We were camped sowhere in the ass-end of nowhere again. Ruined aqueduct above, so crumbled statue of a forgotten fertility goddess to the left, fire crackling like it was trying to summon its dignity. I was half-dressed, as usual, feet bare, picking twigs out of my hair. Dragon was coiled nearby, staring into the flas like they owed him rent.
I stretched, popped a few joints, and dropped onto my blanket with a sigh.
“You know,” I said, conversationally, “being a harem slut is not as glamorous as people think.”
He didn’t look at . Just flicked one ear ridge. That was his way of saying I am listening and already regretting it.
“I an, you'd assu there's a system. Right? Like a rotating roster. So enchanted ledger with columns—who gets dick on Mondays, who does laundry, who is on pillow duty. Maybe a jeweled cock-ring as a sign of current ownership. Sothing.”
Still nothing from him. But the smoke curled slightly more aggressively. That’s Dragon for intrigued but pretending to be above it.
I leaned back, arms behind my head, toes tapping to so internal rhythm. “But no. That’s only for the big places. Imperial harems. The ones with eunuch accountants and perfud schedules.”
I turned my head and grinned at him. “Most other places? You’ve got four girls. Five, tops. Which ans—gossip. Backstabbing. Hair-pulling. Petty little ‘accidents’ involving depilatory powder and your favorite tunic.”
Dragon exhaled through his nostrils. A judgntal puff. “Sounds... inefficient.”
“Oh, it’s gloriously inefficient,” I said. “It’s passive-aggressive warfare. It’s ‘accidentally’ breaking the lute of the girl who sings too well. It’s ‘oops, I used the last of the perfud oil’ when you know damn well she has a client with a fetish for lavender. And of course—chores.”
That got him. One golden eye opened, slit pupil narrowing.
“Chores,” I repeated. “Harem edition. Cook duty, sweep duty, bathhouse duty. And if you're the mouthy one?”
I raised my hand theatrically.
“They say: Let the mouthy one do the floors. She likes being on all fours anyway.”
Dragon groaned.
“I KNOW,” I said, clutching my chest in mock offense. “How dare they. Just because I can arch my back like a goddess doesn’t an I enjoy scrubbing chamber pots with my dignity.”
He rumbled. “You had dignity?”
I threw a pebble at his tail. It bounced off a scale and went plink.
“And you know what’s really not my fault?” I went on, voice rising with righteous fury. “That their boring, donkey-faced husband saw in a slave cage—topless, in chains, looking like a tragic erotic poem—and just had to splurge.”
I pointed a finger at him. “Not my fault I’ve got good tits and a compelling sob story.”
Dragon gave a slow, theatrical blink. “Compelling?”
“Very compelling,” I said. “There were tears. There was a trembling lip. I might have sung sothing mournful in broken High Elvish. He cried. The rchant cried. I think even the cal cried.”
“And then?”
I smirked. “Then he bought . Upgraded from cage to cushioned corner. Gave bangles. Called ‘precious jewel’ for a week. His pri wife tried to poison twice.”
“Charming.”
“Oh, and she also made polish her sandals. With my spit.” I waved a hand. “Eventually they sold back to the market. Sothing about being a bad influence on the junior wives.”
Dragon didn’t comnt.
I rolled onto my side, chin in my palm, watching the flas dance. “You’d think sharing a bed would make won bond. That we’d form sisterhoods. Cultivate solidarity. Maybe have a little circle where we share skincare tips and healing salves for rug burn.”
Dragon muttered, “That sounds suspiciously like your Sisterhood of Amazons.”
I snorted. “Please. Those girls would bite your throat out for putting the salve in the wrong drawer.”
He didn’t argue.
I poked at the fire. “Nah. Harems aren’t soft. They’re gladiator pits in silk. No rules. Just who can cry prettiest, moan loudest, and stab you in the back with a sharpened hairpin when the prince isn’t looking.”
Silence for a beat.
Then Dragon said, in that dry deadpan of his, “I see you flourished.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Well. Let’s just say I didn’t get promoted because of my embroidery skills.”
I let that hang for a mont.
Then, wicked grin in place, I added, “But I did get one pri wife demoted after convincing her son I was his real mother.”
Dragon choked. “You didn’t.”
“Oh I did. Poor boy still sends birthday poems.”
Another pause.
Then he muttered, “Gods help the next harem that gets you.”
I stretched luxuriously. “They’ll need it.”
And with that, I leaned back, tucked my hands behind my head, and stared up at the stars like I was royalty again.
Just not the kind they expected.
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