Saya and the Dragon Chapter Four: The Chain of Poor Decisions

The Chain of Poor Decisions

The rope tugged.

Again.

My wrists, raw and pink and knotted like a drunk sailor's bedti story, jerked forward, and I stumbled barefoot on the gravel path. Gods, even the pebbles felt smug.

Behind , the horse snorted.

Beside the horse, the hero—Barthar, or Bathrag, or maybe just Barf—was humming. Not a tune, mind you. Just… humming. Like his brain couldn’t afford lody.

I muttered sothing anatomically improbable under my breath and got another tug for it.

“Quiet, girl,” he grunted. “You’re not paid to talk.”

“I’m not paid at all,” I snapped. “Which is rather the issue.”

Another tug.

Right. That’s how we got here.

It was supposed to be a textbook run. Dragon roars. Villagers panic. Gold gathered. Saya gets chained to a rock looking sacrificial and fuckable. Hero shows up, pants down, brain off. Dragon swoops in. Swoosh, scream, splat. We loot. We bounce.

But no.

The scaly diva was late.

And this one? This one didn’t want to fuck .

He wanted glory.

Ugh.

“No dragon,” he’d said, eyes glittering with dumb pride, “no glory. But at least I got this.”

He’d gestured to the sack of gold like it was a pig he’d personally wrestled into submission.

Then at .

“An’ this.”

Charming.

Now here I was—tethered to a horse’s ass (which might also apply to the rider), being dragged through twigs, thorns, and moral indignity, like so idiot’s souvenir from a failed quest.

“Down in Sabrabena,” he said now, voice thick as stew, “they’ll pay good coin for a girl like you.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I said sweetly. “Especially once they learn I snore, fake orgasms, and have a mild but persistent foot rash.”

He didn’t even blink. “Might rent you out to a brothel first. Get so return on investnt. Passive inco, like.”

Passive. Inco.

I gave the rope a subtle tug of my own—testing. Nothing. Knot held like a tax collector’s grudge.

I trudged on, each step a little prayer to every god of vengeance I could na. (There were many. I’d slept with several.)

The trees whispered overhead. The sun filtered down like a judgntal spotlight, catching the gleam of my ankles, the scrape of my pride. My once-sexy tunic clung in places no fabric should cling. My thighs itched. My dignity was sowhere three miles back, probably making out with a raccoon.

And still—no dragon.

Where was that ancient scaly bastard?

“Hey!” I shouted suddenly, twisting my head toward the sky. “If you’re up there composing an ode to your own hemorrhoids, now would be a good ti to swoop in and rescue your investnt!”

Barthar grunted. “You talkin’ to the gods, girl?”

“No, sweetheart,” I said, grinning through my teeth. “The gods have better taste in minions.”

Another tug.

I stumbled, fell, ate a mouthful of dirt and pine needles. Spat.

Okay.

If the dragon didn’t show up soon, I was going to have to kill this man with my thighs.

Which, let’s be honest, wouldn’t be the first ti.

But gods.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

The rope bit into my wrists again, and I stumbled over another root. My feet were scratched raw, bleeding in places, each step another sermon in pain. I was sweating, sunburned, and had a pine needle stuck sowhere deeply inappropriate.

Still no dragon.

I muttered a string of curses in three languages, one of which may or may not have been entirely made up. The horse farted in reply.

Where *was* he?

He was never *fast*, gods knew that. Shapeshifting left him sore for days. His landings weren’t so much dramatic as arthritic. But late? This late?

My mind, traitorous as ever, started wandering.

Maybe he *couldn't* co.

Maybe—maybe so other hero had gotten to him first. So idiot in shiny boots with a sword blessed by so minor forest deity and a grudge the size of a mammoth.

Or maybe—oh no.

Maybe he’d just… died.

Right there. Alone in so cave, hunched over his hoard, clutching his coins like a miserly raccoon, expired in a puff of ancient lancholy.

Do dragons just *keel over*?

How long do they even live? A thousand years? Five? Was he already past his expiry date? Did he leave a will? Who inherits the hoard? Would I get anything?

A little whimper escaped my throat.

Barthrag—yes, that’s what I was calling him now—looked back over his shoulder. “You alright back there?”

“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “Just wondering which brothel you’ll sell to. Want to write a flyer?”

He grinned, the kind of grin that required no intelligence, just teeth and bad intentions. “Might keep you a while first.”

“Charming.”

I looked up, hoping for divine intervention, or at least a dramatic breeze.

And that’s when I saw it.

A dark sar on the horizon.

Low. Broad. Moving... slow and deliberate.

A cloud? No. Too dark. Too purposeful. And it wasn’t moving with the wind—it was *following.*

My lips curled.

There you are, you lodramatic bastard.

Watching us like a theatre critic. Probably composing a scathing review of my performance while sipping imaginary wine and judging my posture.

Of course he wouldn’t attack in daylight. The hero was still fresh, armored, and annoyingly upright. The Dragon liked soft targets. Heroes with split attention. Distractions.

That ant *.*

Oh joy.

I stumbled again, this ti on purpose, falling forward with a gasp and a tangle of limbs. Barthrag tugged the rope.

“What now?”

“I—ow—my ankle!” I cried out, crumpling into the dirt like a kicked virgin. “Gods, I think it twisted!”

He rolled his eyes. “Get up.”

I stayed down, moaning pitifully. “I can’t! I think I heard a pop! Or maybe a crunch. Definitely sothing visceral.”

He dismounted with a grunt.

I watched from beneath my lashes as he approached—brow furrowed, boots heavy. Good. Close. Unaware.

Just a little closer, my scaly friend. Just a little more.

Barthrag crouched next to . “You lyin’?”

“No!” I gasped. “Help . Please. Maybe if you—*carry* ?”

He looked at . Then at the horse. Then back at .

I batted my lashes. Full damsel mode.

“Fine,” he muttered, cutting the rope from the saddle and bending down to sling over his shoulder like a sack of sinful potatoes.

Gods, he slled like at and tal and bad decisions.

I hung limp, arms flailing, head bouncing against his back, eyes locked on the dark sar in the sky.

Co on, you ancient diva.

I shifted on his shoulder like a sack of sinful potatoes and let out a low, breathy moan—not pain, just *possibility.*

“Ow,” I whispered. “This is really starting to chafe…”

Barthrag grunted. “Keep moving.”

“But I’m sore.” I let my voice drip. “All over. Maybe we should stop. Just a short rest.”

He kept trudging.

I upped the pout. “That adow there,” I said, nodding toward the sun-dappled clearing ahead. “Soft grass. Dappled light. Breeze in just the right places. Wouldn’t it be a sha to waste it?”

His brow furrowed. You could hear the gears grinding.

“Please?” I added, licking my lips for effect. “Just imagine how much *more fun* I’ll be when I’m not tied up and filthy.”

That did it.

Like clockwork, the rope was unfastened, and I was suddenly standing—barefoot, wrist-chafed, thigh-slick with sweat and mischief. I took two slow steps forward, then dropped gracefully into the grass, leaning back on my elbows, letting the tunic ride up high enough to make his ears twitch.

He swallowed.

“Co on,” I said, voice low and thick. “You dragged half a league. At least make it *worth it.*”

He ca down beside like a starving man at a feast. His hands were already on my thighs, rough and fumbling, and I let my knees fall open like I’d been waiting for it all morning.

Gods, he was dumb.

Dumb and hard and *grinning,* the kind of grin you get when you win a pig in a raffle and don’t know yet it has rabies.

I moaned—soft, seductive, calculated.

Let his fingers wander.

Let him press close.

His belt was off. His tunic shoved up. His body all over mine—sweaty, eager, trembling like he was about to co from just *being near* .

Perfect.

And then—

*WHOOSH.*

The sky went dark.

“What the—” he started.

*Too late.*

A shadow split the sun. A roar shattered the silence. Wind flattened the grass around us as *talons* bigger than soup pots ca down and *yanked* him straight off .

One second he was panting between my thighs.

The next, he was dangling in the sky like a terrified fruit.

The dragon grunted mid-flight and, with what could only be described as theatrical disdain, *tossed* the man. He flew a solid fifty feet through the air—arms flapping, voice cracking—before vanishing into the trees with a wet, distant *splash.*

Probably the ravine.

I clapped politely. “Well. That’s one way to finish early.”

The dragon landed in a cloud of dust and smugness. His wings folded with a rustle like satin. His tail swished.

I stood, brushing grass and man-sweat from my thighs. “You were *late.*”

“I was circling.”

“You were *checking your hoard,* weren’t you.”

“I was looking for an opening,” he snapped. “You were under trees. I can’t swoop through branches!”

“You *can,*” I said, stalking toward him, “you just won’t. You were off fondling your shiny piles, whispering sweet nothings to your coin stacks.”

“I was *strategizing,*” he huffed. “Waiting for the right mont.”

“The right mont,” I said, jabbing a finger at him, “was when he *had his face in my crotch.*”

He blinked. “Ah.”

We stood there. , seething. Him, defensive. The adow around us littered with crushed flowers and unresolved tension.

“You know,” I said, “I think I was *actually* about to co. That *never* happens with these idiots.”

He snorted. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You’re an old pervert with wings.”

“I saved your life.”

“You interrupted a very *promising* distraction. I had him so distracted he didn’t even notice I was about to grab his dagger with my *toes.*”

He looked vaguely horrified.

“I have *skills,*” I added. “And a plan. You should try it soti.”

He exhaled smoke and arthritis.

I stepped up to him, pressed a kiss to the warm side of his muzzle. “Thanks, though,” I murmured. “Good toss.”

He grumbled. “He scread like a child.”

“He touched like one too.”

We both looked toward the trees. Sowhere in the distance, a crow cawed like punctuation.

I turned back to him, tugging my tunic back down. “Next ti, show up sooner.”

“Next ti,” he muttered, “fake a broken jaw, not just an ankle.”

“Oh, I can *fake* a lot of things,” I said, smiling as I passed him. “But so things I save for the paying kind.”

He followed with a low growl of amusent and possibly jealousy.

We left the adow behind.

Another failed hero.

Another ruined outfit.

Another perfect day.