[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-saya-and-the-dragon":3,"chapter-saya-and-the-dragon-saya-and-the-dragon-chapter-86":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},1705073,2177,"Chapter 83: Cottage Dream","saya-and-the-dragon-chapter-86",86,"\u003Cp>It starts like all the cruelest dreams do: with peace.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I’m barefoot on wood floors that creak just right. Not spooky-creak. Old-creak. Home-creak. The kind that says someone lived here before me, and maybe they were happy, too.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The sun spills golden through lace curtains. Flowerbeds riot beneath the windows—lavender, poppies, something pink I never learned the name of. There’s a cat in every sunbeam, stretching like they own the place. They do. I rent.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A chicken clucks somewhere in the garden. She’s wearing a tiny ribbon around her leg. Dignified. Possibly cursed.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I’m wearing a tunic with embroidery so fine it had to be done by someone with no ambition in life except making flowers bloom in thread. It’s soft. Clean. I don’t smell like campfire or swamp rot or last night’s regrets.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I walk past a kitchen where tea steams in a chipped pot. A plate of scones rests beside it. Scones. With clotted cream and jam. This is definitely a dream—I would never waste coin on fruit-based garnish.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Through a crooked arch I see him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Curled in the living room like some oversized philosopher-pet. There’s a blanket across his haunches. Not one of my scandalous silk throws either—a proper blanket. Woven. Sturdy. Possibly made by a shepherdess with strong opinions on marriage.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He’s wearing slippers.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Slippers.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Baby blue. Embroidered. I can’t even.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>There’s a pipe clamped between two elegant claws, puffing out spirals of rose-scented smoke like a brothel with literary aspirations.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>One of the cats is sleeping between his wings.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Another is kneading his tail.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A third sits on his snout, as if claiming dominion. He lets it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The fire crackles. Somewhere, I hear a clock ticking. That’s how you know it’s a dream—real life never leaves enough room for silence.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I cross the room and sink into a pillow pile. It sighs under me. Not collapses. Sighs.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>My body is loose. Pliable. Rested.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He glances at me.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You made scones,” he says.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I blink. “I made scones?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He exhales smoke in my direction. “You have dreams. I have standards.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I grin. “You’re wearing house shoes.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“They were a gift.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“From me?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He huffs. “From the woman I wish you were.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I stretch out on the rug, arms overhead, and one of the cats pads over to flop on my stomach. I let it. It purrs like a tiny thunderstorm.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>For a long moment, we just… are.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It’s perfect.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A little stupid.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But perfect.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I look over at him. He’s reading a book. A real one. Pages rustle. He even licks a claw to turn the page like some ancient librarian who eats knights on weekends.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I hate this,” I say.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Of course.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“We’d burn this place down in a week.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Three days,” he agrees.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I close my eyes.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But I don’t move.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And neither does he.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I woke up with dirt in my mouth and a beetle in my bra.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>So, you know. Reality.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The fire had died sometime in the night. My blanket—if you could call a threadbare cloak that—had migrated halfway down a hill. I’d curled up against something warm, and that something now snorted and shifted.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Dragon.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Big. Smug. Awake.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Of course he was awake. He doesn’t sleep like the rest of us. He broods in long, contemplative sulks while composing scathing couplets about mankind’s mediocrity.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I rubbed my face, sat up, spat out half a leaf.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Had a dream.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Hm.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You were there.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Unsurprising.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You were in slippers.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A pause.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He turned his head just slightly, one golden eye slitting open. “Blue?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“With roses.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He grunted. “Tacky embroidery. I preferred the phoenix ones.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I stared. “You—”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“It was your dream,” he said smoothly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You were reading poetry by the fire.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I usually do.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“There were cats.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“There are always cats. You attract them like mildew attracts shame.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I narrowed my eyes. “It was a country cottage.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Another grunt. “Overgrown garden. Chickens. Lace curtains. Domestic squalor pretending to be charm.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You knew.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I said nothing.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You knew.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He rolled onto his side, tail flicking. “What gave me away?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You were smug.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He bared his teeth in a smile too slow and too fond to be real. “I am always smug.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I hugged my knees. The fire crackled back to life with a puff of ash and spark. I didn’t look at him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“We both hated it.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Obviously.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Absolutely loathed the peace. The scones. The flowerbeds.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He gave a delicate sniff. “And the tea service. With the chipped mugs. One said ‘Bitchcraft.’”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Youremembered.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He didn’t reply. Just stretched, long and slow, and pretended like he hadn’t just betrayed the deepest secret of his fire-singed soul.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You’d make a good tea dragon,” I muttered.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You’d ruin the upholstery.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>We both sat there, staring into the flames like they might burn the dream from behind our eyes.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I picked at a blister. “Anyway. Dumb dream. Don’t know where it came from.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Subconscious rot.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Has to be.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Pathological desire for stability. Nauseating.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I nodded. “Disgusting.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Silence.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He nosed my shoulder. Just once. Just barely. A motion so soft it might’ve been the wind.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I didn’t say thank you.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He didn’t ask.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But later that night, when I curled up beside him again, his tail wrapped around me a little tighter.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Just enough to suggest he still remembered the slippers.\u003C\u002Fp>",885,"2026-06-06T14:39:25.620Z",1,"novelbin.me","d0cdaa34f0d7cb7f448b307e9931dd2c19c165bed6cc968fc18ec036840fb1c4","saya-and-the-dragon-chapter-87","saya-and-the-dragon-chapter-85",228,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fsaya-and-the-dragon-cover.jpg"]