It happens, as all tragedies do, right when I'm at peak comfort.
I'm lounging in the bear rug, in nothing but Loma's spare silk robe (because of course she has silk robes with embroidered lotus blossoms), sipping spiced tea from a crystal goblet, while Loma brushes my hair and hums something heartbreakingly noble about moons and fate and possibly pastry.
Then: a knock.
Not the desperate pounding of a warlord, or the moaning arrival of some long-lost Amazon.
No.
Three precise knocks. Followed by a scroll being slid under the door.
Loma picks it up. Unrolls it. Her lips move.
Then she says, very softly:
"Oh."
"What?" I ask, already reaching for another scone.
She blinks. "Apparently, the warlord's holdings have been repossessed."
"What?"
I sit up. "You mean like… seized? Like the way I repossessed that merchant's silver hairpin and called it destiny?"
The front door creaks open downstairs.
Boots. Clanking. Grunting.
And the sound of professional orcs.
A deep voice calls out:
"Tower contents will now be catalogued for asset liquidation. Please remain still and remove any enchanted undergarments."
Loma gasps. Clutches the samovar.
Saya clutches her robe.
They barge in. Two brutish orcs with clipboards, one magistrate with no chin and bushy eyebrows.
"This one," he says, pointing to Loma, "goes on the high-value list. Royal blood. Breeding potential. Decorative use."
"This thing," he says, pointing to the samovar, "Category B: Magical Beverage Dispenser. Mid-tier, no resale warranty."
"And you," he says, glancing at me like I'm mold on a bread crust, "have no listed value."
"Excuse me?" I rise to my full, glorious, braless height. "I am a sacred warmth ritual specialist. A private companion of nobility. A—"
"You're not on the inventory," he says, waving me off. "Out."
They literally boot me out the tower door.
Just a fur coat over my nude bum and buckskin boots. No scones.
Just snow. And a sarcastic gust of wind up my thighs.
Behind me, the door closes.
Locks.
I hear Loma scream, "Saya, wait! I'll— I'll find you!"
I shout back, "Steal the samovar and run, you idiot!"
But she doesn't.
Of course she doesn't.
She's probably going to be sold with decorative cushions and a taxidermy owl.
Gods damn it.