So. This is what rock bottom smells like. Damp hay, goat pee, and my own poor decisions.
I'm lying on my back in a stable that definitely failed several health inspections, wrapped in a wool blanket so coarse it might as well be a punishment. Honestly, I've been flogged with gentler textiles. My left buttcheek is numb. Something is poking my ribs. Possibly straw. Possibly a rat. We've come to an uneasy truce.
Above me, through a charming hole in the roof that doubles as ventilation and divine mockery, I can see the stars. Beautiful little bastards. Twinkling like they're laughing at me.
"I should've sold that tent," I mutter. "Silk brocade, my ass."
I shift. The blanket shifts with me. And by "with me," I mean "off me," revealing one entire leg, half a hip, and the better part of a breast. I tuck myself back in, sort of. Modesty's a luxury I can't afford right now. Much like food. Or wine. Or literally anything else.
The stable door creaks. No one enters. Just the wind. Or my shame. Hard to tell.
And yes—I'm drunk. Slightly. Tipsy, really. Warm and fuzzy and just floaty enough to believe that if I stare hard enough, one of those stars might turn into a coin. One I could spend on something stupid. Like shoes. Or cheese. Or condoms made of lambskin, because apparently I still have standards.
I exhale through my nose. Loudly.
"Slimy, scaly, gold-hoarding bastard."
I'm talking about the dragon, obviously. He knows what he did. Or rather, what he didn't do. Like apologize. Or say thank you. Or carry my shopping. Or not mock my spending habits while he hoards like a constipated magpie.
I mean, gods forbid a girl treat herself to three pairs of earrings and a bejeweled chamber pot.
So what if I blew our last haul on wine, snacks, a silk pouch shaped like a penis (don't ask), and tipping every barmaid in a five-village radius? I was stimulating the economy.
He called it "financial arson."
I called it "trickle-down horniness."
My stomach growls. Loudly. I groan.
"You could've at least pretended to starve with me," I mutter, glaring at the sky. "But nooo. Off he goes, flying all high and mighty. Bet he's curled up in a warm cave somewhere, counting coins like a miser with gout."
I roll onto my side. The hay shifts. Something squelches. I make a mental note to burn these panties if I ever get new ones. Or pants. Or hope.
"Nope," I tell myself, to no one. "Not going back. Not crawling back to mister 'Oh no, I don't share my hoard,' mister 'Why did you buy seven pairs of shoes if you don't have feet?'"
I don't have to take that. I am an independent woman. A powerful seductress. A—ow, dammit! Something just bit my ankle.
"Rats," I say. "Of course."
I stare back up through the hole. "Dear stars," I whisper dramatically, "if anyone's listening, please send me a warm bath, a roasted chicken, and a moderately attractive thief with low standards and a working coin purse."
Pause.
No reply.
Figures.
I sigh, close my eyes, and pull the blanket tighter. One nipple still escapes. I let it. It's earned its freedom.
"Fine," I grumble. "Maybe just a crumb of bread. And maybe, maybe, I'll consider forgiving that pompous scaly prick."
Pause.
"If he brings wine."
And then I sleep.
Or try to.
A chicken clucks ominously in the dark.
So yeah.
We had a fight.
One of those fights. Loud, stupid, dramatic. Full of finger-pointing (mine), wing-flaring (his), and enough sarcasm to curdle goat milk.
I don't even remember how it started. Something about responsibility. Or receipts. Or how a ruby-studded gold bra is not an investment.
Whatever.
Point is—I stormed off. In a huff. And when I storm off, I storm. Left my pack, my extra tunic, my snake oil creams, and yes, even my share of the last loot. Just turned on my (blistered but still sexy) heel and declared I'd rather starve in dignity than put up with one more minute of his hoard-obsessed passive-aggressive muttering.
"Stuff it, mister dragon," I hissed. "You can sleep with your coins. I'll find someplace with pillows."
And I did.
Down in the first village, I walked right into the tavern like a minor goddess with major cleavage and paid for the best room in the best inn.
Which, okay, had mice. And smelled like boiled onions and disappointed livestock. But it had actual sheets and a door that locked. Luxury.
Then I paid a round of drinks for the whole tavern.
Then another.
Because that's the kind of girl I am. Generous. Magnanimous. The Patron Saint of Bad Decisions and Horny Peasants.
Some Taurean—huge bull-headed brute, sweet guy, breath like a distillery explosion—hoisted me up on his shoulders and paraded me around like I was the goddess of ale and debauchery. Someone stuck daisies in my cleavage. Someone else kissed my foot. I think I proposed to a baker's son. Or maybe his goat. Details are fuzzy.
Two days later, they kicked me out.
Fucking ingrates.
Didn't even let me open a tab.
Said they'd seen how I spent my coin. Like I'm some kind of frivolous spendthrift just because I bought a jeweled back-scratcher and commissioned a sexy portrait of myself riding a unicorn. (Tastefully nude. Very tasteful. Very nude.)
I pointed out I'd bought them two whole nights of drink, laughter, and morally questionable dancing on tables.
You know what they said?
They said, "Tavern credit's for merchants and men with purses. Not wandering sluts with attitude."
I smiled sweetly. Then threw a chamber pot at the innkeeper.
Missed.
Still satisfying.
And those drunkards? Those sweaty, giggling, red-nosed bastards who were guzzling my generosity not two nights ago? Wouldn't even spot me a cup of tea.
A cup. Of. Tea.
Fine.
FINE.
I'm not bitter.
I'm not.
Just broke. Barefoot. Smelling like a combination of goat, hay, and cheap perfume.
But I've still got my blanket. And my pride.
Well. Half a blanket. And three-fourths of my pride.
Still better than crawling back to him.
The pompous, fire-belching, gold-sniffing, emotionally constipated ancient lizard.
Let him sulk in his lair. Let him polish his coins and recite tragic poetry to his hemorrhoids.
I'm fine.
Okay. So. Plan B.
Or was it Plan D at this point? D for desperate? D for "Don't judge me"?
Next village over, I tried turning tricks.
Don't give me that look. A girl's gotta eat. And I've always known how to work with what I've got—which, incidentally, is a lot. Hips like divine geometry, lips that could bless or ruin a man's week, and the kind of bedroom enthusiasm that deserves a bardic epic.
So yeah. Three in a row.
First was a merchant. Handsy. Smelled like pickled onions and tried to haggle.
Second was a tax collector. Called himself "fiscally conservative." Tried to pay in copper and compliments. I took the copper and told him his technique was legally punishable.
Third was a broke bard with eyes like honey and calloused fingers. Didn't pay much. Didn't have much. But gods… the man knew how to strum.
So yeah—I had some coin again.
Not much. But enough for food. A bath. A comb. (Okay, two combs. One for hair, one for self-care. Don't ask.)
But then…
Then came the roosters.
The guy at the tavern said they were unbeatable. "Big Red's got divine lineage," he told me. "A cock descended from cocks," he said, very seriously.
And I—drunk, horny, and full of misplaced optimism—bet it all.
Naturally, Big Red lost. To a scrawny beige thing with one eye and a limp.
I stood there. Empty purse. Cold sweat. One shoe. One shoe I had won off the bard in a bet the night before, mind you. (He was into it.)
So yeah.
Here I am again.
Broke. Possibly lice-adjacent. Lying in a stable that smells like fermented cabbage and horse farts.
The guards already asked about my harlot license.
Harlot license.
Like it's a guild.
Like there's an office somewhere with bored clerks stamping forms for "Certified Crotch Vendor, Third Class."
I told them I'm freelance. Entrepreneurial. A sole proprietor of flesh-based services.
They didn't laugh.
One of them offered me a potato if I'd just go away.
Anyway.
Tomorrow.
What the hell is tomorrow?
Do I try again?
Another village? Another scam?
I could walk. Sleep under the bridge on the way. Pretend I'm a tragic noblewoman fallen from grace. Use that sob story where I was once married to a minor viscount and lost it all in a game of dice and treason. Maybe the troll living under the bridge would like some fun.
I could take on a troll.
I did take on a troll.
Once in Seebubla. At the house of perfumed sins. It was... challenging. A fun challenge.
Or maybe I go back.
Back to him.
To that smug, gold-sitting, fire-breathing, judgmental airborne antique with arthritis and opinions.
But no.
Not yet.
He'll see it in my face. That I lost all my money on poultry. That I bartered my dignity for half a loaf and a forgettable tax man.
No.
Tomorrow, I walk.
Or I hitch a ride in some farmer's hay cart.
Or I fake tears at the temple gate and pray to whatever goddess likes lost women and bad planners.
One more day.
That's all I need.
Just one more day to not crawl back.
Yet.