Oh gods this was a stupid idea.
The moment I stepped into the pit—yes, actual pit, like someone just carved a circle in the dirt and called it an arena—I knew I fucked up. The ground was trampled flat, the fence was splintery wood lashed with rope, and the crowd was already jeering. Not at her. At me. Because of course.
Opposite me stood the countryside wench they'd lined up for this show. Gods. She was all taut sinew and sweaty glare, like someone carved a pissed-off goat girl from old leather and farm chores. Barefoot like me, but with that kind of barefoot that screams she's used to kicking tree stumps for fun. And me? I had pretty ankles and a repertoire of bedroom acrobatics. Not the same thing.
We both wore loincloths and those stupid strips of linen across our chests. Mine kept slipping because obviously they weren't made for girls with curves and taste. Hers clung like they were sewn onto her with spite and barn dust.
I tried to look fierce. Flexed a little. Cracked my knuckles. Bounced on my toes like I'd seen fighters do in taverns. Mostly it just made my boobs wobble and someone in the crowd shouted "Nice jiggle, city girl!"
Fuck. Why did I say yes to this? Oh right. Coin. Supposed prize money. Enough to buy sandals with actual soles. Maybe a new dagger that isn't half-rusted and sticky from cheese theft.
She spat in the dirt. I tried to spit too and accidentally drooled on my chin.
Look. I've had my share of scuffles. Seebulba teaches you fast: kick first, then ask if they were armed. But there's a difference between bar fights and scheduled violence with spectators. This wasn't a street brawl. This was organized humiliation.
She lunged. I shrieked and flailed sideways. Got a lucky kick in her shin, but it was like kicking a stone wall made of farm rage.
She grunted. I wheezed. And then we danced.
Her style was... brutal. Direct. Punch, elbow, grab, twist. My style was mostly: dodge, squeal, kick, bite, and pray. I managed a few solid kicks—one to her knee, one to the side of her thigh, and once, beautifully, to her tits, which bought me a gasp and three seconds to backpedal. I tried biting, but got a mouthful of sweat and regret.
The crowd was loving it. Bloody bastards. They roared every time my linen slipped. Roared louder when she tackled me into the dust. I wriggled like an eel and elbowed her in the gut. Got free. Barely.
I was panting, dizzy, half-naked, and possibly bleeding from the elbow when someone shouted "END IT!"
Not sure who. Me, maybe.
She grinned. I grinned back. The fake kind. The one that says: If you come closer, I will scream and possibly shit myself just to throw you off.
Then I dropped, rolled, grabbed a handful of dirt, and flung it straight into her eyes.
Yes. Dirty trick. But I never claimed to be honorable.
She staggered. I kicked her shin again, full force. Then the other one. Then ran in a circle shrieking until she collapsed from sheer confusion.
The crowd roared.
I had no idea if I won.
But when they threw a bag of coins into the pit and someone lifted my arm while my left boob peeked out defiantly from the linen, I figured… close enough.
I limped out victorious. Bloody. Bruised. Grit in my hair, a loose tooth, and pride barely intact.
But with coin in my hand and the stupidest grin on my face.
I'm never doing this again.
(Unless the prize is bigger. Or the opponent smaller. Or maybe if I'm drunk.)
Back at camp, I sprawled on the ratty blanket like a goddess after battle—bruised, barefoot, probably concussed, but victorious. The pile of coins in front of me wasn't much, but they clinked, and that was the sound of success.
Next to them, nestled like a holy relic, was the tiny glass vial of perfume I blew half my prize on. Amber liquid, gold stopper, ribbon tied around the neck. Imported, the vendor had said. With notes of myrrh and seduction.
I uncorked it, sniffed, and sighed with pure smug pleasure. Definitely had notes. Mostly of old temple incense and something vaguely citrusy, but whatever. It smelled expensive.
"You smell like a brothel fire," the Dragon muttered from where he lay coiled near the embers, head resting on one claw, watching me with that same exhausted judgment he reserved for both war crimes and my shopping choices.
"Thank you," I said sweetly. "It's artisanally charred sensuality. You wouldn't understand."
He lifted one eye ridge. "You paid actual currency for that?"
"Excuse me, I earned this currency." I held up the bruised side of my face for inspection. "With sweat, grit, and one perfectly placed shin kick to the tit."
"You look like someone threw you down a well and fished you back out with a rake."
"I won, you fossil."
"Mm."
"Say it. Say I won."
"You survived," he deadpanned.
"Survived gloriously," I corrected, striking a pose with one leg out, linen wrap sliding dangerously low. "I danced the dance of warriors. I conquered the farm wench. I bled for art and coin. And this"—I waved the perfume—"is my reward."
"A bottle of eau de poor decisions."
"I'm gonna bathe in it and make poor decisions smell divine," I said, dabbing it on my wrists and then between my cleavage for maximum effect. "Tell me I don't smell irresistible."
He sniffed. Blinked. "You smell like a seductive cinnamon bun rolled in ashes."
"I'll take it."
I flopped down on the blanket, grinning up at the twilight sky. My ribs ached, my knee throbbed, and I couldn't turn my head without wincing.
But gods, it felt good.
Not smart.
Not safe.
But good.
Coins, bruises, and a tiny bottle of fantasy—sometimes, that's all a girl needs.
The Dragon stared at me for a long, slow moment. Smoke curled lazily from one nostril. "I still can't believe it," he said finally. "You actually fought a girl. In a pit. For this."
He gestured vaguely at my bruised legs, my scraped knuckles, my barely-holding-on boob wrap, the crooked pile of coins, and the tiny bottle of definitely-not-worth-it perfume I was still cradling like a relic.
I shrugged, smug. "Prize money."
His eyes narrowed. "You volunteered."
"Yup."
"Volunteered. As in… no one forced you. No angry mob. No chains. No curses."
"Correct." I took a delicate sniff from the perfume again. Gods, it still smelled expensive even through the blood in my nose.
"Unbelievable."
"Listen," I said, counting out the coppers like they were royal gems, "I admit it. I'm greedy."
He nodded solemnly. "This I knew. This we all knew."
I gave him a sideways look. "All?"
"Every tree, every rock, every man you've ever sweet-talked, robbed, or robbed after sweet-talking. The gods. The stars. That goat in Hanigalbat. Everyone."
I grinned despite myself. "Fair."
He tilted his head. His voice dropped into that too-casual tone he used when he was poking at something deeper. "Is that how you survived? Before you met me?"
I stopped sorting the coins. Flicked one with my thumbnail. Watched it spin and fall.
"Nope," I said quietly. "Not really."
He waited.
I didn't say more.
Because what could I say? That before him it wasn't kicks and bravado and fake fighting for glittering prizes? That it was less dancing and more… crawling? That the fights weren't in pits, but in corners, in dark rooms, in tight contracts and tighter collars?
I picked up the coin again and slipped it into the pouch.
"Wasn't this glamorous back then," I said, breezy. "Didn't even get perfume."
He didn't say anything for a while.
Just stretched out his neck, shifted closer, and let his wing curl a little further around me.
We didn't talk after that.
Didn't need to.