The forest's full of ghosts this morning.
Not real ones, just… mist. Clings low like a drunk lover. Cold, wet, needy. The kind that slides into your bones and stays there, even when the sun's up and pretending to warm the world. I tug my tunic tighter, but it's a scrap of nothing. Leaves crunch under my feet. Dry and loud. Too loud. I hate when the world's quiet and I'm the one making all the noise.
I don't even know where I'm going. Just forward. Always forward. Isn't that what they say? Keep walking. Don't look back. Sure. Easy. Except when the air feels like it's made of damp cloth and your breath fogs like a dying candle and your heart's doing that stupid thump-thump like it knows something you don't.
I should've stayed curled up in that tree hollow. At least it was warm. Ish.
No sign of the Dragon.
No voice. No sarcasm. No smug tail curling around a boulder like, "Oh look who finally woke up."
Nothing.
Just trees. And fog. And me.
I stop. Wrap my arms around myself. Try to shake it off. That feeling. That thought.
What if that old soothsayer cow was right?
"You walk with your wound, child. Your wound has wings."
She'd smelled like old onions and prophecy. I'd laughed in her face. Called her crazy. Tossed her a coin like I was being generous.
But now…
Gods.
"What if he's not real?" I whisper, and it sounds so stupid out loud I almost gag.
What if the Dragon's just… some twisted part of me? Some chunk of pain I wrapped in wings and gold and sass because I couldn't deal with being alone? What if I cracked somewhere along the way, and my brain said, 'Here, have a giant talking lizard to carry your trauma'?
I bite my lip. Hard. Just to feel something.
"Shit."
I stare into the fog. It doesn't blink.
I want to scream his name. But I won't. Because if I do, and he doesn't answer, that's worse than silence. That's proof.
So I keep walking.
Crunch. Crunch. One step. Another. The sun's trying to burn through. Failing. Like me.
I wrap my arms tighter. Pretend I'm warm. Pretend I'm sane.
And I keep moving.
Because if I stop, I might have to admit I made up the only bastard who ever listened.
I keep walking, arms crossed so tight my ribs hurt, and the fog keeps shifting like it's breathing. Maybe it is. Maybe I'm breathing wrong. Gods, I don't know anymore.
My mind won't shut up.
Dragon might not be real… fine. Terrifying, but fine. But then another thought slams into me—ugly, sharp, impossible to ignore.
That dwarf.
Gods. The dwarf.
I stop dead in my tracks.
Because… how many inns have I been to in the last few months? How many taverns? How many bars with sticky floors and goat-piss ale and barmaids with tits for tips?
A dozen?
Two dozen?
And he's there. Every time.
Same stool. Same beard. Same mug in hand. Same knowing squint. Same miserable life advice delivered through pickled breath.
I swallow.
"…oh gods."
I rub my face. Hard. Cold fingers, cold skin.
No. No, that's ridiculous. Dwarves travel. Right? They wander. They mine. They… crop up everywhere like a fungal infection. Sure. That's normal.
But he always knows things. Knows what happened. What's going to happen. Knows who cheated me, who slept with me, who robbed me. He comments like he's been watching the whole story.
I clutch my head.
"What if he's not real either?"
My voice cracks.
The trees swallow the sound. Fog absorbs it.
What if I'm not wandering taverns? What if I'm just sitting in the same one over and over again, drunk out of my skull? What if that dwarf isn't following me—what if I'm not going anywhere?
Suddenly the ground feels soft. Like it might give way. Like I might sink straight through it.
"Oh gods… what if I'm mad."
I laugh. A stupid, breathless wheeze that sounds way too close to crying.
"Maybe I'm drinking too much ale. That's it. Too much ale. Mushrooms. Smoke. Men. Some combination of all that rot."
But my heart drops into my gut.
Because another thought slithers in—slow and cold and vicious.
What if I'm not even young anymore?
What if I'm not twenty-something and wild and stupid and pretty enough for men to throw coins at? What if that's the lie? What if I'm just old and cracked and sitting in some tavern corner muttering to myself while people avoid eye contact?
What if all this—dragons, dwarves, heroes, trolls, virgins, quests—is just me spinning stories because the truth is too unbearable?
My breath shakes.
"No. No, no. Stop it. Stop. I'm still young. I am. I'm… I'm me."
But the fog doesn't argue. The forest doesn't reassure. No deep rumbling dragon voice cuts in with sarcasm. No dwarf grunts. Nothing.
Just me.
Just me and my own thoughts clawing up my spine like rats in a barrel.
I bite my lip until I taste blood.
"Get a grip, Saya," I whisper. "Gods. Pull yourself together."
But I keep walking faster, then faster still, as if I can outrun the thought.
Because if I stop—
I'm afraid the world around me might stop too.
And that would prove everything.