Look, I know what this is.
The smoke curling in slow silver fingers. The low, wet laughter from behind the beaded curtain. The girl next to me giggling into her sleeve like the world isn't rotting outside. Yeah. This is that kind of place.
The kind where your soul leaks out your mouth one dreamy sigh at a time.
And yes. Fine. The Dragon will be furious. He'll probably land on the roof in a huff, scatter everyone with smoke and sermon, and drag me out by the ankle like I'm a drunk goat. Again.
But gods, I needed this.
I mean—Seebulba? That's where I'm from. That festering, salt-reeking, fish-gutted cesspool? Not exactly a temple of virtue. No one comes out of Seebulba whole. You come out with scars, if you're lucky. You come out with stories, if you're clever. And you come out with a taste for things that numb the memories.
Don't judge.
It's not like anyone ever said don't do drugs, sweetheart, here's a better path. No one ever showed up with a scholarship. Just priests who wanted you bent over, sailors who wanted you mute, and slavers who wanted you clean and quiet for the auction block.
So yes. I'm curled up on a velvet cushion, in a haze of red lantern light, breathing in sweet poison while some eunuch plays a harp out of tune. My legs are bare. My hair is down. I'm not proud.
But I'm not sorry either.
The ceiling sways just a little. The silk sash I stole earlier is still looped around my wrist, and there's a bowl of honeyed dates within reach, though I'm too blissfully numb to eat them. My ankle bells jingle every time I shift.
There's a man sleeping in the corner. Maybe a sailor. Maybe a priest. Doesn't matter. Nobody asks names in here. Just dreams.
I'm not trying to die. Not yet. But I do need to forget. Just for a little. The brands. The betrayals. The time I genuinely thought I was a princess because some fever-dream fortune-teller said so. The laughter when I found out I wasn't.
This place? It doesn't care.
And that's the point.
Let the Dragon be mad. Let the world be cruel. Just for tonight, I don't want to fight, or scam, or seduce, or survive. I want to float.
I want to be nobody.
And gods, it feels so good.
***
First puff?
Yeah. I remember.
Some punter brought it in. Not even a regular. Just one of those sad bastards—mid-40s, trying to look important, reeking of cedar oil and desperate need. He said he wanted the "full package." The girl and the forgetting. Like I was a plate of steamed clams with a side of oblivion.
And gods. Like I had a choice.
Indentured. You get what that means? Means I was owned. Branded, collared, booked and bled dry. Said no once. Earned myself three docked credits, a split lip, and no rice for a week. So yeah. When the shift boss gave me that nod from the corner, ledger open, I smiled like a good little slut and took the pipe.
Didn't even know how. Held it wrong. Inhaled too sharp. Nearly coughed a lung up. But then it hit.
And for the first time since I could remember…
Nothing hurt.
The mattress under me didn't itch. The bruises on my thighs didn't pulse. I didn't smell the rot from the fish market downstairs, or the piss from the alley, or that bastard's hot breath on my neck. Everything just… drifted.
There was a stain on the ceiling. Brown, maybe red. Looked like a star. I stared at it for ages. Let myself pretend it meant something. That I was chosen. That I was destined. That maybe, just maybe, the world had plans for me beyond this filth.
He paid double.
Said I was "quiet, perfect."
Madam ruffled my hair like I was a kitten and gave me extra rice with a scrap of salted plum. Told me I was lucky.
That was the word she used. Lucky.
Funny thing, luck.
I was too stoned to speak. Too stoned to flinch when he grabbed my wrists and called me "little star." Too stoned to scream when he didn't stop.
But gods, I thanked her for the rice.
Because that's the kind of girl Seebulba makes.
The kind who thanks her captors for a meal.
The kind who learns to float, just a little, so she doesn't drown.
So yeah. I know what this is.
This place, this den, this smoke curling like soft fingers down my throat—it's not peace. It's a pause. A lullaby for broken girls with good knees and bad memories.
And maybe I don't deserve better. Maybe this is what I am. Smoke and skin and a few half-remembered dreams.
But don't you dare pity me.
I earned this oblivion. One breath at a time.
***
We're camped somewhere above the cliffs. Wind smells like salt and old battles. The fire cracks. I'm not looking at him, and he's not breathing fire, which means he's upset.
"Sayaaa," he drawls, all ancient and wounded and unbearably parental. "You're playing with poison again."
I don't answer right away. Just keep picking at the hem of my shawl. Smoke long gone, but my head's still cloudy. My ribs ache from the crash earlier, or maybe just from the weight of him looming.
"I know what I'm doing," I mutter.
He shifts. A wing creaks. Probably rolling his eyes behind those molten coals he calls irises.
"I've been around for centuries," he says. "Trust me—no story with that stuff ever ends well."
I finally glance up. "No story with you ever ends well either. Doesn't stop me from riding your scaly ass across half the continent."
He groans. Full-body groan. Tail twitching like he's resisting the urge to tail-smack me into the sea. "That's different."
"Is it?"
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Claws tap the rock. His pupils narrow. He hates when I make a point.
"You're better than this," he says, softer.
"Am I?" I ask, not even angry. Just tired. "You keep saying that. Like I'm not exactly what I always was. A whore with a good memory and bad habits."
He flinches. Good.
I sigh. Lie back, arms crossed behind my head, staring up at the stars like they owe me something.
"I didn't take much. Just enough to float. To forget. Just a little."
A pause. "And I didn't do it to spite you."
He doesn't respond.
"I did it," I say, "because sometimes I still wake up hearing the doors lock. Because sometimes I can still feel his hands. Because sometimes, even now, I don't feel real unless I'm fading."
The silence after that is long.
Then he lowers his big, heavy head beside me. Nuzzles in, warm breath across my shoulder. Tail curling, almost imperceptibly, over my ankle.
"I can't lose you," he murmurs.
"You won't," I lie.
And we both pretend to believe it.