Saya and the Dragon Chapter 66: Bollo

Bollo.

Gods.

That man.

Ok, Taurean.

In case you were wondering what makes this girl so giddy.

My regular down in Toemacha. Big fella. Shoulders like ox yokes. Chest like a beer barrel. Voice like gravel being poured over silk. Dumb as a cartwheel, but stars above—he knew exactly what to do with all that at.

We had fun. Real fun. The kind that makes your toes curl and your liver ache. I’m not even exaggerating. I’d limp for days after a visit. Madam used to tease , said I looked like I got hit by a blessed cart. I said, “No, just Bollo.”

Brute, in the best possible way. No finesse, no nonsense. Just raw, honest-to-gods usage. Picked up like a rag doll, pinned to the wall, plowed through a feather mattress once. Still miss that mattress. It never recovered.

t him again, years later. Wasn't expecting it. I was passing through this sleepy hill town, pine trees everywhere, and there he was—hauling timber, shirtless, sweating like sin. My knees just about gave out.

We didn’t talk much. We both knew why I followed him behind that grove.

Quickie. Pine needles on my back. That sa old growl in his throat.

But it wasn’t the sa.

Afterward, he smiled all crooked, pulled his breeches back up, and said he had to get ho. Turns out he’s got a wife now. And a son.

Heh.

I don’t bla him. Life moves on. So people grow roots. So of us just keep flying from fire to fire.

Still.

Every now and then, when the campfire’s low and the dragon’s snoring like a thunderstorm, I think about Bollo. About the way he used to slam into like a man trying to knock sense into the gods.

And yeah. I smile.

And walk a little funny, just from the mory.

Chapter 67: Bone Marrow

It was lunch. Which ant fire, grease, and unsolicited lectures.

I sat cross-legged, barefoot, picking at a piece of smoked rabbit and glaring at the cracked femur resting across my lap like a personal insult.

Bone marrow.

Gods.

I took one look at the glistening tube of horror and announced, “I hate this.”

Across the fire, the Dragon made an absolutely obscene slurping sound. He was three knuckles deep into a femur the size of a fencepost, tongue doing ungodly things to what remained of so poor beast’s insides.

He didn’t look up. “Bone marrow is good for you.”

“So is not dying. I’m still not eating it.”

“It makes your tendons supple.”

“I like my tendons just the way they are—useless and decorative.”

He cracked the bone a little louder, like punctuation. “Wings flap better when the joints are nourished.”

“Don’t have wings.”

“Yet.”

I threw a twig at him. It bounced off his snout. He didn’t blink.

“This is disgusting,” I muttered, nudging the bone like it might scuttle off if I stared long enough.

“It’s a delicacy,” he corrected, licking his lips. “Savages eat at. Connoisseurs eat marrow.”

“You’re a savage with opinions.”

“And you’re a courtesan with crumbs in her cleavage.”

I looked down.

Damn it. He was right.

Still.

“I’d rather starve,” I said, tossing the bone onto the pile with exaggerated revulsion.

He snorted. “You said the sa about beetle paste. And then you ate three helpings and licked the bowl.”

“That was different. I was drunk. And horny.”

“You’re always drunk and horny.”

“Exactly. So I know what I’m talking about. Bone marrow is not sexy.”

He raised a brow ridge. “Strong joints are sexy.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re malnourished.”

I picked up a piece of flatbread and jamd it in my mouth, defiant. “This is all I need. Bread. Fire. Freedom. And maybe a pickle.”

“Your bones will snap like twigs.”

“So will yours if you keep flapping those wings while I’m napping.”

He gave a long look. Then, with all the theatricality of a cathedral bell, let out a dramatic sigh and said, “Fine. More marrow for .”

“Enjoy your goo tube, lizard.”

He slurped again, louder this ti, just to spite .

Gods, I hated how smug he looked when he ate like a troll.

Still.

I stole one of the roasted carrots from his pile while he was distracted.

That’s called a balanced diet.