I returned from town walking like a goddess who just scamd Olympus. Chin high. Shoulders back. Ankles dazzling.
“Ta-daaa,” I announced, kicking up one foot like a showgirl. “Admire.”
Needed a bit of sparkle after the swamp ordeal. Sothing to wash the taste of mildew, judgntal birds, and witch tea out of my soul.
The Dragon lifted his big ugly head from his sunning spot. Squinted. Blinked once. Twice.
“Your feet are still bare.”
I dropped the foot and huffed. “They are not bare. They are adorned. Embellished. Enhanced.”
He tilted his head, reptilian patience thinning. “What are those.”
I wiggled my toe so the gold chain caught the light. “Barefoot sandals.”
He stared harder. “That’s not a thing.”
“It’s absolutely a thing. They’re for—” I struck a dramatic pose, one foot arched, arms wide— “aesthetic seduction.”
He blinked slowly. “They’re toe bracelets.”
“Incorrect. They are an ancient and sacred tradition practiced by desert priestesses and sex witches and maybe pirates. Possibly all three at once.”
“They don’t cover anything.”
“That’s the point.”
“Your soles are still bare.”
“And yet… the vibe? Immaculate.”
He groaned and rolled onto his side like he was dying of secondhand sha. “You spent coin on… foot jewelry.”
“I invested in allure,” I snapped. “These make my ankles look irresistible.”
“To what? Rabid ferrets?”
“To n with taste.”
“I’ve t those. They die early.”
“Jealousy is unbecoming, Scales.”
He gave a slow, withering look. “They’re going to snap the first ti you run.”
“Then I shan’t run,” I declared. “I shall glide. Slink. Drift like scented smoke.”
“You’ll trip over a rock and cry.”
“I’ll cry seductively.”
He snorted. “And when you get a thorn in your foot again?”
I lifted my chin. “You’ll carry . Like a noble beast. My tragic, long-suffering steed.”
“I’ll leave you for the crows.”
“They’ll admire the sandals.”
He covered his face with one massive claw. “Gods spare .”
“They won’t,” I said sweetly. “They love . Look at these toes. Blessed.”
I danced in a circle around him, jingling slightly. The chains tickled. The beads sparkled. I felt radiant. Untouchable. Holy.
He sighed like a dying tree. “Why are you like this.”
“Because soone has to bring style to this partnership.”
He growled sothing under his breath that sounded like, “Should’ve eaten you at the river.”
I grinned, leaned in, and whispered, “But then who would’ve taught you about desert priestess fashion, hmm?”
His eye twitched.
I blew him a kiss and sauntered off barefoot, fabulous, and absolutely pleased with myself.
Behind , he muttered, “One day I’ll snap. And it’ll be over footwear.”
I jiggled my anklets at him. Ting-a-ling.
Let him suffer.
I caught him still looking. Not admiring—heaven forbid—but curious, in that judgy, snobby way of his. The way scholars look at vulgar graffiti. Or how cats look at everything.
“Okay, okay,” I said, wiggling my toes again for emphasis. “You wanna know the truth?”
He groaned. “Not particularly.”
“This,” I gestured to the shimring chain looping around my foot, “is what courtesans wear. The real ones. Not the alley-rats. I’m talking posh ports. Coasts. The kind of places with velvet drapes and chilled fruit platters.”
He grunted, unimpressed.
“Upscale stuff,” I pressed. “Luxury. High-end. Places where the madams dress you like a living sculpture and whisper etiquette lessons in your ear while you bathe in rosewater. These?” I pointed at my sandals again. “They’re practically a uniform.”
“You’re telling ,” he said slowly, “that the height of refinent… is toe glitter.”
“Yes,” I said with great dignity. “They’re also called slave sandals.”
That got a small blink out of him. “Charming.”
“It’s branding,” I said. “A whole aesthetic. You’re barefoot, but, like… intentionally. Suggests obedience and seduction. Real popular with bored aristocrats who want their girls to look both decorative and portable.”
He huffed. “Is it because they don’t want you running very far?”
I smirked. “That too. If a girl really misbehaves, they put her in… you know.” I mid two fingers clamping around each ankle. “Ankle chain. Short one. Just enough to walk without tumbling. Can’t run. Can’t kick. But you can still sway.”
His eyes narrowed. “Functional.”
“Also limiting,” I said with a wink. “Depends on what position you want. Makes life harder… or more fun.”
He let out a noise halfway between a sigh and a cough. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m exotic.”
“You’re a walking scandal.”
“I’m also delightful.”
He didn’t argue.
I stretched, let the sunlight catch the little bits of glass and tal on the chains. “Tell honestly,” I said. “If I’d walked into your cave that first day wearing nothing but these and a pout—”
“You would’ve died faster,” he interrupted.
“Liar. You would’ve asked if I ca with a receipt.”
He turned away. “You’re not special, you know. Just another girl in glitter shackles.”
I grinned. “And yet… here I am. Still barefoot. Still dazzling. Still yours.”
He didn’t respond, but his tail flicked in that annoyed little way that ant he had no coback and knew it.
I jingled smugly and flopped down onto a sun-ward rock like a pampered concubine. “You know,” I said, tracing lazy circles with my toes, “you’d look great in matching ones.”
He didn’t even dignify that with a groan.
Which ant I was absolutely getting him a pair.
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