[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-saya-and-the-dragon":3,"chapter-saya-and-the-dragon-saya-and-the-dragon-chapter-221":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"english","Saya and the Dragon",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},1705030,2177,"Chapter 214: The Hostage Situation","saya-and-the-dragon-chapter-221",221,"\u003Cp>Chapter 214: The Hostage Situation\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>There he is.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Sir Odran the Radiant. The Gilded Galloper. The Walking Hard-On in a cape.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Riding his pristine white stallion like he’s posing for a tapestry, lance raised, hair fluttering, cheekbones all sharp and noble and tragically stupid.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He sees me.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I give him a little wave from the clouds.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He smirks.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gods, I hate how good he looks when he’s complicit.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The crowd roars as he lines up for the joust. His opponent looks like a half-melted candlestick in chainmail. No chance. Doesn’t matter. This isn’t about the match. This is about the moment.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I crouch low against the Dragon’s spine, wind in my face, grinning like a lunatic.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Target locked,” I whisper.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon grumbles. “Do I really have to—”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“YES. Dive now. I want screams.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>We drop.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Fast.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The world rushes up in a blur of velvet tents and squealing nobles. Someone drops a flag. A trumpet blares. Hooves pound—\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And bam.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon snatches Odran clean off his horse with one precise swipe of his claw, like scooping up a pastry. The horse keeps running. Odran goes airborne, arms flailing in fake panic.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“UNHAND ME, FOUL BEAST!” he bellows, perfectly on cue.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I cackle.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The crowd erupts into hysteria. A lady faints onto her husband's codpiece. A dog yelps. One bard starts screaming “The prophecy!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>We wheel away from the chaos, banking hard over the main tent, scattering banners and roast chickens.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I scramble down the Dragon’s foreleg and into the claw, landing face-to-face with our “hostage.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Hello, my sweet idiot,” I say, yanking off his helmet. “Comfortable?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He grins, eyes wild with adrenaline. “I was born for this.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Oh, I know,” I purr. “That scream was chef’s kiss. The part where you flailed your arms? Inspired.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon sighs. “Do I get hazard pay for this?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“No,” I snap. “You get roasted turnips and my eternal gratitude.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“So just the turnips.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I elbow Odran as he tries to shift in the claw. “Keep still. If you fall, we can’t ransom you. Your bones aren’t worth that much.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He laughs. A real one.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And for a second, as the wind screams past and the nobles below scatter like ants with fancy hats, it feels… good.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Stupid, dangerous, doomed.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But good.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>We’ve got a knight in the claw, a plan on parchment, and about three hours before the world catches up.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Plenty of time to ruin something beautifully.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>***\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Sir Odran is tied to a chair in the middle of the ruined hall, looking like a very expensive roast waiting for a garnish. Wrists bound behind his back, ankles lashed to the legs, shirt artfully torn for dramatic effect, a tasteful smear of fake blood on his cheek courtesy of my thumb and some berry jam.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon looms over him, unimpressed.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Was this strictly necessary?” he asks, nostrils flaring as he inspects the knots. “He looks like a badly staged dinner theatre hostage.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I was wondering the same,” Ogden mutters through the gag I just re-tied because he got snippy. “This rope is chafing. And this chair smells like goat.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Oh, please,” I say, adjusting his collar so his collarbone catches the light just right. “One: it serves you right for marrying behind my back.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He groans. “I told you—”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Shhh. Hostages don’t talk.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon coughs. “Technically, they scream. Should I light something for ambiance?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Two,” I continue, ignoring both of them, “it’s for authenticity. We’re professionals. This isn’t some half-assed kidnapping by a jealous ex and her large, scaly life coach. This is a high-end hostage extraction service.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon mutters, “Life coach is generous.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I whirl on him. “What if someone barges in? Huh? And they see him not tied up? You think they won’t immediately clock that pretty-boy paladin is in on the deal?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon tilts his head. “Do you expect someone to barge in?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I shrug. “It’s a ruined keep. Barging is what keeps like this do.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I can still hear you,” Ogden says. “And I’m having second thoughts.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Too late,” I chirp. “Your fiancée’s father is about to cough up a sack of imperial florins big enough to build me a bathhouse.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I feel used.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I lean in, whispering in his ear, “You are used. And if you’re very lucky, I might use you again.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He flushes. The gag goes back in.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon sighs and paces toward the crumbled window, peering out at the sunset. “Honestly, we should’ve just sold him to the Amazons.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Tempting,” I admit. “But this way we get paid and I get closure.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Is closure always this… rope-intensive?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“With me? Always.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon shakes his head. “You’re a menace.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I blow him a kiss. “And you love it.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He grumbles. Ogden muffles something through the gag. I slap his thigh just hard enough to make him jump.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“All right,” I say, clapping my hands. “Let’s ransom a bastard.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>***\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Don’t smudge it,” I mutter to myself, hunching lower over the parchment.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The quill is shit. The ink smells like donkey ass. The letters are uneven and probably half-wrong. But I’m doing it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I’m writing the godsdamn ransom note.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Behind me, the Dragon shifts, looming and sighing like a disappointed governess. “You know I should be doing this.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“No.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I have better handwriting.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“No.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I know how to spell ‘sovereign’ correctly.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I said no.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He pauses, tail swishing with dramatic restraint. “Saya. Darling. You once misspelled your own name on a forged brothel license.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“That was calligraphy, and I was drunk.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He leans in. “You wrote ‘Soya the Wench.’ With a carrot drawing.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Shut up.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Ogden, tied and gagged (again), makes a small choked noise that might be laughter or maybe mild strangulation. I ignore him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I dip the quill again, shake the excess ink off with a flick that sprays a blot onto my thigh. Great. Bloodstain chic. Authentic.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon tries again, more gently now. “Let me just—”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Don’t take this from me.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>That stops him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I don’t look up.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You can hoard the gold. Torch the tower. Write the memoir. But this?” I jab the parchment with the tip of the quill. “This is mine.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He lowers his snout slowly, respectfully.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“All right.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I keep writing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>WE GOT YOR KNITE\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>he iz not ded… yet\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>giv us LOTS GOLD (real ones not fake church coins)\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>put it under bird poo brige at midnite\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>come alone or we chop bits\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Sinsirly,\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>THE BAD GUYS\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>(very serius)\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I pause. “How do you spell sincerely?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon groans and knocks his forehead softly against a pillar.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I smirk. “That’s what I thought.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This might be the worst ransom note ever written.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But it’s mine.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And for once, it’s me holding the strings.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>***\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Um,” says the Dragon from the window slit.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The way he says um means run.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Means oh gods it’s worse than we thought.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“What?” I snap, still adjusting the ribbon on Ogden’s fake neck wound for drama.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He cranes his long neck around, eyes wide. “Mercs. A dozen, maybe more. Crest of House Glavorn. Looks like a private kill team.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Okay,” I say, slowly backing toward the window too. “Okay, we can improvise. We’ve improvised before.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“They’ve got two griffon riders.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I freeze.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“No,” I whisper.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Yes,” he hisses. “Red plumes. Amazon gear. And they’re descending.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I whirl on Ogden.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Still tied. Still gagged. Still smug somehow, the bastard.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You told them, didn’t you?” I growl.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He shrugs with his eyebrows. That’s all he can do. I may have overdone the knots this time.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon is already crouching low, preparing for liftoff. “Saya. We leave. Now.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I hesitate.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Just a second.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Then I rush to Ogden, grab a handful of his hair, tilt his head back, and kiss him hard — open-mouthed, messy, spiteful.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I pull back and slap him lightly on the cheek, palm lingering.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Good luck in married life, you absolute asshole.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He grunts something muffled. Probably a threat. Or a moan.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I bolt toward the Dragon.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Outside, the shriek of a descending griffon tears the sky open.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Sorry, no refunds!” I shout over my shoulder.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon grabs me in one claw and launches us upward, wings beating like thunder. The roof crumbles behind us.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I catch one last glimpse of Ogden below — still tied to the chair, wide-eyed, surrounded by stone, feathers, and incoming doom.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He’ll live. Maybe.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Probably.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>If his in-laws love him enough.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And if not?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Well.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I already said goodbye.\u003C\u002Fp>",1413,"2026-06-06T14:39:25.900Z",1,"novelbin.me","267b39d7f687e2a1dd4ecb717edafb093e1870db775a34f1c629b70a917be573","saya-and-the-dragon-chapter-222","saya-and-the-dragon-chapter-220",228,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fsaya-and-the-dragon-cover.jpg"]