Chapter 219: Saya Wins a Slave

Chapter 219: Saya Wins a Slave

The ruined caravanserai had arches like broken ribs and wind like bad breath. Cozy, really.

I was sprawled on the sand-strewn mosaic, examining my split toenail, when the Dragon’s shadow blocked out what little sun we had. He didn’t say a word. Just… stared.

So I glanced to my left, where the naked slave girl stood. Still chained at the ankle. Still confused. Still very much present.

“Before you say anything,” I said, waving a finger, “I won her. Fair and square.”

He didn’t blink. Just dragged his tail in a slow arc and whispered, “Dice?”

“Yep!” I popped the “p.” “One-eyed merchant at the edge of the bazaar. Gave me this look, like how dare I play with real men. So I beat his ass. Then I beat his dice. And voilà.” I gestured at the girl like she was a roast pig at a noble’s feast. “Bonus round.”

He sighed. Long and theatrical. “You bought a human being.”

“I won her,” I corrected. “Completely different moral territory. Besides—look at her. She was terrified. And cute. And terrified. Did I mention terrified?”

“You’re not keeping her.”

“She doesn’t take up much space.”

“She’s a person.”

“So am I. Allegedly. Look, I couldn’t just leave her there! They were about to hand her over to some greasy little knob with a gold tooth and a whip collection.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And your solution… was to become the greasy little knob?”

“I don’t have a whip collection,” I muttered. “Also, I fed her. Bread. Cheese. Even gave her a blanket.” I gestured toward the threadbare cape draped over a rock. “Luxury treatment.”

The girl watched us in silence, brown eyes darting between us like a deer cornered by two squabbling gods. Her skin gleamed like oiled mahogany in the afternoon light, her shaved head catching the sun, chains rattling softly every time she shifted.

“She doesn’t understand a word we’re saying,” I added. “Which, honestly, is probably for the best.”

He tilted his head. “And what now? You plan to teach her the trade? Make a little Saya deputy?”

I blinked. “Gods, no. She has too much dignity.”

“Then what.”

I looked at her again. She was watching a beetle crawl over a stone, curious and cautious.

“I don’t know,” I said, softer now. “I just… couldn’t leave her.”

The wind howled through the hollow arches. The Dragon stared for a moment longer, then groaned and turned away, muttering something about “rescue projects” and “charity cases.”

But he didn’t torch her.

Which, in our world, practically counted as approval.

The Dragon narrowed his eyes. “What exactly do you plan to do with her?”

I shrugged, all innocence. “She could cook.”

“You can’t cook.”

“She might be able to. Or foot massages. I bet she gives amazing foot massages.” I wiggled my toes at him. “Look at these poor girls. They deserve affection.”

He didn’t laugh.

I tapped my chin. “Or. We sell her.”

His nostrils flared. “Saya.”

“What?” I threw up my hands. “She was for sale when I got her. I’m just… recycling the product.”

He let out a long-suffering sigh and rubbed at his temples with one claw. “We are not keeping a slave. We are not selling a slave. We are letting her go.”

“Oh, come on—”

“She is not loot.”

I crossed my arms. “Then she’s not mine, either. Technically she belongs to herself, now, so she can choose. Like maybe she wants to stay! Ever think of that?”

The girl looked up at us like we were arguing about cabbages.

The Dragon gestured at the chains. “She is still shackled.”

I kicked at the sand. “Well excuse me for not carrying bolt cutters in my cleavage.”

“We’ll find a smith. Or I’ll melt them off.”

“And what if she runs off and dies in the woods?”

“Then she dies free.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ugh. You’re so noble. Makes me want to puke.”

He turned to the girl and gave a little bow of his head, a rare gesture. “We’ll get those off you,” he said gently, even though she didn’t understand a word. “And you’ll be free.”

The girl blinked. Then gave the tiniest nod. Like maybe, just maybe, she understood enough.

I sighed, theatrically, tossing my arms up. “Fine. Gods. Ok, ok. Don’t give me that look.” I jabbed a finger at his scaly face. “You’ve got the guilt glare of a high priestess on her period, you know that?”

He just stared, unimpressed.

“We’ll let her go tomorrow, alright?” I said, drawing out the word like it cost me coin. “Saya promises.”

He raised an eyebrow. The one with the scar through it. Always the judgmental one.

“But she stays the night,” I added quickly, already unrolling a bedroll. “It’s scary out there. Wolves. Bandits. Ex-boyfriends.”

The girl flinched when the blanket hit the ground, then watched me with wide, tired eyes as I patted the space beside me.

“Come here, slave girl,” I cooed. “You’re with Team Shambles now.”

The Dragon groaned behind me. “Saya, you are incredible.”

I grinned. “Why thank you.”

“Not a compliment.”

He sighed again, the kind that made small trees wilt. “And you’re giving her one of your tunica in the morning.”

“What? Why?”

“Because she’s naked, and you own twelve tunics you never wear.”

“Correction—eleven. The lavender one is cursed.”

He didn’t answer. Just gave me that look again. The ancient, judgmental, disapproving lizard look that made me feel sixteen and freshly whipped.

“Fine,” I grumbled, flopping down beside the girl. “She gets the blue one. But I’m keeping the sash.”

The girl slowly curled beside me like a wary cat. I gave her the edge of the blanket. She didn’t thank me. That was alright.

You don’t need words to understand safety.

***

In the morning I stretched, yawned, and immediately resumed pouting.

“But whyyy can’t I have a slave girl?” I whined, flopping dramatically across my bedroll like a swooning duchess. “Just a little one. A cute one. A handmaid. I’ve always wanted a handmaid.”

The Dragon didn’t even look up from his grooming. “Because it’s out of the question.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. It’s wrong.”

“Oh, now it’s wrong.” I sat up, glaring. “But when I was… was… inter-denture-d—”

“Indentured,” he corrected, dry as sun-bleached sand.

“—that wasn’t wrong? That was just economics.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. That sigh again. The one that says you’re not wrong, but I really wish you were.

I huffed and glanced over. The girl was sitting on her heels, wrapped in my blue tunic like a too-small prayer, looking at me with those big eyes again—part trepidation, part hope, like she hadn’t yet figured out if I was salvation or just a different shade of monster.

“She’s staring at me.”

“She’s trying to decide if you’re going to pet her or sell her,” he muttered.

“Well, I don’t know yet either.”

“Wonderful.”

I reached into my pouch and pulled out the folded, smudged parchment I’d been using as a coaster last night. “It says where she’s from right here.” I held it out.

He squinted at it. “You can’t read.”

“I know! That’s why I’m handing it to you, scales-for-brains.”

He took it with claws that looked suspiciously like he wanted to shred it. His eyes flicked over the page. He went quiet.

“What? What does it say?”

He exhaled slowly. “Thelveth.”

“Oh,” I said.

Figures.

***

We left her at the crossroads. Just like that.

No fanfare. No goodbyes. Just a soft breeze and the crunch of gravel as she stood there—alone, blinking into the dust, swaddled in my blue tunic like a lost prayer.

And my sandals. Gods damn it.

“She’s wearing my sandals,” I muttered, arms crossed tight as we walked away. “Those were good sandals.”

“You have other sandals,” the Dragon said, not looking back.

“Not those ones. They had ankle ties. And the little brass moons. And they didn’t give me blisters.” I kicked a rock spitefully. “I needed those.”

“You have me,” he said. “You don’t need sandals. You have a dragon.”

“Oh well la-di-fucking-da. Can’t exactly ride you into a market without drawing attention, can I? Try buying dates and wine when your ride’s belching smoke and muttering about gout.”

He didn’t answer. He never answers when I’m technically right.

I scowled at the dust behind us. “Every time,” I grumbled. “Every time I get a chance to own someone, to finally have a nice obedient little thing brushing my hair or rubbing my feet or calling me ‘mistress’ in some sexy accent—someone has to go and ruin it. Usually you. Or my annoying conscience. Or both.”

“That’s because owning people is wrong,” he said calmly.

“Yeah, yeah,” I waved him off. “So is necromancy and frosted turnips, but people still do those.”

He gave me a look.

I huffed. “Fine. We freed her. Great. Hope she becomes a cobbler or a bard or something.” Then quieter: “Still think she’d have given amazing foot massages.”

Silence again.

“Anyway,” I muttered, “next time I’m keeping the sandals.”

So listen, I wasn’t planning on entering the stupid kissing contest. I swear. I was just there for the free wine and the fried dough balls. But then someone yelled "Next up, the barefoot hussy in the red wrap!" and I thought, well. Rude.

Also accurate.

So I swirled the rest of my drink, wiped powdered sugar off my tits (there was quite a lot), and wobbled elegantly to the stage.

Now—about this dress. It's not really a dress, it's more of a threat. Scarlet silk, slit up to the hipbone, backless, neckline in denial. Tied together with two knots, hope, and a prayer to the Goddess of Wardrobe Malfunctions. If you breathe wrong, it files for divorce.

Anyway.

They pair me with some local farm girl. Blonde. Barefoot. Freckles like she’s been kissed by the sun and too shy to talk to mirrors. She's wearing a peasant shift like it’s armor, clutching the hem like I might bite—which, fair.

She glances at me, then down. Then back at me. Then goes pink. All the way to the ears.

Perfect.

"Name?" I ask, already halfway into a pout.

She whispers something like “Linna,” but it gets eaten by the crowd's whooping. Doesn’t matter.

“You kiss good, Linna?” I grin. “Or are you one of those girls who close their eyes and apologize after?”

Her jaw drops. Adorable.

The drumroll starts. The judge—a bald man with wine stains on his tunic and lipstick on his bald spot—waves a grubby hand.

And then it's on.

I grab her by the hips and pull her in close, real slow, like I’m going to whisper something filthy into her ear. And maybe I do. Her knees go soft.

Points for style.

She looks like she’s about to faint. Or flee. Or both.

So I tilt her chin up with one finger. “Breathe, sweetheart. It’s just lips. I won’t bite unless you ask nice.”

She exhales a tiny oh gods and then I kiss her.

And it’s... oh.

Soft. Warm. Slightly trembling. She tastes like plum wine and honesty. Mouth hesitant at first, then—surprise—eager. She finds her rhythm. Finds mine. Hands clinging to my shoulders like I might vanish.

We’re still kissing when the drumroll stops.

Still kissing when the cheering starts.

Still kissing when the judge clears his throat and says, “Time’s up, ladies.”

I break it with a smirk. She’s flushed. Dazed. Slightly unsteady.

I tug her close one last time and whisper, “Any time you want a rematch, I’ll bring the plum wine.”

Then I blow a kiss at the judge, wave to the crowd, and saunter off barefoot through the dust—feeling like a goddess, smelling like sugar and sin, and very much hoping the prize is something useful.

Like a ham. Or a room with a door that locks.

Because Linna is still staring. And honestly?

I might not be done with her either.The fire crackled. The ham sizzled. The Dragon grumbled.

"That wasn’t fair,” he muttered, halfway through his third slice. “You’re a Seebulban-grade pleasure slave. The rest of them were—what—village tartlets with flower crowns? You’re three leagues above the competition.”

I smirked, stretched out on the stolen picnic blanket like a goddess on laundry day, one leg draped over the other, still barefoot, still glowing with wine and lipstick smugness.

“Three leagues?” I purred. “Darling, I was three leagues above them before I was housebroken. Before temple training. Before the auction block. Before Madam Zoobaya even taught me which parts go where.”

He gave me a look. “You learned that in the temple?”

“No, but I learned how to look like I did. There’s a difference.”

He stabbed at the ham with unnecessary violence. “Still cheating.”

“Oh please,” I said, plucking a grape from the bowl and popping it into my mouth, “you didn’t even see the contest.”

“I didn’t have to see it. I heard what you said about it.”

“That’s not the same as seeing it. Ask Linna.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is she the one who fainted into the goat trough?”

“She swooned. There’s a difference. It was very romantic.”

He made a noise that could’ve meant disgust or envy—it was hard to tell with a mouthful of pork. “You traumatized a farming community.”

“They’ll recover. Think of it as educational outreach.”

He snorted. “You should be banned.”

“I am banned. From three counties. Four if you count the kissing priestess incident.”

He sighed, curled his tail around his hoard-sack like a possessive miser, and chewed another bite. “Still cheating.”

I grinned. “Still delicious.”

He paused mid-chew. “You mean the ham?”

I winked. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”