Saya and the Dragon Chapter 85: The Pickpocket Prophet

We were back at camp. Fire crackling. Sky bruised with dusk. Air slled like pine sap, goat sweat, and my own regret.

I dumped my empty purse into my lap like it had betrayed .

The Dragon didn’t look up from whatever charred rodent he was roasting.

“Tell again. From the top.”

I huffed. “I went to town. To sell the silver chalice. The one from the mayor’s panic room.”

“Ah yes. The heroic nude griffon rider. Go on.”

“I sold it. Got good coin. Real good. Then… I got robbed.”

He blinked slowly.

“In the market?”

“Yes.”

“Pickpocket?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t feel it?”

“I did! Two minutes after he disappeared into a crowd of garlic vendors.”

He sighed like a disappointed midwife.

“Look, I know. I should’ve been more careful. But—fine—I respect the hustle.”

His nostrils flared. “You respect the thief who robbed you.”

I wagged a finger at him. “I respect honest thieves. You know—real pickpockets. The kind who risk life and limb for a few miserable coins and a half-squashed fig.”

He stared at like I’d grown extra nipples.

“I feel class solidarity,” I said. “We’re all just trying to scam our way out of misery. So of us with cleavage, so with sleight of hand. It’s a system.”

I held up a finger. “But never mind that. Before that—I went to a fortune teller.”

“Oh no.”

“Don’t look at like that. She had the whole setup—reek of mildew and regrets, jars full of dead frogs and unspoken cris. She barely touched my hand before hissing, ‘Beware… soone will steal what you hold dear.’ I an—ten minutes later, gone. Tell that’s not uncanny.”

“And then you got pickpocketed.”

“Exactly!”

He stared at .

“You got scamd.”

“No. She saw it. She knew—”

“She saw you had coin, Saya. That’s all. And she’s probably in with the pickpocket. Or five of them. You get warned. You get robbed. And now you’re here, spreading her legend like a common plague rat with pamphlets.”

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…Oh.”

I paused. Blinked. Let the last two functioning brain cells catch up.

“…Still,” I said, slow and reverent, “it’s a good trick.”

He groaned. That deep, ancient groan that ant he was already dreading whatever ss I was about to sell him on.

I leaned in, eyes sparkling. “No, listen. This isn’t just good. This is scalable. This is empire-level grift.”

He raised one brow ridge. A slow, scaly arc of disbelief.

“I roll into a village. Cloaked. Veiled. Mysterious. Maybe I’ve got a staff with a skull on it. Maybe I rattle so bones in a pouch. I whisper sothing ominous like, ‘The skies shall cry fire.’ And then—”

I pointed at him with both hands.

“You, my divine co-conspirator, fly over and toast a haystack. Or steal a cow. Nothing major. No risk.”

He snorted smoke. “This is your plan?”

“That’s just the setup. After that, I beco their oracle. Their precious seeress. They co to . With chickens. With silver. With hope. You don’t even need to co back. Just one well-placed scare every few weeks and I’m in business.”

He blinked, head tilting.

“No more tribute pickups. No village standoffs. No sweaty virgins tied to poles.”

I waggled my eyebrows. “Unless we’re into that.”

He made a noise sowhere between a cough and a sigh. “You want to work for exposure?”

“Not exposure. Myth. You beco legend. I beco prophet. We rake in coin. People pay to be warned. People pay to be reassured. People pay because they’re stupid and scared and looking for patterns in burnt toast.”

He tapped a claw to his chin. “No angry heroes?”

“None. Anyone asks where the dragon is? I say you move unseen,act in dreams, speak through riddles. The trick is to make them terrified of asking too much.”

He stared at the fire a mont. Smoke curled lazily from his nose.

Then: “Three haystacks a month. No more.”

I grinned. “Deal.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And I want naming rights. For the cult.”

I blinked. “What cult?”

“The inevitable one.”

“…Fair.”