So there I am.
On my knees.
Behind a donkey shed that smells like fermented regrets and warm ass. My mouth is sore. My hair's got hay in it. My knee has a stone imprint. And this idiot—
This idiot is moaning like I just healed his soul through oral tradition.
I stand up, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand like a common barmaid who's seen some things, and he—he actually staggers against the wall like he needs divine support to remain upright.
"You…" he pants, eyes all wet and glittery, "you are grace incarnate. The softness of your mouth shames the petals of spring."
I squint at him.
"You what now?"
I'm still chewing the aftertaste of his elderflower-tinged lust and he's out here doing rhapsody mode.
"Purity," he says, all dreamy, like he's not still half-limp with his tunic stuck to one thigh. "So pure. So radiant."
"Okay pause," I say, holding up a hand, "I just gave you a sloppy blowie behind a donkey shed. You came in, like, under thirty seconds. You grabbed my hair. I made that noise."
(You know the one.)
"And now you're calling me—what—pure?"
He nods. Earnestly. Gods.
He puts his hand to his chest. "Though the flesh may be… soiled—"
He actually says it like it's a poem made of candlelight and sorrow.
"—your heart remains untouched. Your soul? Untarnished. You are a flame in the filth. A pearl in the pit. A storm that rains but never muddies."
I groan. Out loud. Head back, eyes closed. I thunk my skull against the post just to remember I'm still living in this plane.
"You're impossible," I mutter.
Then I look at him.
All flushed cheeks and tousled curls, flower crown half-cocked on his head like some drunken votive statue. Sandals with bells. That stupid single-shoulder sheet he wears like he's a sexier, more confused version of a vase painting. His mouth still parted like he's seconds away from declaring more poetry.
"…Cute," I admit under my breath. "But impossible."
He steps closer.
And then he looks at me.
Like, really looks. Right into my face. Like I'm something to be read, or worshipped, or…
Oh no.
No no no.
"What is this," I say. "Are we sharing a moment?"
His eyes go soft like butter left in sun.
"Galaxies," he whispers. "In your gaze. Want. Wonder. Pain. Stars."
I freeze.
No.
No.
We are not doing this.
Not after I sucked you off next to a manure pile.
I hold up a hand, firm. "Do not ruin this with feelings."
I start patting my hip. Then my thigh. My sandal. My tits.
"Also? Where the fuck are my silver piece and five coppers? Because if I just blew you for free I'm going to be very upset."
"I offer you my soul," he says.
"Oh wonderful," I snap. "Can I buy flatbread and cheap wine with that? No? Then fork it over, bard."
Behind me, the donkey lets out a long, slow exhale.
I swear to all the filthy gods, if even that four-legged bastard starts judging me—
I'll burn this whole shed down.
Starting with Oleander's goddamn lute.
***
Crickets. Fire crackling. Smell of smoke, singed sandal leather, and whatever the Dragon's roasting that he swears isn't squirrel.
And from somewhere just beyond the tree line?
Off-key lute. Again.
"Gods," the Dragon mutters. "Your puppy is strumming again."
I don't even look up. "He's sensitive. It's his process."
"He's off-key, Saya."
"It's poetic. Raw. Authentic."
"It's flat. Like your last attempt at porridge."
"Hey. That was experimental."
"So is his musical scale."
I grin, just a little. The lute keeps going. Something mournful this time. Probably about my tragic nipples or the way I looked while gagging on his balls.
I poke the fire with a stick.
"…He says I'm pure," I say.
The Dragon turns his head slowly. That look. The one that says 'Must we go through this?' The one that says 'You, of all people, are saying this with a straight face?'
I roll my eyes. "Not like that. Not pure-pure—just… pure at heart."
He exhales through his nose. Long. Slow. Like he's counting to ten in Ancient Draconic.
"We make our living," he says, "by cheating gullible villagers out of their miserly possessions using fake rituals, seduction, and coordinated arson."
I shrug. "Well—yes. But only the stupid ones."
"The last one paid in goats and cornmeal."
"They insulted my garlands."
He flicks a talon. Flame curls up the side of a stick. "You told a grieving widow you could channel her dead husband through your ass."
"She paid! And she moaned when I moaned."
He gives me that look again. Dry enough to parch wine.
I sigh. "Okay, fine. Maybe I'm not a saint."
"You are," he says. "A victim of cruel cosmic fate."
I glance over at him. Surprised.
But he keeps going.
"You're also a habitual liar. A manipulative brat. A professional cheat. And you once stole a baby."
"It was a goat, and I gave it back!"
"After you tried to dye it pink and sell it as a temple offering."
"…It would've worked."
The lute keeps strumming. Oleander's voice lifts faintly into the night: something about "her soul aflame with sorrow" and "the curve of her mercy." I think I hear a rhyme for "suckle." I don't want to ask.
I stare into the fire a while.
"…But he means it," I murmur. "He really thinks I'm… cursed and noble and... worth saving."
The Dragon doesn't answer right away. He tosses a stick into the flames.
"Then let him," he says. "You've been called worse."
I smile.
"By you."
"Especially by me."
We sit a little longer in the dark. The stars above. Lute below. Maybe I am a mess.
But at least I'm somebody's tragedy.