“So yeah,” I say, real casual, watching his face while I stretch like a smug cat in the sun. “I once posed for a sculptor.”
Dragon squints at like I just claid to be a royal astrologer. “You?”
“Yes, .” I flip my braid over my shoulder. “It was in Thelveth. Cultural, sophisticated, tits-out Thelveth.”
He gives this long, slow blink that just screams bullshit. So I grin and lean in.
“No, seriously. Guy ca in all breathless, straight to Madam Ishri. Said he needed a model for a religious piece. Sothing for one of the temples—you know, the slutty ones with incense and positions that require a lumbar surgeon.”
Dragon mutters, “Charming.”
“Oh, it gets better. Madam rounds us up. Whole roster. Lined us up like we’re a buffet of divine sin.” I gesture vaguely. “And guess who gets picked?”
He doesn’t answer. Just sighs. I press on.
“. Obviously. And okay—fine—six other girls also got picked. But there were like, fifty of us in the lineup. That’s top tier, lizard. I was chosen. Selected. Artistically validated.”
“You were part of a seven-pack of titties.”
“Exactly!” I beam. “He needed variety. Symbolism. Fertility in all its flavours. I was blueberry cream.”
He rubs his snout like he’s in pain. “And what exactly did this sculpture depict?”
I waggle my eyebrows. “A goddess of rcy. Mid-blessing. Hands raised, back arched, thighs slightly parted. Very reverent.”
He stares at . “And you’re sure it was a temple commission.”
“Totally. Probably. I an, it looked like a temple. There were candles and a very sweaty apprentice carrying figs.”
He exhales. “You got scamd into porn.”
“Oh please. I am the scam. And it was classy. Marble. Drapery. Very tasteful. I even got tipped.”
He narrows those big shiny lizard eyes at , tail curling like he slls bullshit. Which, okay, fair.
“Did the sculptor… finish his work?” he asks, all slow and suspicious.
I blink. Innocent. Play with a lock of my hair. “That’s not really the point.”
He doesn’t blink. Just tilts his head like a cat about to ruin your furniture. “Saya.”
“I an, art is about the journey, not the destination,” I say, picking dirt from under my nail. “The experience. The vibe.”
He leans in, voice dropping to a purr of pure nace. “You didn’t answer the question.”
“I did,” I protest. “Sort of. In a spiritual way.”
He exhales smoke. “Did. He. Finish. The. Statue.”
I roll my eyes so hard I almost see my past lives. “Ugh. Fine. Whatever. Details.”
“Saya.”
I fidget. “Okay, gods, no, alright?” I cross my arms. “He didn’t finish. Because sobody—and I’m not naming nas—may have been a little too fidgety to hold the pose.”
He stares. I squirm.
“I had an itch,” I mutter. “Then a cramp. Then a very distracting draft.”
He blinks. I talk faster.
“And those marble pedestals are cold, okay? And that incense gave the sneezes. And the guy kept saying ‘hold that pose’ and I was like, which part? The arch? The gaze? My left boob was falling asleep!”
“So you got kicked out,” he says, deadpan.
“I stord out,” I correct. “With flair. And at least two figs.”
He grunts. “So your immortal legacy is a half-chiseled tit and a reputation for twitching.”
I sniff. “Could’ve been worse. At least I wasn’t the one who farted during the incense prayer. That was Miraya. She got excommunicated.”
He groans.
I grin.
Art is pain. And sotis gas.
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