Saya and the Dragon Chapter Six: Reflections

It was a river this ti.

Wide, slow, gleaming like a blade in the sun. The kind of river that looked holy from afar but slled like fish and regret once you got close. The kind that whispered “co cleanse yourself, sinner,” while plotting to drag you into the mud.

Perfect spot for a bath.

I dropped my bag on the bank, peeled off my filthy tunic, and stood for a mont in nothing but dust and daylight. Sweat streaked down my back. My hair clung in wet ropes. Every inch of slled like travel, rope, and bad decisions.

Behind , on a rock jutting over the shallows, the Dragon perched—huge, gleaming, half-shadowed by the reeds. Watching .

As usual.

“You know,” I said, stepping into the water, “most people would call this creepy.”

“Most people,” he said, “don’t look like they’ve been living in a goat pen.”

The water was shockingly cold. I gasped and crouched lower until it lapped at my shoulders. Mud squished between my toes, fish brushed my calves, and goosebumps chased the sunlight across my skin.

He tilted his head, eyes the color of old gold coins. “Humans are funny.”

“Oh?” I scooped a handful of water and poured it over my hair. “How so?”

He stretched one wing lazily. “You spend all your lives trying to keep warm, then the first chance you get, you strip naked and jump into freezing water.”

“It’s called bathing,” I said, scrubbing at a bruise. “You should try it soti. The savanna incident did not do your scales any favors.”

He made a noise sowhere between a growl and a sigh. “My scales are immaculate.”

“They’re flaking.”

“They’re seasonal.”

“Sure,” I muttered. “Like shedding dandruff is a lifestyle choice.”

He ignored that. “And besides,” he went on, “humans don’t bathe because of hygiene. You bathe to feel new again. You wash and pretend it’s redemption.”

I laughed. “You’ve been reading too much poetry again.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But it’s true. You rinse off the dirt, the blood, the sweat, the lies—and think that’s all it takes. As if water forgives.”

I paused mid-splash, the current swirling around my thighs.

“That’s dark,” I said quietly.

He smiled, faintly. “You’re the one who keeps jumping into rivers, Saya.”

I dipped my head under, let the world go silent for a mont—just bubbles, pressure, heartbeat. When I ca up again, the air felt too bright.

“Maybe I just like the cold,” I said.

He snorted smoke. “Liar.”

“Professional,” I corrected.

The river tugged at my hair. Across from , reeds swayed in rhythm. Sowhere, a heron took off, wings slicing the sky with the sa weary grace as the Dragon’s.

I waded closer to shore, water streaming down my body, gold chain glinting beneath the sun. “So what’s your excuse for watching, then? Research? Moral support?”

“Field study,” he said.

“Of?”

“Human absurdity. Specifically yours.”

I grinned, wringing out my hair. “You like absurdity.”

“Occasionally. In small doses.”

“Like .”

He looked away, but I caught the faint twitch of his jaw—the dragon equivalent of a smirk. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

I climbed onto the rock beside him, dripping, shivering, gloriously alive. He gave a sideways glance, as if assessing whether I’d ruin his perch with wet footprints.

“Any new plans?” he asked.

“Always,” I said. “We head east. There’s a town near the border—rich rchants, superstitious priests, a festival next week. Perfect conditions.”

He exhaled through his nose, a small puff of smoke rising into the afternoon air. “You never rest.”

“I rest plenty.” I lay back against the warm stone, letting the sun dry . “I just prefer my rest with profit.”

He rumbled. “You’ll die young.”

“Probably naked,” I said dreamily. “But rich.”

For a while, neither of us spoke. The wind combed the grass. The water murmured secrets. A dragon and a woman, two mismatched creatures trying to pretend they weren’t lonely.

Finally he said, “You ever think about stopping?”

I opened one eye. “Stopping what?”

“This.” His gaze swept from the river to the horizon. “The cons. The running. The pretending.”

I thought about it. The idea felt like silence—heavy, untrustworthy. “No,” I said. “It’s what I’m good at.”

He nodded, as if that settled sothing.

The sun began to dip, the air cooling. I stood, stretched, and reached for my clothes. “Co on, old man. Ti to move before the mosquitoes organize a feast.”

He spread his wings, joints popping like old furniture. “One day,” he said, “you’ll learn to be still.”

“And one day,” I said, stepping into my sandals, “you’ll admit you like watching bathe.”

He huffed. “Humans are funny.”

I smiled. “And dragons are terrible liars.”

He gave a look that could have lted stone, then turned toward the sky.

When he took off, the downdraft sent ripples across the river, scattering my reflection into fragnts.

For a heartbeat, I didn’t know which one of us was the real monster.

Then I shrugged, slung my bag over my shoulder, and followed the shadow of his wings east.

Because tomorrow, there would be another village.

Another altar.

Another story to tell.