Back at camp.
Me. Covered in swamp stink, mosquito welts, and emotional damage.
Wrapped in the same damn shawl, sobbing into my knees like some tragic heroine waiting for a subplot.
The Dragon lounges across from me, tail flicking lazily, expression hovering somewhere between exasperated aunt and therapist on overtime.
"They're all laughing at me," I wail. "The guru, the hag, the bird—even the gods, apparently. No one's taking me seriously! I could be dying!"
He rolls his eyes so hard I hear his skull creak.
"Oh yes. Definitely dying. Of melodrama."
"I am cursed!" I snap, voice cracking. "Real curse! Real karmic shit! This isn't just bad luck—it's like the entire cosmos decided my ass was funny."
He props his chin on one clawed hand. "Darling. Sweetheart. Sewer pearl. How many barefoot, half-literate, violently unqualified street rats from your particular dockside gutter corner of Seebulba do you think get saddled with me?"
I blink. "...What?"
He gestures at himself—massive, ancient, glorious, fussy. "Me. Dragon. The whole majestic trauma package. Do you think the gods just randomly toss that kind of companion at anyone who's got a flirty smile and a foot fetish?"
I sniffle. "So… what, you're saying I'm blessed?"
"I'm saying maybe, just maybe, your karma isn't all bad. You were supposed to die chained to a rock. You bluffed your way into a better life. Congratulations, you're the cockroach of fate."
I stare. Mind turning. Gears grinding. Then slowly—dangerously—something clicks.
"Oh… oh gods. Wait a minute."
He groans. "No."
"Maybe… this is the test. The great karmic trial! Like the gods do love me. They're just testing me! Like all those myths. Precious chosen ones being forged in fire. Heroes. Prophets. Priests with glowing crotches."
He physically recoils. "What scrolls have you been reading?"
"Maybe all this horror, all this pain, all this dick-shaped adversity—it's all part of the journey. The gods are preparing me for greatness! I'm special!"
He stares.
I sit taller. Eyes wild. "You know! Like that tale of the boy who was cursed to wander naked for seven years but then became king of the honey realms!"
"That was a syphilis story, Saya."
"Still counts!"
He exhales. Slowly. Loudly. "Okay, don't get carried away, now."
But it's too late. I'm already on my feet, one hand raised dramatically.
"I knew it! This is my divine arc. My heroine's journey! I'm being refined!"
"You're being ridiculous."
"I'm being chosen."
He slaps his tail over his face. "I'm going back to bed."
"No! Wait! We need to find a sacred cactus or a glowing rock or something! I need a quest!"
"No you need a bath," he mutters, "and probably a lobotomy."
I throw the shawl like a cape and march into the desert night.
Chosen.
Empowered.
Swamp-scented.
The gods are clearly preparing something glorious.
The Dragon just groans behind me, "By all the flaming tits of Threxaval, not again."
***
So.
There was a day—just one—when I was absolutely, unquestionably, divinely chosen.
A holy mission. A higher calling. Me, Saya, the blessed one. Touched by fate, kissed by destiny, possibly hallucinating from heatstroke.
It started strong. I woke up full of purpose and sand in places that shouldn't have names. Wrapped myself in that black shroud like I was mourning the sins of humanity (mostly my own). Sat in lotus position. Parchment in my lap. Quill in hand.
I was going to write my scripture.
The sacred text.
The Testament of Saya.
It went… badly.
The scroll is still somewhere in my pack. Covered in blots, misspelled saints, crude sketches of glorious titties, and a suspicious number of dicks. The word "glory" is spelled five different ways. "Virtue" is crossed out and replaced with "twerking."
At one point I wrote "thine bosoms overfloweth."
That was a theological high point.
After that, I decided I needed divine inspiration. So I wandered into the desert like a prophetic lunatic.
Every rock I passed? A sign.
Every dead shrub? Symbolic.
Each passing lizard? A messenger from the gods.
One even winked at me. Probably.
By noon, I was radiant with revelation.
By sunset, I was sunburnt, starving, and ready to murder a fig tree for shade.
Turns out, divine purpose has terrible foot support.
So.
That was my great holy quest.
One day of grand spiritual nonsense.
Then I found half a pomegranate in the Dragon's saddlebag and remembered something important:
Food.
Food is holy.
Food is divine.
Food has never judged me or asked me to adopt a hedgehog named Archibald.
So I gave up on the chosen one bit.
At least for now.
...Maybe.