Chapter 217: Road of Gold and Dust

Chapter 217: Road of Gold and Dust

The King’s Road above Delvida was a ribbon of white dust, winding through olive groves and sun-bleached villas. I was strutting.

I mean really strutting. Hips, sway, click of heels against packed dirt—like every step was a statement. Because, well. These sandals.

Sky-blue. Golden-thread straps that coiled around my calves like vines with expensive taste. Tiny pearls on the buckles. Pointless. Impractical. Glorious. Absolutely perfect.

"These were worth it," I said, admiring the way the sunlight kissed the gold. “All we had to do was fake-seduce a pig priest, stage a flaming apparition, and you only had to roast… what, two hay bales?”

“Three,” the Dragon muttered from above, plodding beside me with the dignity of a burnt chaise lounge. “And you promised they’d be empty.”

“They were. Mostly.” I kicked a little dust his way. “Anyway. Serious question. Do people actually have real jobs? Like—wake up, do the same thing, every single day? Forever?”

He blinked his lazy lizard eyes. “Humans seem to think that’s the respectable way. Stability. Routine. Predictability. You know—soul death.”

“Like cobblers.” I snorted. “Sitting in a shop, poking at shoes. All day. For decades. Until they drop dead into a pile of soles.”

“You just described the career of the man who made those ridiculous sandals.”

I ignored him. “Or weavers. Gods, the noise. Clack clack. Spit thread. Clack again. I'd stab someone. Probably myself.”

He gave me a sidelong glance. “You're asking the wrong creature, you know. I’m a free spirit. Wild soul. Unbound.”

“More like unemployed.”

“Eternally unmoored,” he said dramatically, tail swishing. “Artistic temperament.”

I sighed, twirling in my sandals like a drunk debutante. “Where I grew up, no one had real jobs. Just… multi-purpose scum. Sell fish one week, smuggle knockoff wine the next, stab someone in the alley if coin’s tight.”

“A charming entrepreneurial spirit.”

“And the kids?” I said, squinting at the dusty horizon. “We ran errands, carried messages, maybe lifted a purse or two. You grow up flexible. Fast.”

He made a noncommittal hum. A hawk shrieked somewhere overhead. My sandals sparkled.

I looked down at my toes—dusty already—and wiggled them. “Still worth it. I feel like a barefoot courtesan who finally won a duel against footwear.”

He huffed smoke. “You’re still barefoot. They barely count as shoes.”

“Fashion is pain.”

“Fashion is bankruptcy.”

“Oh hush. I look fabulous.”

And I did. Even if my last real bath had involved a puddle and a stolen citrus rind.

I kicked a pebble. It skittered off the road and probably offended some ant. “So how do you even get a profession?” I asked. “Like, are you just… born with it?”

The Dragon tilted his head. “In some places, yes. Tradition. Inheritance. Destiny. The gods weep golden tears and declare: this one shall tally turnips forevermore.”

“No, seriously.” I squinted up at him. “I get apprentices, right? I was technically one. In that temple. Trained in sacred arts and positions thirteen through forty-two. But even then they said I was born to be a whore. Which, okay, rude. But what does that even mean? Like, is someone out there born to be a… I don’t know… desk clerk?”

He nodded solemnly. “Undoubtedly. Some poor bastard slid out the womb with the perfect spine curvature for scribing grain taxes. Fate branded him ‘Administrator of Shelf Binders.’”

I cackled. “Do you think it’s like star signs? ‘You were born under the Ledger Moon, son. Your soul is bound to ink and chair splinters.’”

“Or the noble Order of the Municipal Filing System,” he added. “Blessed be the alphabetized.”

“Sounds cursed.” I stretched my arms above my head, sandals flashing again. “Anyway. If you’re born to do something, then what happens if you suck at it?”

“You die miserable. Or get promoted.”

I laughed so hard I nearly tripped. “Okay, but seriously. What if I was born for something else? Something grand. Like—diplomacy. Or interpretive dance. Or politics.”

“You seduced a baron by convincing him you were a mute opera singer with a vow of silence.”

“Exactly! That’s practically politics.”

He gave me that look. The one that meant: I can’t decide if I’m proud or terrified.

“I’m just saying,” I muttered, “maybe I was misfiled. Like a sacred scroll stuffed in the brothel laundry bin. Could’ve been someone. Minister Saya. Arch-Countess of Drama and Seduction.”

“Madam Tax Evasion,” he corrected.

I stuck my tongue out and kept walking. “Still sounds more glamorous than dying behind a cobbler’s bench.” I paused. “But also, I bet cobblers don’t get whipped for spilling soup on a client’s lap.”

“They might. If the soup’s hot enough.”

“Hmm. You’re right. No one’s safe. Life’s a scam, might as well enjoy the perks.” I twirled again. “Starting with these sandals.”

“You do realize they cost more than a small vineyard.”

“And yet my grapes are exquisite.”

He groaned.

Gods, I loved annoying him.