Three Days Later
“This,” I say, pointing at everything, “has to stop.”
We‘re in their stupid underground temple again. More candles. More smoke. More chanting down the hall somewhere. And him—my Dragon—lounging like a spoiled god-king on a very comfortable pile of cushions and carpets they definitely did not have before he arrived.
He doesn‘t even look at me.
“Oh dear,” he says lazily, voice echoing grandly off the stone, “is someone feeling threatened by my burgeoning religious fanbase?”
“I am not threatened,” I snap. “I am furious. There‘s a difference. And also yes, threatened.”
He smirks. Smirks.
“They simply appreciate excellence,” he says. “Devotion. A bit of spectacle. Some people respond well to strong leadership.” He gestures vaguely with one claw. “And fire.”
“I respond to money,” I say. “We‘re not being paid. We‘re being worshipped. You can‘t eat worship. You can‘t buy sandals with worship. Worship doesn‘t pay for wine.”
“That,” he says serenely, “is a failure of your imagination.”
Before I can throw a candlestick at him, the door flap opens.
Two cultist girls glide in like temple statues come to life—tall, flawless, curves in all the rude places the gods clearly spent extra time on, wearing nothing but those ridiculous black capes clasped at their throats.
One carries a platter piled with roast mutton, glistening and fragrant.
The other has a tray of exotic fruit—figs, pomegranates, something spiky and obscene-looking.
They kneel.
They smile up at him like he carved the moon.
“Oh great sky beast,” one murmurs reverently, “your offering.”
He brightens. Actually brightens.
“My darlings,” he purrs. “How thoughtful. Place it there. No—closer. My neck is stiff, you see…”
They obey instantly.
Then they start feeding him.
Like, literally lifting pieces of roasted meat and gently placing them between his teeth, giggling softly when he hums with pleasure. Fruit next, peeled and juicy, held up with graceful hands. One brushes ash from his snout like she‘s caressing holy relic.
He‘s basking.
Absolutely wallowing in it.
I can feel steam coming out of my ears.
He glances at me, utterly smug.
“See?” he says with his mouth full. “Devotion. Loyalty. Appreciation. Adoration.” He licks a bit of juice from his fang with theatrical delicacy. “When was the last time you hand-fed me anything?”
“I once brought you grapes,” I hiss.
“You threw them,” he says. “At my head.”
“They were a gesture!”
He arches a brow ridge.
“Violence is not a gesture.”
One of the girls strokes his jaw. The other holds up a gleaming slice of fruit to his lips like he‘s some sacred masterpiece.
I cross my arms.
I grind my teeth.
I seethe so hard I could fry eggs on my rage.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter. “We came here to scam a village, not accidentally found your personal naked loyalty cult.”
He closes his eyes, content, teeth delicately closing on another offering.
“Be honest,” he murmurs. “You‘re not angry because it‘s dangerous. You‘re angry because you‘re not the center of attention.”
I open my mouth to argue.
…Nothing comes out.
I hate him.
I hate them.
I hate the capes.
Mostly, I hate that he might be a little bit right.
I glare daggers at the perfect cultist girls.
One of them smiles at me sweetly.
“Would the vessel care for a fig?” she asks gently.
I imagine stabbing a fig.
“No,” I say. “The vessel would care for this entire nonsense to end before I set fire to your capes.”
***
He licks pomegranate juice off his fang like a smug aristocrat and fixes me with that look—the one that says he‘s about to be absolutely insufferable.
“Admit it,” he says.
“I will do no such thing.”
He flicks his tail, amused.
“What,” he purrs, “would you do if the roles were reversed, hmm? If you were the adored center of a private cult? A temple full of naked himbos and devoted lesbians—oh yes, don‘t glare, I know your tastes—kneeling at your precious little feet, feeding you baklava and seafood platters and chanting your name like a prayer.”
I fold my arms tighter. “I would be deeply uncomfortable and morally conflicted.”
He snorts out a laugh.
“No, you wouldn‘t. You would lie back on a mound of cushions like some scandalous fertility idol, declare yourself Empress of Absolutely Everyone, and let them worship every inch of you until you fell asleep in a sticky sugar haze.”
“That is—” I point at him. “—an outrageous accusation and I resent how accurate it sounds.”
He grins victory.
“Exactly. But the one time I receive a little appreciation, a hint of reverence, perhaps a modest amount of cultish devotion—suddenly Saya grows claws and hisses at the competition.”
“I do not hiss.”
Behind him, the two naked cape-girls are massaging his jaw hinge and offering him another slice of roast like he‘s some divine pastry dragon. They sigh like thirteen poets at once every time he blinks.
I hiss.
Just a little.
He gestures lazily with a claw.
“Look at them. Happy. Harmless. Entirely enthralled by my majesty. And look at you—pacing holes in the carpet because the universe isn‘t revolving around your hips for once.”
“That‘s not—” I start.
He raises a brow.
I stop.
I make a strangled noise in my throat that isn‘t words.
He settles deeper into his pile of stolen pillows, unbearably pleased with himself.
“One time,” he says, basking, “one time I receive devoted attendance, a bit of ceremony, some enthusiastic nudity—and instantly, my dearest partner gets jealous.”
***
I laugh.
It comes out wrong. Sharp. Brittle. Like glass snapping in a fist.
“This is a trap,” I say.
He sighs like I‘ve just insulted his table manners. “It is not a trap.”
“It‘s always a trap,” I snap. “That‘s how it starts. Cushions. Food. Praise. Soft voices. ’You‘re special.‘ ’You‘re chosen.‘ ’Lie still, this won‘t hurt.‘”
He finally looks at me then. Really looks.
“You are projecting,” he says calmly. Too calmly. “Not everyone who offers devotion is sharpening chains behind their back.”
“Oh yes they are,” I hiss. “Every single time anyone ever pampered me, they wanted something. Always. They wanted me quiet. Obedient. On my back. On my knees. Smiling while they decided what parts of me belonged to them.”
I gesture wildly at the chamber. At the candles. The capes. The kneeling girls feeding him like he‘s a shrine with teeth.
“This is step one,” I say. “Next comes rules. Then sacrifices. Then ’for your own good.‘ Then iron. Always iron.”
He shifts, uncomfortable now, but still stubborn.
“You cannot accept,” he says, a touch sharper, “that some creatures are admired simply for what they are. For their inherent majesty.”
I stare at him.
“Inherent,” I repeat. “Majesty.”
“Yes,” he says. “Without earning it. Without performing. Without bleeding.”
Something inside my chest twists hard and ugly.
“Oh,” I say softly. “So that‘s it.”
He frowns. “What is?”
“You get to just be,” I say. “You show up. You breathe. You exist at the right scale with the right wings and the right fire, and everyone kneels. No conditions. No expectations. No hands sneaking under the table.”
My nails dig into my palms.
“I never got that,” I continue. “Not once. I had to sing. Fuck. Smile. Lie. Bleed. Be useful. Be entertaining. Be quiet when told. And the moment I stopped being worth the effort—” I snap my fingers. “Out the window. Into chains. Onto the floor.”
He opens his mouth.
I don‘t let him speak.
“So forgive me,” I say, voice shaking now, hot with rage I can‘t swallow, “if I don‘t believe in pure appreciation. Forgive me if I see a cage every time someone says ’you are blessed.‘”
The cultists have gone very still. Even the pretty ones. Even the ones still holding fruit.
I‘m breathing hard. My skin feels too tight. My teeth hurt from clenching.
“And forgive me,” I finish, venomous, “if watching you lap this up like honey makes me want to burn this whole place down.”
I turn away from him before he can answer.
Because if I look at him one more second—calm, adored, fed—I might scream.
And I don‘t scream.
I seethe.
***
He blows out a slow, theatrical sigh.
“For once in your fidgeting, barefoot, chaos–ridden life,” he says dryly, “try relaxing. Have a fig.”
He plucks one lazily from the platter and gestures.
“I don‘t want a fig,” I mutter.
“Yes, you do,” he replies with devastating confidence. “You are ninety percent attitude and ten percent sugar cravings.”
He snaps his claws softly.
The two cult girls glide toward me like well-trained dreams, capes whispering, eyes shining that unnervingly gentle devotiony glow. One of them presses a fig into my hand. The other brushes hair from my face like I‘m something delicate.
“I don‘t need pampering,” I say, chin lifting proudly.
They kneel.
They smile.
They gently insist.
I… nibble the fig.
Because it smells good.
Because it‘s sweet.
Because I hate how good it is.
I chew furiously, glaring at everyone like the fig personally insulted me.
“See?” the Dragon says, smug as a cat lying on fresh laundry. “Look at you. Already being pampered. It won‘t kill you.”
“That‘s what they all say before they start introducing rules,” I grumble, mouth full. “And matching jewelry.”
One girl rubs slow, soothing circles between my shoulders. Another presses a warmed cloth to my arms. Someone else—where did she even come from—places a cushion behind me.
I cross my arms.
I uncross them because the fig stickiness gets on my skin.
I cross them again anyway.
“This is still wrong,” I huff. “Just so everyone knows. Wrong. Suspicious. Definitely sinister.”
They murmur something like, “Blessed vessel,” and “honored guest,” and “rest.”
I scowl into it.
I let them fuss anyway.
I keep scowling harder to prove I‘m not enjoying a single second.