I know the type.
Gods, do I know the type.
Barony boys, all puffed-up pride and mismatched armor. Trudging south like they're marching into a saga, heads full of fire and wet dreams. "Going to join a mercenary band," they say. "Going overseas. To do heroic things." Which always means pillage, rape, and getting stabbed by someone who doesn't give a shit about your provincial backstory.
They always have a title. Some limp-wristed claim like third son of the Laird of Upper Mudwhistle or heir to the eastern haystack of Cragmere. Means nothing south of the mountains. But gods help you if you smirk when they say it. That chest puff gets real aggressive real fast.
And the purse? Maybe four coins if you're lucky. Sometimes buttons. One guy tried to pay me in dried apple slices. Said they were from his family orchard. I still made him pay extra for teeth.
They always end up in the brothels of Seebulba. Always. Boots still caked in goat shit, cloak smelling like damp regret. They buy you for the night, swagger like conquerors, boast about the wars they'll win, the glory they'll "surely" earn, the women they'll "tame." That last part always makes me giggle. Tame me? Please. Half of them can't even untie my bodice without instruction.
And every third one—every third—makes the same drunken promise: "I'll come back for you." "I'll buy out your contract." "You'll be my lady when I have my keep."
Sure, sweetheart. And I'm the Duchess of Orgasms.
They sail away a few days later. Never to come back. Some die. Some desert. Some probably end up belly-up in a piss-soaked alley halfway to Aurigena. I forget most of their names before the candle burns out.
But one or two? I remember.
Not because they were good in bed—gods no. But because they were sweet. Stupid, deluded, gentle-eyed idiots who thought they could rescue someone like me with nothing but dreams and a half-laced sword belt.
Poor things.
They never understood the truth: I didn't need saving. I just needed them to leave enough coin on the dresser.
***
The Dragon gave that deep, rumbly chuckle of his—the one that always comes before a snide little dagger. "Don't tell me you never fell for any of them. Not even once? You weren't that jaded that young."
I snorted. "I fell for the first five."
He raised a scaly brow.
"The first five, alright? I'm not made of stone. First one had this dumb little dimple and called me 'my lady' like he meant it. Second one wrote poetry. Terrible, moon-rhymed drivel, but still. Third cried after. During, actually."
The Dragon grimaced. "Gods."
"The problem," I went on, "is that I learn fast. Ok? If three different guys tell you the exact same story in the span of two nights—about how they're off to Garthuun to earn a knighthood and a chest of gold—you start seeing a pattern. Especially when one of them tells the same story to two other girls working under the same madam and uses the same line about coming back with a sapphire for each of our eyes."
The Dragon groaned. "Moral mountains, indeed."
"Mountains of horseshit," I muttered. "And still. Still. Some girls fall for it. Sappy ones. Sweet ones. They keep the little pewter pendants those bastards give them. A ribbon. A coin with a hole in it. A button from a sleeve. One girl I knew slept with a lock of some barony moron's hair under her pillow for weeks. She swore he'd buy her out."
He tilted his head. "Did he?"
"Oh he bought something," I said. "Syphilis in the next port, and a different girl in his bunk."
The Dragon winced.
I kept walking, eyes on the path, voice low. "But she still kept the hair. Even after."
Silence stretched.
Then I said, "I don't keep trinkets anymore. Just coin. That's the only promise that doesn't rot."
The Dragon didn't argue. He just walked beside me, claws soft in the grass, tail swaying behind like a shadow that stayed.
***
I kicked a stone down the slope, watching it bounce off a piece of what used to be a tower or a gate or a dream.
"One never gets disappointed in coin," I said. "You either have it, or you don't. But if you do—if that little pouch clinks when you shake it—gold never lets you down."
The Dragon made a low humming noise. Not quite agreement. Not quite mockery.
I went on. "It doesn't lie. Doesn't break promises. Doesn't weep into your hair and say he'll return before the harvest moon. Doesn't forget your name two ports later. Doesn't run off with the madam's prettier niece. Coin is honest. You pay for something, you get it. End of story."
He looked down at me with one of those rare little grins. "You sound like my grandfather."
I blinked. "You had a grandfather?"
"Very briefly. Then someone dropped a cathedral on him." He gave a wistful sigh. "But yes. He believed the same thing. That the world may burn, empires may fall, lovers may betray, but gold… gold is steady."
I nodded. "Exactly. It doesn't cuddle. But it buys a good blanket."
"And wine," he added. "And ointment."
"And whores," I said sweetly. "Though some of us come with trauma and sass at no extra charge."
The Dragon chuckled, deep and warm like an old forge. "A fine worldview, Saya. Cynical. Practical. Sparkling with just enough bitterness to taste expensive."
I winked. "Like me."
He didn't disagree.
***
"Yup," I said, kicking up a puff of dust. "That's why we work. We get each other. You breathe fire, I burn bridges. You hoard gold, I—"
"Spend it like it's cursed," the Dragon cut in, dry as old parchment. "Like it'll rot in your hands if not turned into silks, sweets, and scented oils by sundown."
I gasped, mock-offended. "Excuse you. I invest. In joy. In luxury. In essential survival items like honey-dipped dates and toe jewelry."
He gave me the side-eye. "You once bought a collapsible chaise lounge made entirely of stolen peacock feathers."
"And it collapsed beautifully, didn't it?"
He sighed, long-suffering. "You spend like the gods are foreclosing on the world."
"Maybe they are," I said, twirling. "Maybe tomorrow we get eaten by a swamp hag or smote by an ancient curse or roasted by your charming extended family."
He grunted. "Fair."
I smiled. "So yeah. I'll take my coin in the morning, blow it by noon, and seduce someone new before dinner. Meanwhile, you can sit on your pile like a constipated wyvern and grumble."
"And yet," he murmured, "we're still walking the same road."
"Damn right we are," I said. "Because deep down, we both know—gold is good. But company that doesn't ask stupid questions? That's rare."
He smiled then. Just a little. Enough.
And we kept walking. Me with empty pockets and too much eyeliner. Him with aching joints and a thousand grudges. Perfect balance.