Saya and the Dragon

So. Thal-veth. Thel-veth. That bloody place with gold-trimmed towels and stick-up-the-arse rules. Gods, I can’t even pronounce it right without spitting silk.

Anyway, no whippings there. Oh no. That would be uncouth. Can’t go bruising the merchandise, not when you’ve got high-paying perverts waiting for virginal thighs and docile giggles. Discipline? Discipline was a pit.

No, seriously. A literal pit.

Stone shaft in the floor, maybe three men deep, no door—just a trap hatch and a pulley system. You get tossed in stark naked with a little wooden stool to perch your divine lady-bits on. The rest of the space? Occupied. By snakes.

Real ones. Gods know if they were venomous. Could’ve been. Might not’ve been. They didn’t tell you. That was the point.

They didn’t have to whip you when they could just whisper, “Pit night,” and watch you piss yourself on the marble floor.

You learn balance real quick when your only salvation from a squirming, hissing floor is a narrow crotch-height stool made of old cedar. Legs cramping, teeth chattering, sweat pouring down your back while something slithers past your toes and brushes your thigh. And you're trying not to breathe too loud in case that attracts them.

And the worst part?

You start wondering.

Wondering if they even put snakes in there at all. If maybe it’s just rope and shadows and your own shriveling nerves. But then something flicks its tongue against your ankle and you decide, nope, not testing it.

Not worth the gamble.

I mean, how many temples do you know that run their punishments via ancient reptilian roulette?

Not even the Dragon believed me at first. Said that sounds like a fever dream invented by a chronic liar with undiagnosed trauma and a penchant for dramatics.

To which I said: Correct. But also true.

He was quiet after that.

Probably imagining himself stuck on that stool. Probably shivered. Probably wondered if I still had snakebite scars in sensitive places.

I don’t.

Just one on the ass.

Probably just a nail from the stool, though.

Still. Ruined my appetite for snakeskin boots forever.

Dragon shakes his head. “Monstrous,” he says, low and disgusted. Like the idea of pit-snakes and crotch-stools was somehow worse than all the atrocities he'd personally committed over the last eight centuries.

I shrug. “Wasn’t the worst. At least snakes don’t ask for extra moaning.”

He winces.

“Anyway,” I say, stretching my arms behind my head like we’re just chatting over tea and not childhood torture, “I escaped.”

He gives me that look. The you always say that like it was easy look. And yeah. I do. That’s the point.

“Thing with Thelveth is—besides being full of perfumed assholes who think olive oil is foreplay—they got rules. Especially for womenfolk. Black silk wraps head to toe outside the house. Big wails over their faces like they’re all mourning something. Which I suppose they are. Their lives.”

“Cultural oppression,” he mutters, dramatic as always.

“Whatever. Worked out fine for me. One day this incense merchant—dripping in myrrh and erectile desperation—rents me for the full two-day orgy package.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s a package now?”

“Yup. Includes snacks, wine, and full use of both holes. Anyway—guy had a rooftop villa near the port. All smoke and fountains and velvet pillows. So while he was passed out face-first in a tray of candied dates, I wrapped myself in one of those black silks, slipped out the window, and joined the afternoon crowd like just another sad little housewife going out for lentils.”

Dragon lets out a low whistle.

“Slid right down to the docks, lifted some poor sod’s lunch basket for the road, and crawled into a spice barrel on a merchant ship bound for anywhere-but-Thelveth. Spent three days covered in cumin, pissing in a ladle.”

He gives me a long look. “And that’s how you gained your freedom?”

I grin. “That’s how I lost my contract, gave myself a cumin rash, and nearly got sold again in Haligabalt. But sure. Freedom. Let’s go with that.”

He shakes his head again. Mutters something about humans and terrible taste in geography. I hum a tune and steal one of his figs.