[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-saya-and-the-dragon":3,"chapter-saya-and-the-dragon-saya-and-the-dragon-chapter-99":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},1705086,2177,"Chapter 96: At Mercy of Orcs","saya-and-the-dragon-chapter-99",99,"\u003Cp>A day later. Orcish camp. Somewhere nearby, still deep in the asscrack of Hanigalbat.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I’m chained to a peg hammered into the ground with what looks like an old femur. The chain’s not elegant—crude iron, rusty, orcish-style shackle around the ankle. And I’m still wearing that godsdamn flower garland. Wilted now. Smells like fermented goat ass.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>What am I doing? Sweeping. With a bundle of twigs lashed to a stick. Sweepingdustoffdirt. In front of a hide-and-patchwork tent that smells like armpits and campfire.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The basalt obelisk? Oh, that noble, sacred altar of my fake sacrifice? It's now a bench. One of the orcs pissed on it this morning. Another one used it to sharpen his toenails.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>So. Yeah.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>What did you think would happen? That they’d brutalize me? All five of them? Ripped my garland off, ravaged me under the moonlight, left me a twitching mess mumbling orc poetry into the dirt?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Are you disappointed?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Did you come here hoping to leer at Saya getting railed by half a dozen green brutes with more biceps than brain cells?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Well, tough titties.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Turns out they just needed a slave girl to play camp-wife while they argue about stew spices. A housemaid. Someone to tidy their boots, scrape the grime off their cook pot, brush the dirt from the dirt. Apparently, that’s a job now.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Well.Fuck that.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I try to rebel, I do. I throw the broom at one of them. He laughs. Another hands it back. With a fig. I eat the fig. Then I sweep again.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And you know what else? These might be the only living creatures in all of Tanagra whodon’tcomplain about my cooking.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Last night I charred the beans, spilled half the oil, and dropped a lizard into the stew. They slurped it up like it was royal cuisine. One of them burped and called it “earthy.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I don’t know whether to be flattered or deeply, cosmically insulted.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Still no sign of that scaly bastard.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He better be planning something. Something fiery and dramatic. Because if I end up stuck here as some half-naked camp wench, sweeping dirt for eternity while getting praised forlizard stew,I swear I’ll track him down, climb up his tail, and stab him in the ass.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>With the broom.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Later that night.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The camp is “silent.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Which is to say it’s full of orcs snoring like collapsing cliffs. One of them growls in his sleep. Another lets out a thunderous fart and rolls over. Someone coughs wetly. Someone else is chewing in their dreams. Probably on a goat.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>So yeah. Not exactly lullaby material.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I can’t sleep.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The ground is hard. My ass is sore. The chain around my ankle itches. The garland smells like regret and decay. And the only pillow I have is a folded goat pelt that may or may not still have fleas.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I stare at the chain. Again.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It loops from my ankle to a crude iron peg driven deep into the dirt. Nothing fancy. No spells. No runes. Just good old-fashioned slavery tech.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The shackle itself—thick, clunky, definitely orkish. Which means overbuilt, ugly, andpossiblyidiot-proof. But not Saya-proof.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I sit up slowly. Gently rotate my ankle to get a better look. It’s got a big round lock on it. No visible rust, which means someone oiled it recently. Charming.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Big keyhole. Real big. Big enough…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I wiggle my pinky. Then glance around the camp. No movement. Just the usual chorus of grunts, wheezes, and something that sounds like a snore-orgasm combo.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “This is stupid.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Still.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I slide my pinky toward the hole. Real careful. It’s greasy. It smells like blood and onions. I don’t even know why.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The metal feels cold and jagged.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Just don’t cut yourself,” I murmur. “Last thing I need is tetanus. Or some orc healer lancing my foot with a spoon.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I poke the finger in. Wiggle. Twist. Nothing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Damn.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I try my ring finger. A little longer. More pressure. Still nothing but the sharp bite of failure and a whiff of orc grease.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I don’t know how, but the gods must’ve looked away for a second.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Because with a twist, a wiggle, and one solid push—click.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The shackle pops open.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>My pinkie is slick with grime, and I probably have tetanus now, but I’mfree.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>No cheering. No gloating. Not yet. I take a breath, still as a lizard sunbathing on a rock. The orcs snore on, oblivious. One of them farts like thunder. Another mutters something about stew.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I creep. Barefoot. Silent. Careful not to let the chain clink. One step. Another. Past the tent with the piss-bucket. Past the rack of giant cleavers. Past the one who sleeps like he’s mid-battle, arm curled around a log like it’s a lover.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Every muscle in my body is clenched. My garland brushes a tent flap. I freeze. Nothing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I clear the last tent, the edge of the camp right there. The dry grass beckons like freedom’s brittle cousin.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And then—whomp.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>That low, deepthumpof air displaced by massive wings. No wind. No fire. Just presence.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Don’t scream,” comes his voice, velvet and smug. “It’s only me.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I spin. “You?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He lands with all the grace of a flying cathedral. Bronze scales glinting under the stars, wings folding in that too-dramatic way he loves.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I overslept,” he says, deadpan.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Youoverslept?You missed the whole damn day!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Dragon metabolism,” he says, as if that explainsanything. “Plus I’m ancient. I need proper rest.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I glare. “You left me chained, naked, sweeping dirt for a bunch of sweaty orcs.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“And I came to your rescue,” he replies, sniffing indignantly. “Eventually.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Eventually? I was alreadyescaping.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Still. It’s thethoughtthat counts.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I humpf. Cross my arms. The garland wilts in agreement.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He snorts. Smoke curls from his nostrils.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The thought that counts?” I hiss. “I could’ve beeneaten!Or married! Or eatenafterbeing married! You have no idea what I’ve suffered!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Oh please,” he says, inspecting a claw. “I saw the garland. Very tasteful. Besides, you’ve escaped worse.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“That’s not thepoint!” I jab a finger at his snout. “You’re supposed to be my partner! Mybackup!When I get chained to a rock, naked, surrounded by horny tusk-beasts,youare supposed to show up!Notnap through it like a lazy golden throw pillow with wings!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He growls, offended. “You think this is easy? You think Ilikebeing your getaway mount and fire-breathing insurance policy? I’m a dragon! I was meant for poems! Ballads! Not dragging your naked ass out of orc camps because you forgot to scream ‘help!’”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Oh, sorry,” I snap. “Next time I’ll send afucking pigeon!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Next time,” he huffs, “trynot getting caught!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I waspartof the con, you scale-brained hoarder! You were supposed to swoop in before the garland startedrotting!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Something shifts behind us.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A groan. A grunt.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Then—\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“...what’s all this noise?” one orc mumbles.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Another sits up, blinking. “Is that adragon?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Wait—she’s loose!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And then it’s chaos.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Roaring. Screaming. The snap of canvas as tents collapse.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon rears up, chest expanding.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I duck just as he lets loose a thunderousROAR, shaking the camp like an earthquake made of nightmares. A burst of flame scorches the ground, turning someone’s stewpot into molten shrapnel.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Orcs scatter, yelling in panic, tripping over each other, grabbing weapons, pants, chickens—whatever’s closest. One crashes headfirst into the obelisk-bench and crumples.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Another just screams, throws down his axe, and runs headlong into the night shouting “NOT AGAIN NOT AGAIN!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon bellows, wings spreading, tail lashing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I crouch behind the overturned stew cauldron and scream, “You see?! THIS is what happens when we don’t plan properly!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He sets another tent ablaze. “You callthisunplanned? This isperformance!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And just like that, the camp is fire, ruin, and utter, glorious pandemonium.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A few of the orcs actually have the gall to rally.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>One charges with a spear. Another grabs a net. Two more roar and raise axes like they’ve forgotten what happened to the last guy who tried to stab something with wings and napalm breath.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon doesn’t wait.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>WHAM— his tail lashes out like a falling tree, catching one orc full in the chest and sending him sailing into a pile of firewood.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>FWOOSH— another gout of flame arcs across the sky, catching the edge of a tent and turning it into a shrieking fireball.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I sprint low, zigzagging through the chaos.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“This way!” I yell, grabbing the loot sack with both hands. It’s heavy. Feels like all those pearls, coins, and sacred trinketsdoadd up.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“We’re leaving!” I shout, hopping over a writhing orc who’s tangled in a flaming net. “NOW!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon swoops low. I grab the chain still half-dangling from my ankle, leap, and scramble up his scaly shoulder like a woman possessed.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Lift the obelisk!” I shout over the wind.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“What?!” he bellows mid-wingbeat.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Thatthing!” I point to the smoking altar-stone still upright in the middle of the mayhem. “Take it!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He huffs fire in disbelief but snags it with his claws, wings thundering as we launch skyward.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>We rise, wobbling slightly. The wind whips against my bare skin. The loot sack digs into my ribs. Below us, the camp is an inferno of panicked shouting and half-naked orcs fleeing from the chaos like ants on a frying pan.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Dragon groans. “Theobeliskisheavy.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“It’s just a fancy stone.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Then,pray tell, my half-nude catastrophe,whyare we stealing it?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I lift my chin. “One, to teach you a lesson about being late.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He snorts.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Two, I’m not leavinganythingfor the enemy.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A beat.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Three, we might sell it to someone. A priest. An art collector. A pervert. Who knows.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Silence.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Then a grumble. A wing adjustment. A flick of the tail.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Fuck it,” he mutters, and lets go.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The obelisk tumbles into the night like a forgotten god.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>I watch it fall.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“…Drama queen.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Pot,” he says, “meet kettle.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>SPLAT! - The obelisk hits something down below. We don’t look back.\u003C\u002Fp>",1640,"2026-06-06T14:39:25.620Z",1,"novelbin.me","1f6bcf8f780318e11fad1bb6f6c2404f0bd50302a5c7230ba259d3d1d62ff955","saya-and-the-dragon-chapter-100","saya-and-the-dragon-chapter-98",228,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fsaya-and-the-dragon-cover.jpg"]