I sat cross-legged on the dusty floor of Tent Seven, hunched over a scrap of parchnt like it held the secrets of life, the universe, and how not to lose your mind in a totalitarian lesbian war cult.
In one hand: a charred twig.
In the other: what remained of my dignity.
All around : stale sweat, cheap incense, and the faint but unmistakable scent of sheep shit.
They told us to write ho.
“Reflection,” they said. “Reconnection. Spiritual grounding.”
Sure. Fine.
Except… where the fuck is ho?
I scratched a lazy “S” into the corner. Backwards. Of course. Scratched it out. Tried again. It looked like soone carved a snake while sneezing. Good enough.
The inn? Burned.
The town before that? Looted.
The brothel? Don’t be ridiculous.
The temple school? That place could burn twice and still owe money.
That fake “auntie” who “raised” ? She’d sell the letter for firewood.
Which left… him.
That stupid, smug, treasure-sniffing bastard.
The Dragon.
Gods help , if anyone was ho, it was probably him.
And that thought made my stomach turn.
Where was he now? Dead? Dismbered? Mounted on so Amazon war banner? I’d heard whispers about a “serpent pelt” hanging in a trophy tent. I chose not to believe them. Had to.
I jabbed the twig against the parchnt. Drew another crooked letter. Stared. What was I even supposed to write?
Dear flying lizard,
I miss you. But not really. But maybe a little.
Please don’t be dead.
Also, fuck you.
“Are you writing to your mother?” ca a voice beside .
I flinched. The twig jerked, leaving a sar like a smashed spider.
It was that farm girl again. The dull one. Always smiling like soone promised her cake at the end of this spiritual boot camp.
I grunted.
“Your sister?” she guessed.
“No.”
“Your sweetheart?”
I opened my mouth to snap—but nothing ca out.
My nose prickled. My throat tightened.
And, just like that, the treasonous bastards rolled down my cheeks—tears. Real ones. Uninvited. Unwelco.
“No,” I said, staring at the page. “He’s not my sweetheart.”
Just a stupid, old, scaly lizard.
One who hoards gold, quotes poetry, complains about my hygiene, and once flew six leagues back because I forgot a blanket.
I looked down. The “S” was warped, bleeding ink from a teardrop. The page looked ruined.
“Anyway,” I muttered, “he’s probably dead.”
The farm girl didn’t say anything.
For once, she just sat there.
And thank the gods for that.
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