I opened my eyes to two blurry faces hovering above me. For a moment I thought maybe I‘d died again. But no, the pounding behind my eyeballs said hangover. A serious one. And probably a head injury. And—gods help me—some kind of incense.
I blinked.
The faces sharpened. Women. Older. Lips pursed like sour milk, eyes narrowed with knowing pity. Black veils draped over their heads like mourning crows. One of them whispered something to the other, the kind of warm tone people use with dogs and dying birds.
“Sister Saya,” she said.
The other one nodded. “See? She is awake.”
Oh no.
Oh no no no no.
Not this place.
Not them.
I tried to sit up. Bad idea. My ribs protested, the world spun, and my wrists—oh great, bandaged. Which usually means someone undressed me. Which means they saw me.
I don‘t remember drinking that much. Wait. Did I drink? What was the last thing I remember? Something about a chicken. No, a mule. And a stupid wager. And a smug warlord with beard oil that smelled like roasted chestnuts.
But none of that mattered now. Because here I was, flat on some straw-stuffed cot in a stone room with chalk symbols on the walls, rough wool blankets over me, my hair braided (badly), and two veiled sisters of the Bleeding Heart looking at me like I‘d finally come home.
This was worse than any dungeon.
Worse than the time I woke up chained to that fertility obelisk.
Worse than the troll love-nest.
I was back. Somehow. In the care of temple-wives. Matrons. Virginistas. Holiness-mongers.
And they were smiling.
The first one reached out to touch my cheek. I flinched.
“Sister Saya,” she repeated gently. “You‘ve returned. The Mother Flame must have guided you.”
I almost gagged. My voice came out hoarse. “Was… was it the Mother Flame who shaved my legs too?”
She didn‘t answer. Just pulled the blanket tighter around me like I was a wounded bird and not a recidivist slut with a dagger scar on my hip and an unholy thirst for fermented dates.
The other one—wider face, more wrinkles, definitely the meaner one—just crossed her arms. “You were found near the groves. Collapsed. Bleeding. Alone.”
Fantastic. Always a classy entrance.
“And your rune,” she added, eyes flicking to my thigh under the blanket. “It burns with shame.”
Of course it does. It‘s magical graffiti that literally throbs when I‘ve been a bad girl. I should've gotten it lasered.
“Where is the Dragon?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
They didn‘t answer.
Just a meaningful look between them.
Which is nun-code for he abandoned you.
Which is absolutely what he‘d look like he did. But the lizard wouldn‘t. Probably. Maybe. Okay, maybe fifty-fifty depending on what I said last. Did we fight? Gods, I hope I didn‘t tell him to shove his hoard.
“I‘m just resting,” I croaked, flopping back. “One night. Tops. Then I‘ll be off.”
They both smiled.
And that‘s when I knew I was doomed.
Because that‘s exactly the kind of smile they give you before handing you a prayer robe, a bowl of boiled barley, and a copy of Chastity and the Sacred Womb.
One of the sisters leaned in close, her breath smelling faintly of rose water and dogma.
“You are always welcome in the fold, Sister Saya,” she said, clasping her hands over her heart like I was a holy relic and not a sin-soaked reprobate who once tried to bribe a high priest with nipple piercings and marmalade.
The other one—the one with the face like overcooked mutton—gave a thin-lipped smile.
“The pilgrims have been asking about you,” she said. “You were always their favorite.”
Of course I was.
They say “favorite” like it‘s flattering, but it‘s not. Not when it comes with a queue of sweaty penitents asking for “blessings” while pretending their groin spasms are spiritual awakenings.
“Your old cot is ready,” she added, smug. “Just as you left it. And there is always a line, you know. Waiting for your return.”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or maybe stab something. Preferably a jugular.
Then the older one added, with all the smug cruelty of a tax collector with a grudge:
“There is, of course… a small matter to resolve.”
I stared at her. My pulse tapped out a war drum against my temple.
She gave that gracious, slow blink that meant she was about to ruin someone‘s life and feel very holy about it.
“Your indenture contract,” she said. “It was never fulfilled.”
I sat up too fast and saw stars. “What?”
“In fact,” she continued sweetly, “after you ran away… well, the terms clearly state—”
“I was sold!”
“—that unauthorized departure constitutes breach,” she went on, ignoring me, “and thus the accumulated penalty fees, plus interest…”
Oh gods. Oh gods no.
She patted my knee like a gravedigger patting soil.
“But you are still young. Strong. The Mother Flame willing, you will live long enough to… work it out.”
That‘s when I felt it.
Cold.
Heavy.
Metal.
I looked down.
My left ankle.
Chained to the fucking bed.
Of course.
Of course it was.
They hadn‘t changed a bit.
Still velvet smiles and iron rules. Still pretending this was salvation and not glorified whore-prison with incense.
I curled my fingers into the sheet, breathing hard through my nose.
“Blessings,” I whispered.
They both nodded.
The rage tasted like blood in my mouth.
Blessings, my ass.
I jolted upright, gasping.
The world spun. My skin was slick with sweat. The night air hit me like a slap—dry, cold, real.
I was outside.
A campfire hissed in the dark.
Moonlight.
Rocks.
No veils. No sour breath. No walls painted with lies.
I looked down.
No chain.
My ankle was bare.
The rage surged through me before the relief could catch up. I turned, fists already flying, and started pounding them into the massive scaly flank beside me.
“You left me!” I screamed. “You left me there! You bastard! That place! That hellhole! You said you‘d never—”
He stirred with a grunt, lifted his head groggily, one golden eye cracking open.
“What—Saya—gods—ow—stop—”
“You left me!” I hit him again. Weak little thumps that didn‘t even bruise his thick hide but felt like they might split me open.
He blinked slowly. “It was a dream, you idiot. It‘s okay. It‘s okay. It‘s okay. You‘re not there. You‘re here. With me. In the middle of nowhere, granted, but—”
I collapsed.
Just folded.
Knees hit the dirt.
The tears came before I could stop them, hot and ugly and shaking my whole stupid body.
“Fuck them,” I choked out. “Fuck them.”
There was silence.
Then, softly, a wing folded over me.
Warm. Heavy. Protective.
He said nothing else.
Didn‘t need to.
We both knew I‘d have burned that place to the ground if I‘d ever gone back.
And he‘d have helped me.