And yes, the clay pot of silver tolls.
And I ran.
Didn’t even leave a note.
Because he can’t read.
And I don’t know how to spell “I’m sorry” in troll anyway.
I’m not ant to be sobody’s forest nymph. I’m not ant for damp stone and rustic coitus.
I’m ant for cathedrals.For scandals. For cities that glitter and heists that end in firelight.
I’m a girl that needs a dragon.
Not just any dragon, either.
A sophisticated one. A mighty, grumbling, poetry-reciting, gold-hoarding, sexually ambiguous, emotionally unavailable bastard.
Soone who breathes fire and calls “infuriating” and secretly wraps his tail around when I’m cold.
Not a troll who picks mushrooms with and asks how my day was.
So here I am. Barefoot, muddy, half-dressed in burlap.
Running.
Back to chaos.
Back to trouble.
Back to him.
Because I’d rather burn in dragon fire than fossilize in comfort.
The sky cracked just as I crested the hill.
Not thunder. Wingbeat.
Heavy. Familiar.
I didn’t look up.
I kept walking, barefoot, troll-ragged, slling like bacon and betrayal. Clutching my stolen pot of toll money like a peasant bride’s dowry.
He flew above in silence.
Just… circling.
Pretending.
I kept my chin high. Proud. Dignified. Like a woman who absolutely ant to wander half-naked through a sheep field with moss in her hair.
He lowered, gliding just above the treetops. Keeping pace. Not close enough to be companionable. Not far enough to be accidental.
We were doing that thing.
The “I’m not talking to you if you’re not talking to ” thing.
Classic.
I resisted the urge to yell up, “You miss , you scaly bastard?”
He probably did.
Just like I missed him.
The snoring. The sarcasm. The gold-counting. The passive-aggressive tail curls at night when I stole his firewood.
But neither of us said a word.
Because we're proud.
Because we're fools.
And because neither of us wanted to be the first to admit we were lonelier than we let on.
He kept gliding, casting long shadows over like so judgntal kite.
I walked.
He dipped lower. I could hear the slow whump of his wings. Slled the familiar curl of smoke and burnt tal.
Finally—rcifully—he landed.
A little ahead of , with a grunt. He didn’t face . Just stood there, enormous, ancient, pretending to examine a distant squirrel like it was of strategic importance.
I walked right past him.
Didn’t even glance.
"You're still following ?" I said casually, like I hadn't fantasized about him showing up for six nights in a row.
"I'm not," he replied, equally casual. "I’m just flying in the sa direction. Away from bad decisions and won who steal from trolls."
Rude.
We walked. Well—he walked, I trudged. For a while, nothing but wind and pride between us.
Then he said, "You look... thinner."
"Thank you," I said. "It's the starvation and emotional trauma."
Silence.
Then, softer, “You left. Again.”
“I was unappreciated. And molested by a troll with breakfast skills.”
He grunted. “You sll like smoke.”
I blinked. “You’re limping.”
That stopped him.
I turned, really looked at him.
One of his rear haunches was scorched. There was a long, deep gash running just under his wing joint. Dried blood. Torn scale.
My heart did sothing stupid and soft.
“Who did that?”
He shrugged. Like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t ache.
“So hero. Shiny armor. Motivational backstory. You know the type.”
“You won?”
“Obviously.”
Pause.
“But it was close.”
That silenced .
He sat, slow and stiff, curling his tail around his feet like a cat in pain. The bluff in his posture faded. The age showed.
“I’m old, Saya,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“I don’t know how long I can keep doing this alone.”
I knelt beside him.
Laid a hand on his flank.
He didn’t flinch.
I didn’t smirk.
Not this ti.
“I never said I didn’t need you,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes.
“I just wanted to know if you needed too.”
The wind rustled. Grass bent. Sowhere far off, a bird cried.
Then he said, almost inaudibly, “I missed the noise.”
I smiled.
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to .”
He groaned. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
We sat there for a while. Not lovers. Not enemies. Not quite friends.
Just two foolish, lonely things pretending not to fall apart.
Side by side.
Like fools.
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