Saya and the Dragon

I was hunched over by the fire like a goblin with a hobby.

Night had settled in thick and damp. Crickets screaming. Smoke crawling low along the ground. My knees were pulled up, cloak discarded, bare feet muddy, and in my hands—very carefully, very precisely—I was holding an extremely offended ordinary tree frog.

Green. Brown-spotted. Utterly mundane.

I dabbed at its back with a tiny brush.

The Dragon watched for a long time before speaking.

“…Did you sell the original frogs?”

“Yes,” I said without looking up. “Four.”

“Four.”

“Mmm.”

“And the fifth?”

I clicked my tongue. “I was going to keep it. Recreational. Emergency enlightenment. But it escaped. Leapt straight out of the jar like it knew things.”

Silence.

He leaned closer, peering at my work. “What,” he asked slowly, “are you doing now?”

“Hush,” I snapped. “You’ll ruin the sheen.”

He waited. Then: “Are you… painting a frog.”

I adjusted my angle, tongue poking out in concentration. “I am enhancing a frog.”

“With what.”

“Quality pigments,” I said proudly. “Iridescent powders. Ground beetle-shell. Crushed mica. Do you know how much that merchant charged me? Painters are highway robbers.”

The frog twitched.

I held it firmer. “Don’t be dramatic.”

The Dragon pinched the bridge of his snout. “You are attempting to forge a hallucinogenic amphibian.”

“Allegedly.”

“You licked the originals. You know they glow.”

“This will glow,” I insisted. “Look.” I tilted the frog toward the firelight. The paint shimmered. Not right, exactly—but close enough to fool someone who’d already paid too much and wanted to believe.

“This is fraud,” he said.

“This is entrepreneurship.”

“The frog does not consent.”

“It bit me earlier. We’re even.”

He sighed. A deep, ancient sigh full of poor life choices. “You realize the moment someone licks that thing—”

“I know,” I said. “They won’t see stars.”

“They’ll see nothing.”

“Not nothing,” I corrected, adding a careful stroke of blue along the spine. “Disappointment. Which, frankly, is a common experience in port towns.”

The frog croaked miserably.

I blew gently on the paint to dry it, holding it up at arm’s length. In the firelight, it almost looked magical. Almost.

“See?” I said. “Convincing.”

The Dragon stared at me.

“You are a menace.”

“Artisanal menace,” I said. “With overhead costs.”

He turned away, muttering about morals, markets, and the inevitable collapse of civilization.

Behind him, the frog wriggled free, leapt straight into the darkness, and vanished.

I stared at my empty hands.

“…Huh.”

The Dragon didn’t turn back.

“Told you,” he said.