Chapter 329.5: Oleander's Perspective
I walk alone.
Well—not alone exactly. The road is with me. The sun is with me. The blister forming valiantly beneath my left heel is definitely with me.
But not her.
Not the Flame-Touched. Not the One-Who-Burns. Not Saya.
(She told me to fuck off this morning. I think she meant it affectionately.)
I adjust the strap of my lute and try not to think about the way she shouted at that spice merchant. Or the fact that she stole his horse after kicking him in the crotch. Or that she never actually paid for the soup last night.
No. No, that's... surface noise. That's texture. Saints must be wrapped in contradiction. That's how the legends go.
She is not cruel. She is testing me.
That must be it.
A trial of faith. Like when Holy Marabel kissed the plague victim to prove her devotion. Saya kissed me after I vomited behind a tavern. Same principle.
I stop walking. The air is thick with bees and distant cowshit. I find a rock and sit. Pull out my journal.
"Her heart a trembling bell, struck by pain the world can't tell..."
No, no, that's wrong. That's too soft. She's not trembling. She's—she's armored. Yes. Armored like a goddess disguised as a bandit queen. That's better.
I cross out the line and begin anew.
The sun is hot on my shoulders. My flower crown is beginning to wilt. She'd probably make fun of it. Call me "petal-boy" again.
She does that when she's trying not to care. When she's scared.
Yes. She's scared. That's why she pushed me away. That's why she said the thing about silver and "get in line."
It wasn't cruelty. It was fear.
I strum the lute once, low and sad. A minor chord. Slightly flat. Perfect.
Gods, I can still smell her.
Smoke. Salt. A little lavender, sometimes, when she's been near someone richer than her. Or when she's stolen perfume.
I close my eyes.
She is... impossible. Foul-mouthed, unwashed, violent, selfish. Once threatened to kill me over a mango.
And yet.
And yet.
I love her like I've loved no other. Like the first crack of dawn after a storm. Like a sinner loves the idea of redemption. Like a prayer whispered into a pillow.
She spat in my mouth once and called me a fucking idiot. My knees shook.
I open my eyes. The world is bright and empty.
One day, she'll see. She'll hear one of my songs—truly hear it—and something in her will shift. The armor will bend. The smoke will clear. And she'll realize...
She was always the heroine. I was merely the fool who noticed.
I smile. I stand.
The road continues.
And I—I have verses yet to write.
***
I think about making love to her.
She would scoff at that phrasing. She prefers the other words. The ugly ones. The ones you throw like stones so no one notices your hands shaking.
She said it once—very clearly—what we were doing. Used a word so crass I felt it land in my chest like a slap. Not out of shame. Out of intention. As if she chose it because it would wound the idea I was trying to build.
And she charged me. Every time.
Coin laid out neat and practical. No illusion. No romance. She even counted it once, slowly, while looking me dead in the eye. As if daring me to flinch.
See? she was saying. This is what I am.
But I know better.
Of course she would cloak herself in the basest role available. Of course she would reduce what we shared to transaction and filth. It is how the wounded protect the unspoiled core. You wrap the sacred thing in thorns so no one reaches for it.
She presents herself as a prostitute the way martyrs present themselves as sinners.
Deliberately. Strategically.
If she were truly base, she would not have hesitated before taking my coin that first time. She would not have turned her face away afterward. She would not have told me—angrily—to leave once I tried to touch her hair.
And she would not, could not, have kissed me the way she did that once, briefly, as if she forgot herself.
That was not commerce.
That was revelation.
She believes the word makes it real. That naming something ugly grants her control over it. But love does not obey the vocabulary of the fearful.
She thinks charging me proves something. That it keeps her safe. That it makes her ordinary.
But saints have always demanded payment.
Not in coin—no. In suffering. In humiliation. In being misunderstood.
She is pure of heart. I feel it as surely as I feel the strings of my lute under my fingers. Her cruelty is armor. Her vulgarity is camouflage. Her lies are scaffolding around something fragile and incandescent.
When she calls it fucking, I hear offering.
When she calls herself a whore, I hear sacrifice.
One day she will stop pretending the coin matters. One day she will let herself be seen.
Until then, I will walk. I will sing. I will wait.
Purity does not need to announce itself.
It burns quietly, even in the dirt.
***
She thinks she cannot be tamed.
She snarls when touched too gently. She snaps when spoken to sweetly. She bites hands that linger too long, even if they mean to soothe.
But I've read the old lays. I've studied the legends.
Queen Ilma of the Shattered Coast burned a thousand temples before King Keldor loved her into peace. Not with iron. Not with threat. But with poems carved into the oars of his warships. With flowers sewn into his banners. With the patience of beauty answering beauty.
Saya is no different.
She is Ilma with a dagger tucked in her garter and curses laced through her laughter.
She's wild, yes. But she's meant to be. Her freedom is not the kind you shackle. It's the kind you serenade until it chooses to stay.
Others have tried to conquer her. To bed her like spoils, to break her like a horse. They fail, always. Because they think the fire in her is a flaw.
I know better.
That fire is sacred.
It must be met, not quenched.
And my verses—my poor, desperate verses—they are the only thing I have that can reach her without wounding her.
When she rolls her eyes at my metaphors, I see it: the flicker of hesitation. When she insults my rhyme schemes, I hear it: the tremble in her voice that doesn't quite land flat.
She mocks what she fears might be true.
That someone sees her.
That someone won't stop seeing her, no matter how filthy she pretends to be.
One day, the rhythm of her footsteps will match the rhythm of my song.
Not because I chase her.
But because she finally lets herself be caught.
Not in a cage.
But in verse.
Because some hearts are not tamed by chains.
Some hearts—flame-touched and furious—can only be held by a melody beautiful enough to match their own.
Chapter 330: Heartstrings
I sit on a log near the fire pit.
I'm in that ridiculous silk thing. The slit so high it's basically a suggestion. Gold coins stitched across the chest like nipples need framing. He gave it to me. "For when you want to feel beautiful," he said.
I wore it tonight because I wanted to feel powerful. I feel like shit.
The Dragon's off gutting a deer or cleaning his claws or judging me silently from some branch.
The dress shifts when I breathe. Cool silk against my thighs. I hate how good it looks in the firelight. I hate how I care.
Tears run down without permission. No gasps. No sobbing. Just—wet cheeks and a jaw I can't unclench.
Fuck.
I wipe at my face. Just makes it worse. Smudges whatever was left of the kohl. My eyes sting.
"Hmm."
I freeze.
The Dragon's shadow moves behind me, then settles beside me with a low, deliberate creak of his weight on earth.
He doesn't speak for a moment. Just watches the fire.
I pretend I'm not crying. He pretends not to notice.
Then—
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I say, sharp. "Piss off."
He tilts his head. "You're leaking."
I scowl. "Go away."
"You wear your war paint and your whore's finest. But you cry like a child who just learned bedtime stories are lies."
"Fuck you."
"Eventually," he says dryly. "But not tonight."
Silence.
The fire cracks. I breathe through my nose like if I exhale too hard I'll fall apart.
He waits.
He always waits.
Finally, I snap. "He thinks I'm some—some shining thing."
"The bard."
"Who else."
He says nothing.
I swallow. "He says I'm pure. That I burn but don't ash. That I'm some fucking eternal flame that just needs… love or whatever."
"You are certainly flammable."
I elbow him. Not hard. My hand shakes.
"I charged him," I whisper. "Every time. I spat in his mouth once just to see if he'd flinch."
"Did he?"
"No. He cried."
I dig my nails into my palms.
"I've done things, Dragon. Shit I don't even tell you about. I know what I am."
"You do?"
I shoot him a look. "Don't start."
He regards me for a long moment. His eyes flicker gold in the dark.
"You think if he saw you clearly, he'd leave."
I blink.
Then I whisper, "Yes."
He nods. "So you show him your ugliest self. Again and again. To prove him wrong. To make him see. And when he doesn't…"
I close my eyes. "…I feel worse."
He's quiet.
Then, gently:
"Maybe he sees something real. Not the clean parts. But the possible parts."
I shake my head. "That's worse."
"Why?"
"Because I'll never be that. I'll never be what he wants me to be."
His voice softens.
"Maybe he doesn't want you to be anything. Maybe he just sees a girl in a gilded cage who tells everyone she built it herself."
Tears again. Hot, furious, ashamed.
I cover my face.
He leans closer. His breath is warm. Not comforting—real.
"I've seen you burn, Saya. Not just your rage. Your mercy. Your grief. Your ridiculous tenderness you hide under poison."
I whisper, "He's going to get himself killed thinking I'm someone worth dying for."
He exhales.
"Then let me kill him before he does."
I bark a laugh through the tears. Wipe my face on the back of my hand. Smear and salt and smeared kohl.
"…Don't."
He doesn't move.
We sit there, fire crackling, me in my stupid dress, leaking all over myself.
He doesn't push. Doesn't leave.
Just waits.
And for once, I let myself cry where someone can see me.