Saya and the Dragon

We were still in the south. Like Southlands deep. I’m talking proper jungle. Sweaty-thighs, bugs-in-your-bra, leeches-on-your-tits kinda jungle. The sort of place where everything’s wet, angry, and probably venomous.

We were camped near that weird-ass temple. You know the one. The one that hums at night and smells like burnt incense and broken promises. I don’t even remember why we were there—probably something about cursed gold or a horny demigod or whatever the Dragon thought was worth dragging his gouty tail into mud for.

Anyway. I was wading through a patch of mossy hell looking for mushrooms—or honestly, just not looking for snakes—when I saw them.

Tiny. Neon. Divine.

Little froggies. The same kind Madam Zoobaya used to keep in her glass case back at the brothel. All glowing lime and sapphire, sitting on leaves like they owned the damn world. And I just stopped. Dead in the mud. Because suddenly it clicked.

This—this fetid, squishy armpit of the gods—this is where she got them.

I could almost hear her voice in my head: “Only for discerning clients, my precious. Lick sparingly.”

Bitch.

So obviously I decided I was gonna catch some. Not for licking—yet. For profit. These things go for insane coin up north. Alchemists love ‘em. Perverts too. I mean, why not? Sell a few. Keep one for “personal enlightenment.”

I rummaged through my pack and pulled out the empty jam jar I’d been hoarding. Peach compote, I think. Or maybe mango. Doesn’t matter. Point is, it still smelled sweet, which might be why the first frog practically jumped in like it was volunteering for service.

Caught five in total. Each one more iridescent than the last. Named them after ex-clients. “Sir Moans-A-Lot.” “Lord Handsy.” “Mr. Crybaby.” You get the idea.

I was so proud of that jar. Walked back to camp cradling it like a holy relic. Mud up to my knees. Blood on my shins from thorn-whips. Grinning like I’d just robbed a bishop.

The Dragon took one look and said, “Absolutely not.”

I said, “Too late. Already named them.”

He said, “You’re not bringing a jar of poison into my sleeping perimeter.”

I said, “They’re not poison unless you eat them.”

Pause. Long, tired stare. “…Or lick them.”

I may have smiled a little too wide at that part.

He tried to roast them.

I still say that was uncalled for.

Anyway. I saved the jar. Smuggled it in my pack. Lost it two days later when we got chased by that tribal snake cult with the golden tattoos and the very stabby initiation rites. Whole bag went into the river.

Still think about those frogs sometimes. Hope they’re out there. Getting licked. Living their best lives.