The fire was a an little thing, just a handful of coals trapped in a ring of stones. The kind of fire that keeps you alive but never quite warm. Smoke drifted sideways through the camp like it, too, had given up on going anywhere.
The Dragon was half-asleep—or pretending. His breathing ca in those slow, judgntal rumbles that ant he was listening for gossip.
I sat cross-legged in the dirt, picking burrs out of my hem and pretending the world didn’t still reek of failure. The Mibbs situation. The curses. The running. It all clung to like damp laundry. I hated silence; silence made my thoughts too loud. So I did what I always do when the air gets heavy.
“You know those priestesses at the Temple of the Bleeding Heart? Total scam.”
The Dragon didn’t even lift his snout. Just gave that long-suffering blink, like he was already regretting the question he hadn’t asked.
I plopped down next to him on the sun-ward rock, yanked a burr out of my tunic, and kept talking.
“So. Picture this. I'm, like, barely coming of age. Street urchin. No shoes, lots of attitude. Hustling in the alleys of Seebulba. Pickpocketing sailors, selling fake love potions—basic survival skills.”
A snort of smoke. “Naturally.”
“Well, apparently that’s enough for the city guard to decide I’m ‘wayward female youth in need of divine guidance.’ Next thing I know—bam—chained wrists, handed off to the Temple of the Bleeding Heart for ‘moral rehabilitation.’”
I made finger quotes. He rolled his eyes. I ignored him.
“Now, you'd think a temple would be all incense and hymns, right? Maybe a bit of weeping? Silent reflection? Hah.”
I leaned closer, conspiratorial. “They teach you whorecraft.”
That got a blink.
“No, seriously. Day one: washing. Day two: kissing. By the end of the first week, I knew how to fake an orgasm and walk backwards in heels while offering complints in three dialects.”
“Charming.”
“Day twelve,” I continued, “they start renting you out.”
The Dragon turned his head fully toward now.
“Oh yes. ‘Spiritual consultations.’ ‘Blessings of the flesh.’ All for ‘temple upkeep.’ And guess how much of the coin the girls see?”
He just stared.
“Exactly. They called it ‘indentured service.’ I called it a very fancy brothel with candles and guilt-tripping. I was there for six moons. Six. Moons. That’s practically a degree.”
“Indentured,” he echoed, testing the word like it might bite.
I nodded proudly. “I was indentured. Real traumatic.”
“You an indentured,” he said.
“That’s what I said.”
He sighed. “You really are a walking shrine to poor choices.”
I grinned. “And yet, here you are. Pilgrim number one.”
He grumbled sothing about divine punishnts and lit a fire with a single snort. I ward my hands on the blaze and leaned back.
“Anyway. The temple caught fire. Accidentally.”
His brow lifted. “Accidentally.”
“Well. There may have been a candle. And so spilled wine. And maybe a certain girl was trying to sneak out with a bag of silver, a jar of perfud oil, and Brother Lorin’s trousers.”
He just stared at .
I winked.
“Blessed be the flas,” I said solemnly. “And fuck the Temple of the Bleeding Heart.”
“So yeah,” I say, jabbing a stick into the fire for dramatic effect, “I got caught.”
The Dragon raises an unimpressed eyebrow. I barrel on.
“Back to the city dungeon. Not the temple this ti, no no. Apparently there was a contract. Signed in ink and everything. Or maybe blood. Who knows. I sure as hell didn’t sign it.”
He exhales smoke through his nose. “Let guess. You owed ti.”
“Exactly! Inden-tured, rember? Sobody, sowhere, claid I owed service hours to the Temple of the Bleeding Heart for moral re-education. And guess what?” I pause to lick sothing sticky off my finger. “Turns out those can be transferred. Like a goat. Or a cart. Or herpes.”
He winces. I beam.
“So another brothel gets the contract. Not a nice one. One of those back-alley operations where the walls sweat and the sheets crunch. I walk in, and the madam takes one look at and goes, ‘Too mouthy. Too feisty.’”
I spread my hands. “As if that’s a flaw. Punters loved mouthy and feisty! I had regulars! One guy used to tip in gold teeth. Real ones!”
“You’re a nace,” the Dragon mutters.
“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “Anyway. They say I’m difficult. Ungrateful. Whatever. So they resell the contract. Again. And guess what? Next place is worse. Gods, the fleas had fleas. I saw a rat stab another rat in the hallway. With a spoon.”
The Dragon snorts involuntarily. I pretend not to notice.
“And by that point, I’m just tired. So tired. Of velvet ropes and reeky sheets and being ‘property’ of this and ‘obligation’ of that. And sowhere between a slap, a missed al, and another new owner, I end up on the auction block.”
I go quiet for a second. Fire crackles. My stick hisses in the embers.
“Chained. Barefoot. Painted lips, powdered cheeks, bruises covered in glitter. Gavel in the air, crowd full of leering bastards and bored aristocrats. You know. Marketplace of the damned.”
The Dragon doesn’t say anything. But he looks at . Really looks. The way he only does when he forgets to be a pompous ass.
I flash him a grin that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
“And the rest, well. That’s history.”
A beat.
“You do realize,” he says finally, “that you’ve just described your origin story as a slow descent through increasingly sketchy whorehouses, ending in public auction.”
I nod. “Classic hero’s journey.”
He groans and drops his head to his claws. “Gods save .”
“They already did,” I say. “They sent you.”
Another groan. Louder this ti. I laugh and throw another twig into the fire. It flares, briefly golden. Just like . A bit scorched. Still burning.
“Forgive ,” I huff, “for not being the bloody Princess of Delvida.”
The Dragon doesn’t respond. He just flicks an ear, like that statent wasn’t worth dignifying.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I mutter, picking at a scab on my knee. “Not the temples. Not the brothels. Not the godsdamn indenturdnt—”
“Indenture—”
“—Exactly,” I snap. “Like hell. All I ever wanted was a little peace and quiet. Maybe a warm bed. Soone who didn’t try to put a collar on unless I asked nicely.”
He gives a sideways look. I glare back.
“So the last ti I ran? I didn’t even have a plan. Just saw a river barge at the dock. Low guard. Loose rope. I jumped.”
“You stowed away.”
“I drifted with intent, thank you. And next thing I know, I’m in Lerida.”
A pause.
“I don’t know anyone in Lerida,” I say, more to the fire than to him. “Didn’t know the customs. Didn’t know the language.”
“You speak Seebulban,” he offers.
“Yes, but their Seebulban is all…” I wave my hands vaguely. “Curly. And smug. Sa words, different music.”
“Dialect,” he says.
“That. Yes. Dialect.” I nod like that was my idea. “So what do I do? I fall back on my craft.”
“Whoring.”
“Freelancing,” I say with dignity. “And it was going fine. Good traffic. Half-decent coin. One sailor even wrote a poem. Rhyd ‘muff’ with ‘tough.’ Very touching.”
The Dragon groans.
“But then!” I raise a finger dramatically. “They ask —get this—they ask for a license.”
He tilts his head. “A license for prostitution?”
“A license,” I repeat, aghast. “Like it’s fishing. Apparently, it’s a whole thing in Lerida. Registry, fees, local inspections, probably a branding ceremony with a city official who slls like cabbage and unwashed lust.”
He smirks. “Let guess. You didn’t have one.”
“Nope,” I say, popping the ‘p’. “Up in the stocks I go. Public shaming. Fornication without authorization. Can you believe that?”
He exhales a slow plu of smoke. “Yes.”
“Worse part?” I say. “They gave a sign to hang around my neck. Said: ‘Unlicensed Solicitor.’ Like I was door-to-door.”
He chuckles despite himself.
I cross my arms, triumphant. “So I ask you, mighty lizard. Did I fall from grace? Or was there no ladder to begin with?”
“Neither,” he says dryly. “You set the ladder on fire and tried to sell the ashes.”
I grin. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“So turns out,” I say, chucking a pebble into the stream, “I also owed the city back taxes.”
The Dragon groans. “On what?”
“Exactly!” I throw up my hands. “For what? I never owned a business. Never owned shoes half the ti. But no, apparently street freelancers generate unregistered inco. So—boom—scooped up again.”
“And let guess…” he drawls.
“Another temple.” I nod. “But not like the Bleeding Heart. Oh no. This one had marble stairs. Silk drapes. Perfud incense that made your teeth buzz. Posh. Like proper fancy, exclusive crowd, lots of foot traffic, plenty of coin. You know. Holy sanctum of spiritual fuckery.”
He snorts. “A brothel.”
“A temple,” I say, mock-offended. “They had chanting.”
He waits.
I shrug. “Alright, yes, a very expensive, well-decorated, pearl-draped brothel with a statue of a weeping saint giving you the side eye while you did your work.”
He closes his eyes. “And?”
“And—surprise—they said I was too mouthy. Again. Can you believe it?”
“Yes.”
“Punters loved it!” I insist. “They paid for banter. For sass. For the full feral Saya experience. But the madam? Nooo. She wanted quiet, obedient, soft-spoken nymphs who giggle and curtsy while being spanked.”
“And you…”
“I gave tax advice during blowjobs,” I mutter. “They didn’t like that.”
He chokes on a laugh.
“So yeah,” I say, rubbing my wrist unconsciously. “Got whipped. Twice. Not the fun kind. Third ti, they kicked out. Said I was incorrigible.”
“You are.”
“I have standards. Anyway. What’s a girl to do? I walk. Walked all the way to Toemacha. Blisters, sunburn, and a stolen pear that gave the runs.”
“Romantic.”
“So I finally get there. First thing I do—don’t even rest—I go to this place run by a madam… what was her na… Big hair, long nails, called everyone ‘sweetat’ even when she was furious—”
“Sounds like you.”
“Shut up. So I go, ask for work. She looks up and down and says, ‘We don’t take just any strumpet off the street. I only hire girls from good houses.’ Fallen from grace, you know. Preferably with so noble trauma. Ideally disowned.”
“And you?”
“I showed her my brand marks.”
He turns to , mildly horrified. “You what?”
“Lifted my skirt, showed the hip, collarbone, and thigh. Said, ‘See? House-trained. Brothel-approved. All the best establishnts.’”
He stares. I grin.
“She said, ‘Huh. Well. I suppose I can take you on trial.’”
The Dragon lies back on the grass, tail twitching. “One day,” he says, “one godsdamned day, I want to et soone who didn’t see your past and go, ‘Hmm, promising résumé.’”
I stretch out beside him, arms behind my head. “You’re just jealous I’ve got references.”
The Dragon shifts, his golden eyes narrowing. “Is this not just another tale? One of your… fabrications. Like that ti you claid to be married to a duke.”
I sniff. “I was.”
He arches a brow.
“Okay, maybe not married-married,” I admit, twirling a lock of hair around my finger. “There wasn’t a priest. Or witnesses. Or paperwork. But there was definitely a communion. We shared a bed. And a few minor skin conditions.”
He just stares.
“Alright fine. He bought .”
There’s a pause.
“From an auction,” I mumble.
His brow rises further. “Another auction?”
“Don’t ask,” I grumble, waving it off. “I swear there was a ti in my life I couldn’t sneeze without ending up on a godsdamn podium in chains.”
“Lovely. Go on.”
“So yeah. Bought . At first, I was just a housemaid. You know. Dusting things. Looking decorative. Occasionally tripping over my own skirts for noble amusent. But then,” I say, tapping my chest, “he noticed.”
“The duke.”
“Tall. Slled like old books and expensive wine. Had the sexual charisma of a wardrobe, but I was young, and he had a bath. So, you know. Standards adjust.”
The Dragon exhales a thin stream of smoke. “And how did this ducal union end?”
I roll my eyes, flop dramatically onto my back. “The bitches in his harem.”
“Ah.”
“Jealous harpies. Spread liras about . Said I was stealing. That I pawned the silverware. Which I did not.”
He says nothing.
“I didn’t!” I insist. “It was a serving tray. Completely different category. And anyway, I left. Of my own accord. In the dead of night. With three dresses, a box of cigars, and his lapdog.”
“You stole his dog?”
“Rescued it,” I say primly. “He was emotionally neglected and had a limp.”
He groans. I grin.
“You see lies,” I say, “I see an autobiography. It just needs an editor. And maybe less larceny.”
The Dragon buries his face in his claws. “I’m traveling with a walking liability.”
“I’m house-trained,” I offer.
He growls. I wink.
“Oh, and there was also that ti I almost married the magistrate’s younger son,” I add, like it’s just another footnote in a long résumé of emotional catastrophes.
The Dragon groans. “Please, not again.”
“It was young love,” I sigh wistfully. “Star-crossed. Passionate. Beautiful.”
“He was probably drunk.”
“He was devoted,” I snap. “He ca to see every second night. Always asked for . Brought little gifts. Lemons. Ribbons. Once a poem he claid to write but I’m pretty sure was lifted from a wine bottle label.”
“And where were you working at the ti?” the Dragon asks, not even trying to hide the smirk.
I narrow my eyes. “A reputable establishnt. With curtains. And a bouncer. Don’t look at like that—it was love.”
“Love with a tab.”
I ignore him. “He told he was going on a quest. Said he’d make his fortune. Sail the coast. Slay a sea beast. Bring pearls. Said when he ca back, he’d buy out my contract and marry proper. With shoes and everything.”
“And?”
I sigh, long and dramatic. “His ship sank off the coast of Sabrabena.”
The Dragon tilts his head. “How convenient.”
“It’s tragic.” I press a hand to my chest. “He might’ve been the one.”
“Or he might’ve just wanted a consistent discount.”
I scowl. “I mourned. For at least three days.”
“Until the next magistrate’s son ca along?”
I huff. “No. He was an only child.”
He chuckles. I toss a twig at him.
“Such is my luck,” I mutter. “Every ti I fall for soone, they either vanish at sea or accuse of stealing their mother’s earrings.”
“Did you?”
“They were ugly,” I say flatly. “If anything, I did her a favor.”
“Is it even stealing,” I ask, chin propped on my knee, “if I, like, really need the stuff?”
The Dragon doesn’t even look up. Just lets out a sigh that slls faintly of ash and disappointnt.
“I an,” I continue, “it’s not my fault I’m poor. I was born into it. Poverty’s the real thief here. I’m just liberating things. From the constraints of ownership.”
He growls, low and tired. “You ‘liberated’ an entire spice rack yesterday.”
I shrug. “I like variety.”
“You are a walking impulse purchase,” he mutters. “And whenever you do get coin, you blow it on hot baths, silky dresses that don’t even cover your thighs, pickled quail eggs, candied dates, trinkets shaped like penises—”
“They were amulets!” I protest.
He glares. “That vibrated.”
“Magic amulets.”
His tail twitches violently.
I straighten up, nose in the air. “Excuse for having taste. I like nice things. I deserve nice things. I have duchess-tier taste, I’ll have you know.”
“You are not a duchess.”
“I could fake one!” I pout. “All it takes is posture, eyeliner, and a sheer veil.”
He groans. “Gold is not for wasting. Gold is sacred. Gold is hoarded. Piled. Slept upon. Hidden away. That’s its purpose. It’s not to be bartered for foot rubs and salted carals and embroidered underthings you’ll tear within a week.”
I blink innocently. “You sleep on yours?”
“Yes.”
“I wear mine.”
“And then lose it.”
I grin. “Circulation. It’s good for the economy.”
He lets out a ragged sigh, like he’s aged a century in my company.
“You’re a dragon’s worst nightmare,” he says.
I bat my lashes. “Or his dream with good legs.”
“I was schooled,” I declare, with full theatrical indignation, “in that very temple, thank you very much.”
The Dragon doesn’t even blink. “The sa temple that rented you out by the hour?”
I scowl. “It’s complicated.”
“Mm.”
I cross my arms. “It’s not just a brothel. It’s a finishing school.”
“For what, exactly?”
“For refinent. Elegance. Lady-like comportnt. We had lessons! Proper lessons!”
He tilts his head. “In moaning?”
“In etiquette,” I snap. “We were taught poise, posture, the art of subtle suggestion, courtly Seebulban, fan language—”
“Fan language?”
“You know. ‘Flick once for coy.’ ‘Tilt for available.’ ‘Snap shut for try and die.’”
He pinches the bridge of his snout. “Gods.”
“Look,” I say, leaning in, “that sa temple schooled girls from high houses. Daughters of barons, third cousins of viscounts, even a niece of the Steward of Terreth. It’s practically a pipeline.”
“A pipeline.”
“A prep school for ladies-in-waiting. For concubines to gentry. Minute nobles. Diplomats. Anyone who can afford the entrance fee and a little polish.”
He eyes . “And let guess. They weren’t rented out?”
“Of course not!” I huff. “They got packed up in velvet, sealed with perfu, and shipped off to live in palaces with indoor toilets and polite mistresses who never raise their voices.”
“And you?”
“I got sent to a drunk fur trader with a limp and a chronic fungal condition. Life’s funny like that.”
The Dragon lets out a long, raspy exhale. “So your grand education was… what? A mix of pillow talk and dinner service?”
“Plus dance. Plus perfu pairing. Plus economic survival theory, thank you very much.”
“You an grifting.”
“Applied charm,” I say sweetly. “With honors.”
He mutters sothing that sounds like a prayer to a very tired god.
I toss my hair. “So girls leave the temple with silk veils and a noble’s na. I left with street smarts and the ability to fake a noble’s na.”
I grin. “Adaptability, darling. That’s what makes elite.”
The Dragon squints at . “Besides picking up expensive tastes, did you actually pass any exams at this… temple of refinent?”
I blink. “Define exam.”
He levels a stare. “Anything involving knowledge, effort, or a written component.”
I wave a hand dismissively. “Oh, written tests are classist. They favor girls who can read.”
“So… no?”
“I passed practicals,” I say proudly.
“Such as?”
“Walking with a book on my head. Moaning on cue. Identifying sixteen types of wine by scent. You know. Life skills.”
His nostrils flare. “So that’s why they rented you out.”
I scowl. “Hey. I was versatile.”
“You were ungraduated.”
“More like freelance certified.”
He chuckles darkly. “You flunked out of whore prep school.”
I throw a twig at him. “I was too real for their system.”
He dodges it effortlessly. “Too loud, too mouthy, and couldn’t read the prayer sheet.”
“I knew the prayers! I just couldn’t… pronounce the silent letters.”
“The temple’s goddess was nad Aé. You called her Eye-Eee.”
“It’s a stupid na!”
“You’re a stupid na.”
I gasp. “Take that back.”
“Gladly. If you ever pass an exam.”
I mutter sothing obscene under my breath. He just smiles.
“Don’t worry,” he says, smug as a sun-baked cat. “You might be uneducated. But you’re very entertaining.”
“Thank you,” I sniff. “I’ll add that to my list of qualifications. Right under ‘good hips and poor impulse control.”
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