Saya and the Dragon

The outskirts of Lombasa always smelled like three things:

Salt. Rot. And opportunity.

We were perched on a low bluff overlooking the port sprawl—masts like a dead forest, gulls screaming overhead, warehouses sweating tar in the heat. Far enough north that the jungle had thinned into scrub, but still warm enough that my cloak was an act of financial commitment.

I had the jar cradled in my lap like a newborn sin.

The frogs blinked lazily inside, jeweled backs glistening in the dusk light.

The Dragon eyed them the way one eyes a box labeled “Do Not Open — Contains Consequences.”

“You’re really planning to sell those.”

I nodded. Gleefully. “Mm-hmm.”

“To strangers.”

“Preferably rich strangers.”

He leaned closer to the jar, nostrils flaring slightly. “You licked them.”

“Quality control.”

“Each one.”

“Well, I couldn’t very well sell defective merchandise, could I?”

His eyes narrowed. “You licked all five.”

I shrugged. “Lightly. Professional sampling. Like wine tasting, but amphibious.”

He made a sound somewhere between a groan and a prayer for extinction.

“And you’re certain there’s a market for this… jar of hallucinogenic vermin?”

“Oh absolutely,” I said, hugging it tighter. “This port? There’s always at least one alchemist looking to dissolve his sanity in a vial. Or some hedge wizard chasing enlightenment through his tongue.”

I tilted my head, thinking.

“Worst case? I sell them to a madam. Spice up the house menu. ‘Exotic visions with every booking.’ Clients love novelty.”

He was quiet for a moment, watching ships come and go.

“I remain unconvinced about the financial viability.”

I rolled my eyes. “They’re worth a lot.”

“How much is ‘a lot.’”

“A lot a lot.”

“Saya.”

“What.”

“How much.”

I paused.

Because here’s the thing.

I had absolutely no fucking idea.

“Well…” I stalled, peering into the jar like the frogs might whisper market rates to me. “Madam Zoobaya always said they were extra expensive.”

“That is not a number.”

“She kept them locked in glass. Private stash. Only for premium clients.”

“Still not a number.”

I chewed my lip. “Okay, look. Rare jungle import. Psychoactive. Lick-activated. I’d say… ten silver each?”

He stared.

“Too low?” I asked.

“Extremely.”

“Twenty?”

He sighed. “You’re guessing.”

“I’m estimating.”

“You have no baseline.”

“Zoobaya once slapped a duke for touching one without paying,” I said defensively. “That has to mean something.”

He considered that. “What did she charge him.”

“…I was hiding in a laundry basket at the time.”

Of course I was.

We sat in silence a moment, watching the sunset smear gold across the harbor.

“Let’s reason this out,” he said finally, slipping into his “reluctant business partner” voice. “Supply: extremely limited. Demand: niche but obsessive. Risk factor: high. Transport difficulty: high.”

I nodded seriously like I understood economics and not just brothel pricing structures.

“So,” he continued, “you anchor high. Let buyers negotiate downward. Never reveal ignorance.”

“Right,” I said. “So what’s high?”

He thought.

“Fifty silver. Each.”

My eyes widened. “Fifty?”

“If they balk, you settle at thirty. No lower than twenty-five.”

I clutched the jar protectively. “Gods, we’re going to be rich off frog saliva.”

“Assuming you don’t lick the inventory again.”

“No promises.”

He groaned softly as we rose to head into the port lights.

Me grinning.

Frogs blinking.

Profit imminent.

***

The tavern was a boil of heat, bodies, and fish-stink.

Not the good fish-stink either—the sharp, sour kind that seeps into wood and never leaves. Lantern smoke hung low like a tired fog. Sailors yelled over dice. Someone was singing badly about a widow and a donkey.

And there I was.

Heavy hooded cloak. Pulled low. Sweating like a nun in a brothel.

You ever wear a wool cloak in a port tavern south of the Inner Sea? It’s like slow-roasting yourself for money. But concealment is concealment, and the jar in my satchel needed concealment.

Across the table sat my buyers.

One dark elf—thin, elegant, skin like polished obsidian. Hair white as bone, braided with little silver rings. Didn’t touch his drink. Didn’t blink much either. The sort who made you feel like he could see your sins alphabetically.

Next to him: the alchemist.

Human. Sweaty. Spectacles fogged. Fingers stained every color that shouldn’t exist in nature. He kept wringing his hands like he was trying to strangle invisible chickens.

We spoke quietly.

In code.

I leaned forward, cloak pooling around me like conspiracy. “So. You gentlemen are… collectors?”

The elf inclined his head a fraction. “We appreciate rare… songbirds.”

The alchemist swallowed. “Exotic ones. Very small cages.”

I tapped the satchel with one finger. “Mine don’t sing. But they do… perform.”

The elf’s red eyes sharpened slightly. “We were told they produce… visions.”

“Among other sensations,” I said sweetly. “Very highland strain. Jungle-born. Not dockside knockoffs.”

The alchemist leaned in despite himself. “Coloration?”

“Vivid,” I said. “Neon like temple glass. Lick-grade.”

He made a small strangled noise in his throat. Definitely interested.

The elf, meanwhile, remained composed. “Quantity?”

“One a piece.”

Both of them blinked.

The alchemist sputtered first. “One? Just—one?”

I shrugged inside the cloak. “Premium merchandise. Hard to source. Harder to keep alive. You don’t buy frogs like these by the sack unless you’re a king or a cult.”

The elf steepled his fingers. “And you are certain of… potency?”

I smirked. “Let’s just say I’ve conducted field testing.”

The alchemist turned a deeper shade of pink. The elf did not react, but the corner of his mouth twitched like a cat considering violence.

I slid the jar onto the table just enough for the lantern light to catch inside.

Five tiny frogs clung to the glass.

Blue. Gold. Venom-green. Little jeweled demons blinking slowly at the world.

The alchemist gasped. Actually gasped.

“Gods,” he whispered. “They’re perfect.”

The elf leaned closer, eyes reflecting their colors. “Indeed.”

I tapped the lid before either could reach. “Hands stay outside the temple unless you’ve paid your tithe.”

The alchemist fumbled for his purse immediately. The elf moved slower, but his coin landed heavier.

I smiled beneath the hood, sweat running down my spine, heart beating with the old familiar thrill.

Profit. Vice. Jungle chemistry.

Just another night in port.

“One frog each,” I said. “Lick responsibly.”