I said the song was nice. Gods. Yes, he's a twink. A velvet-voiced, flower-eating, lute-fondling twink. But the verse had flow. And rhyme. And... rhythm. Or whatever.
"Rhyme?" the Dragon says, dragging the word like a rusty chain. "He rhymed 'heart' with 'fart.' Twice."
"It was charming!" I snap. "Rustic."
"Rustic like goat cheese left in a sock." His wings rustle. He's enjoying this. "You're falling for the same half-witted rhymes that made half the farm girls drop their drawers for passing jugglers."
"I've slept with worse," I mutter, yanking my braid over one shoulder. "For less. At least Oleander bathes. And trims. And—he writes. That's culture."
"Oh yes, tragic sophistication," the Dragon snorts. "Did he also whisper sonnets into your thighs while climaxing in thirty seconds?"
"Shut up."
He smirks. I see it. Smug and slow like molasses. I could kick him in the shin. If I wasn't secretly enjoying this.
I huff. "He's sophisticated. He called me a... a ponsti.. a pornsti...? Something."
He blinks. "A prostitute?"
"Yes! That."
He stops walking. I stop too, because his bulk blocks half the damn road.
"That word doesn't mean what you think it means."
I squint at him. "...What does it mean?"
He leans in, deadpan. "It means a whore, Saya. A harlot. A strumpet!"
Beat.
"Oh." I blink. "I thought it was like… a temple thing. With incense. And silk. And... swaying."
He just stares. Like he's trying to burn the stupid out of my skull with his mind. Good luck.
I lift my chin. "Well I still think it sounds sophisticated."
He chuckles. Not kindly. The kind of laugh that says he's filing this moment away to use against me forever. I punch his forearm. He barely flinches. Fucker's scaled.
"Don't act like you weren't ever seduced by a rhyme," I say, striding ahead. "You told me that thing about Vaelthryx and the limerick."
"That was different. He had claws. And range."
"So did Oleander."
"Horizontal range, not vocal."
"Still counts!"
We walk in silence for a bit. Dust crunching underfoot. My ears burning just a little.
Honestly? I do like that he wrote a song. About me. About my "moon-pale shoulders" and "soulful hunger." Even if he did rhyme "desire" with "mire." The lute was out of tune and he cried after sex but—gods help me—I kinda liked it.
Even if I don't get the words. Even if I am a prostitute.
A fancy one.
With rhyme.
Okay. Okay. Wait.
You wanna know how we got here?
Fine.
It was a scam. Obviously.
The usual one. Me, fake sacrifice. Chains, gold, innocent pout, virginal moan if needed.
Spoiler: it's never needed.
Some damp little village by a sulphur spring with delusions of grandeur had built this stupid platform right on the ridge — like a really phallic altar if we're being honest. I think the local priest was working through something.
Pillar of "obsidian," according to Oleander.
Personally? Looked like melted sheep shit painted black. But fine. We'll call it obsidian. For artistic reasons.
So there I was.
Chained. Posing. Near-naked, obviously. Just the ornamental loincloth — sunburst gold, embroidered, thank you very much — and a few delicate garlands. Marigolds and shame.
I was sweating. Bored. Swatting flies with my knee because my arms were dramatically shackled overhead. Wrists killing me.
And I kept thinking — where the fuck is the Dragon?
He was supposed to do his big smoky entrance by now. Burn a few haystacks. Terrorize the sheep. Showtime.
Instead?
Instead he shows up.
Not a hero. Not a merc. Not even some slobbering teen with a sword and a savior complex.
Nope.
A bard.
A wandering bard.
A twink. With bells on his sandals and a lute slung over his back like he was born mid-ballad.
He sees me.
Gasps.
Drops to his knees.
No sword. No dagger. Doesn't even try to untie me. Just stares. Eyes all watery and reverent.
Then he starts to speak.
No — recite.
Something about flame-born blossoms and divine restraint and my limbs being lilies bound by fate. I remember blinking at him and going, "What."
He didn't stop.
Kept going. Ranting about my "captive grace." My "unchained spirit despite the chains." At one point he called my knees "altars of hope."
My knees.
I was about to yell at him — maybe spit — when I heard wings.
Finally.
The Dragon descended in full moody glory. Smoke cloak. Tail swish. Dramatic flare.
And you know what Oleander did?
He kept singing.
Wove the Dragon right into the song like this was all part of some holy opera.
Calling him sacred judge, sky-born flame, winged pyre of reckoning — all that.
I swear the Dragon paused mid-descent.
Just hovered there like: Is this twink serenading me?
I gave him the look. The kill-me-now look.
He smirked and landed softer than usual. The bastard was enjoying it.
So yeah.
That's how we met Oleander.
Me: chained, annoyed, sweaty. Dragon: late, smug, theatrical. Twink: weeping, singing, probably hard.
And somehow — somehow — this turned into his holy quest.
Gods help us.
So now he follows us.
All over the godsdamned countryside.
Through swamps, hills, markets, bandit-infested backroads — like a puppy. A very pretty, poetry-reciting, flower-sniffing, easily distracted puppy.
I turn around to take a piss in a bush — he's there, humming.
I roll over at camp — he's playing lute at sunrise.
Dragon sneezes — Oleander writes a haiku about it. He rhymed "blessed wind" with "hind."
…and I'm letting him live. So that says a lot about me, doesn't it?
Okay. Fine.
Yes.
I may have had a roll in the hay with him.
Once. Or twice.
Maybe thrice. But honestly? Mostly to shut him up.
…okay, and maybe I'm a sucker for compliments.
You spend most of your life being bought, branded, bargained for — and then some soft-eyed idiot starts comparing your stretch marks to celestial fault lines — and suddenly you're wondering if maybe you're art.
Blame me. Go on. I dare you.
And look — he's…
He's youthful, alright.
Gorgeous in that twinky way. Hair glossy and curled like he belongs in some marble-backed orgy fresco. He wears this sheet — just one — draped over the shoulder, clasped once. That's it.
Like some temple boy from a wine god's fever dream.
Flower crown. Always.
He makes his own. From local flora. Because of course he does.
And those sandals? With the bells?
They jingle when he walks.
He jingles.
Fine. He's a girly boy.
But — okay — hear me out.
I have a sophisticated side too. You think I'm all bullmen and demons and sweaty alley trysts?
No. Wrong. False.
I'm complex. Multi-dimensional. Nuanced.
Just because I enjoy being tossed like a salad by someone with horns and hooves doesn't mean I can't appreciate… delicate things.
Gentle hands. Soft moans. Being told I'm a moon-born flame of grace while I'm riding someone like a drunk goat.
So yeah.
I bedded the twink.
Sue me.
…Just don't tell the Dragon.
He's already unbearable.