Saya and the Dragon

I was running.

Not the elegant rooftop kind. Not the playful chase kind. Full panic. Bare feet slapping the dirt road hard enough to sting, lungs burning, heart punching my ribs like it wanted out.

The port lights were already behind me—Lombasa shrinking into a smear of lanterns and bad memories.

I had the strings of a coin purse clenched between my teeth, copper and silver clacking against my lips. The jar was in my hands. Empty. Cloak flaring behind me like I’d stolen the wind itself.

“THIEF!” someone bellowed behind me. Hooves. Fast. Angry. “CHEAT! THAT FROG WAS FAKE!”

Fuck.

I veered toward the scrub, aiming for the bushes. If I hit the reeds I could vanish. I always could.

Too late.

Something whistled through the air.

Then WHAM—

Bolas wrapped my ankles mid-stride. The cords yanked tight and my legs vanished out from under me. I hit the dirt face-first, breath exploding out of me in a dry, humiliating oof.

The jar flew.

Glass shattered.

“Fuckfuckfuck—!”

Dust filled my mouth. My teeth scraped stone. The purse slipped free and skidded away, coins spilling like traitors.

The rider pulled up hard, horse snorting, shadow looming over me. He dismounted slow. Deliberate. Boots crunching closer.

“You think you can sell painted swamp vermin and run?” he snarled. “I licked it. I felt nothing.”

I rolled onto my side, already scrambling for damage control. “I—okay—listen—misunderstanding—”

“You’re going to the magistrate.”

“No—no no no,” I gasped, hands already up, palms filthy. “Take the money back. All of it. Extra. I’ll throw in—” I gestured vaguely. “—a sincere apology? A song? I’m very charming when not horizontal.”

He grabbed my arm.

Then—

The night shifted.

A sound like stone grinding. Heat rolled across the road, heavy and wrong.

The bushes beside us moved.

Something large unfolded itself from the dark.

A voice followed. Calm. Polite. And absolutely lethal.

“And what,” the Dragon asked mildly, “do you think you are doing with my wench.”

The rider froze.

I went very still.

The Dragon stepped fully into view—low to the ground, wings half-spread, eyes catching the lantern glow like embers stirred awake. Smoke curled lazily from his nostrils. Not fire. Not yet. Just promise.

The horse screamed and reared, nearly throwing the rider.

“I—I thought she was alone,” the man stammered.

The Dragon tilted his head. “And that made it acceptable.”

The rider dropped my arm immediately.

I scooted backward on my elbows, bolas still tangled around my ankles, dust streaking my face, hair wild, cloak torn. I looked up at the Dragon with pure, breathless gratitude.

“She did sell me a fake frog,” the rider tried weakly.

The Dragon’s gaze flicked to me.

I winced. “In my defense, it was a very convincing frog.”

Silence.

Then the Dragon smiled.

It was not a nice smile.

“I suggest,” he said softly, “you take what coin remains, forget this road ever existed, and leave before I decide you are the sort of man who needs correcting.”

The rider didn’t argue. Scooped the nearest coins with shaking hands, mounted badly, and fled down the road at a gallop.

The night went quiet again.

I lay there in the dirt, panting, ankles bound, staring up at the stars.

“…You came fast,” I said.

“I heard shouting,” he replied. “And fraud.”

I groaned. “Can you untie me before I die of shame.”

He stepped closer, claws slicing the bolas clean.

I sat up, coughing dust, surveying the shattered glass.

“…So,” I added. “The frog business is officially closed.”

He snorted smoke.

“Good,” he said. “I was beginning to worry about your ethics.”

I spat dirt and grinned anyway.

“Hey,” I said. “At least I almost got away.”