Saya and the Dragon

Oh, I know that look.

That little furrow between your brows.

You’re thinking: Do these two idiots just wander around forever? No map, no plan, dragging sacks of gold and cursed trinkets like traveling junk dealers with delusions of grandeur?

First of all — rude.

Second of all — yes. But also no. And mostly yes.

Let me break it down for you, because clearly someone has to be the adult here, and it’s not going to be the Dragon. He thinks “strategy” means sitting on something valuable until it hatches.

We don’t roam aimlessly. We operate in cycles.

Step one: pick a region. Not a grand capital with marble towers and banners and professional dragon-killing guilds. We are not suicidal. But also not a blasted wasteland where the only thing to rob is a shepherd with three sad goats and a flute.

We look for… opportunity. A cluster of villages. A trade road. A petty baron skimming taxes. A shrine with loose accounting. Somewhere rich enough to squeeze. Small enough to not immediately declare holy war.

Step two: find a hole.

Cave. Abandoned fort. Crumbling temple swallowed by vines. Some deep forest ruin that smells faintly of mildew and bad decisions. That becomes base. Temporary. Always temporary.

We move the hoard there. Yes, all of it. Burlap sacks. Loose coins. Jewelry. The tarot cards. My gear. His precious piles arranged by some deranged draconic logic only he understands.

And no — we do not carry it around every night like paranoid squirrels.

The base stays put.

Then we range out.

We sleep in little camps sometimes. Under trees. In haylofts. Once inside a hollow statue of a saint. Don’t ask. But we never drift too far from where the hoard sleeps. A day’s ride. Two at most. Close enough that if someone stumbles on it, the Dragon feels it in his bones and we can be back before some idiot with a shovel starts feeling brave.

We circle the countryside like wolves with accounting skills.

Swindles. Escorts. Minor rescues. Selective arson. Whatever the local economy requires.

And when things get… warm?

When the rumors grow teeth.

When a minor lord hires a band of “dragon slayers” who still smell like their mother’s kitchens. When wanted posters start to resemble me a little too closely. When some idiot priest decides I personally embody the collapse of moral civilization.

That’s when we pack.

All of it.

Again.

You have never seen true misery until you’ve shoveled three months of accumulated nonsense into sacks while a Dragon supervises and critiques your packing technique.

We don’t wait for sieges.

We don’t test our luck against small armies.

We vanish.

New region. Different dialect. Fresh barons. Different problems to exploit.

Preferably far away.

Because we are many things.

Reckless. Yes.

Immoral. Frequently.

Petty. Constantly.

But we are not stupid.

We survive by staying just profitable enough to matter and just slippery enough to never quite get caught.

So no — it’s not endless wandering.

It’s rotating predation with infrastructure.

Very professional.

Now stop judging and help me tie this sack before the Dragon decides I’m inefficient again.

Oh, and before you start romanticizing it.

Before you picture us as two glamorous rogues gliding from sunset to sunset with coordinated luggage and tasteful exits—

Let me clarify something.

Things go wrong.

Frequently.

Spectacularly.

Sometimes we leave by design. Sometimes we leave because half the valley is on fire and someone is blowing a horn that sounds like an angry cow being stepped on by destiny.

And sometimes?

Sometimes we run.

Skin-of-the-teeth run.

Coins spilling from torn sacks. Me barefoot. Him bleeding. Smoke behind us. Villagers with pitchforks. Real dragon-slayers. Not the decorative kind with polished teeth and delusions. The competent kind. The quiet kind.

We’ve abandoned hoards.

More than once.

Yes.

I know.

Horrifying.

Picture it. Months of careful extortion, flirtation, theft, prophetess theatrics, minor arson, and curated nonsense. Stacked neatly in some cave or ruin. Organized by weight, shine, historical insult value.

And then—

We don’t have time.

You can’t drag five sacks of coin while griffon riders are forming a V in the sky.

You can’t negotiate with a baron who just found his son half-roasted in armor.

You can’t out-argue a mob that has decided you are the root of drought, plague, and suspicious goat behavior.

So we drop it.

We leave it.

We live.

That’s the rule.

You can rebuild a hoard.

You can’t rebuild a corpse.

The Dragon knows that.

Intellectually.

Emotionally?

Oh, he takes it like someone tore out a rib.

He gets… quiet.

Not the theatrical sulk. Not the sarcastic muttering about fiscal irresponsibility.

Quiet.

He doesn’t eat much. Doesn’t nap properly. He arranges pebbles like they’re coins. Recounts what was lost. Not just the gold. The specific pieces.

“The silver bowl from Sabrabena with the dent shaped like a lyre.”

“The amber necklace with the cracked bead.”

“The cup.”

Always the cup.

He remembers everything.

Every object is a timestamp. A humiliation survived. A rival defeated. A stupid hero flung into a ravine.

Losing a hoard isn’t just losing money.

It’s losing proof.

Proof he existed. That he mattered. That he carved something out of a world that keeps trying to reduce him to a trophy head.

And physically?

He aches.

Dragons are not meant to let go of treasure. It does something to them. The compulsion isn’t greed in the human sense. It’s structural. Bone-deep.

When we lose it all in a rush, he gets feverish. His scales dull. He complains about old wounds. Sleeps badly. Wakes snarling at nothing.

I pretend not to notice.

I’ll make a joke about diversification.

I’ll say we’ll rebuild bigger.

I’ll suggest the next region looks very ripe indeed.

Because that’s the profession.

You don’t cry over buried coin.

You mark the region off the mental map.

You shift south along the Inner Sea, or north toward the Baronies if you’re feeling masochistic .

You find another cave. Another ruin. Another pocket of civilization fat enough to squeeze and small enough to survive.

You start again.

And if you’re very lucky?

You learn from the last disaster.

We did, you know.

We space the hoards now. Not everything in one place. A buried cache near a dried riverbed. A sealed amphora under a collapsed tower. A hollowed olive tree with emergency silver.

Contingencies.

I call it growth.

He calls it paranoia.

Same thing.

So no.

It’s not endless carefree roaming.

It’s cycles of appetite, overreach, fire, regret, rebuilding.

It’s choosing survival over shine.

And every time we leave a hoard behind—

He gets sick for days.

And every time?

We come back leaner. Meaner. Slightly wiser.

And I start looking for the next region that smells like money.