Saya and the Dragon

The coast always smells like fish guts and bad decisions trying to pass as fresh starts.

Tiny port. The kind where ships stop because the wind bullied them into it. There’s a shrine at the end of the quay—white once, maybe sacred once, now mostly pigeons and old wax pretending to be faith.

That’s where I spot her.

Curled up on the steps like a dropped doll. Barefoot. Dress torn in three different historical periods. Hair a mess, but romantically—like she still thinks that’s a thing you can afford. Knees hugged to her chest. Princess posture, even when sleeping on stone.

Of course.

I crouch and lean in close, because I’m a bad person and this is how I announce myself.

“Wow,” I whisper into her ear. “You finally picked a bed worse than mine.”

She jerks awake like she’s been stabbed by reality.

“S—Saya?”

Big eyes. Immediate panic. Zero situational awareness.

“Still breathing,” I say. “You look like you lost a war with stairs.”

She squints at me, blinks twice, then grabs my wrist like I’m about to evaporate.

“You’re real.”

“Tragically.”

She exhales, hard, like she’s been holding it since the universe personally betrayed her. Then she starts talking. Fast. No brakes.

“The citadel fell,” she blurts. “There was fire and shouting and I think one of the towers collapsed sideways, which I didn’t even know towers could do, and everyone was running and—Saya, my tiara is gone.”

I stare at her.

“…Your what.”

“My tiara,” she says, devastated. “The gold one. With the blue stones. It was on the vanity and then everything was shaking and I grabbed the wrong box and—”

“Loma,” I cut in. “Your city burned down.”

“Yes, I know,” she snaps, offended. “I was there.”

Right. Of course she was.

“I escaped through a servant passage,” she continues, warming up. “Then I hid in a laundry cart. Then I hid behind some barrels. Then I hid inside a barrel, which was awful because it smelled like fish and betrayal. I found a ship that broke the siege. I stowed away.”

“That part was smart,” I admit.

“I didn’t tell them who I was,” she adds proudly. “Because they might kidnap me.”

“Correct again.”

She nods, pleased with herself, then frowns.

“But if I had my tiara, they would have believed me.”

I close my eyes for a second. Just a second. For strength.

“And then,” she says, gesturing helplessly at herself, “I ended up here. Sleeping on temple stairs. Like—like a normal person.”

Her voice cracks on that last part. She looks genuinely horrified by the concept.

“I thought maybe the gods would help,” she adds, glancing at the shrine.

I look at the chipped idol inside. One arm missing. Bird shit on its head.

“Gods don’t do refunds,” I say. “Or customer support.”

She sighs and leans against me without asking, like gravity finally won an argument. Her head bumps my shoulder.

“I don’t know where else to go,” she murmurs. “And I don’t even have shoes.”

“Welcome to my entire brand,” I say, wrapping an arm around her because apparently I hate peace.

She sniffles. Then, softly, with real wounded sincerity:

“My ankles look terrible without sandals.”

I snort despite myself.

Somewhere in the harbor a bell rings. Ropes creak. Life keeps being a loud bastard.

I look down at her—princess of nowhere, barefoot, tiara-less, alive by accident—and think, Fuck.

Because this is how it always starts.

And because I already know how it ends: with me not walking away when I absolutely should.

***

She doesn’t even ask.

Just scoots closer like it’s the most natural thing in the world, cold feet finding my calf, her shoulder tucking under my chin. Princess instinct: locate warmth, claim it. I let her. I’m not a monster. I’m just adjacent.

She sighs. A long, mournful, very Loma sigh.

“I left my dresses,” she says quietly.

Here we go.

“All of them,” she adds, like I might assume she kept the good ones. “The blue silk one with the open back. The green one that makes my waist look tiny. The white one—Saya, that one was imported.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“He bought me so many things,” she continues, voice wobbling. “Shoes. Dresses. Shawls. Jewelry boxes that smelled like cedar. I didn’t take anything. Not even shoes.”

She shudders dramatically, toes curling against my leg.

“I ran barefoot,” she whispers, like she’s confessing to murder. “On stones.”

“Heroic,” I deadpan.

She presses closer, horrified all over again.

“They’re probably burned,” she says. “Or torn. Or—” her breath catches, “—or worse.”

I tilt my head. “Define worse.”

She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes huge.

“Some peasant,” she says, trembling, “might be wearing them now, Saya.”

I bark a laugh before I can stop myself.

“Oh no,” I say. “Not a peasant.”

“My blue silk,” she insists miserably. “With dirt under the hem. With hands that don’t moisturize.”

“That dress has seen worse hands,” I tell her. “Trust me.”

She gasps, offended. “That is not the point.”

She goes quiet for a moment, then curls in again, like if she squeezes hard enough the world might reverse.

“He even bought me winter cloaks,” she murmurs. “With fur lining. I didn’t take those either.”

“You took your survival skills, though,” I say. “All zero of them.”

She gives a weak little huff that might be a laugh.

“I thought I’d have time,” she says. “I thought someone would tell me when it was time to leave.”

I don’t say anything to that. I just shift so my arm is more solid around her.

After a beat, she mutters, very softly:

“I miss my shoes.”

“Yeah,” I say. “They miss you too. Probably melted.”

She sniffles, then nods, accepting this grim truth. Her forehead presses into my collarbone.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says.

I roll my eyes at the shrine ceiling, at the gods, at fate, at myself.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Lucky fucking you.”

***

She hesitates. Fidgets. Does that little inhale she does when she’s about to say something embarrassing instead of important.

Then, very quietly, like it’s a moral failing:

“Saya… I’m hungry.”

I tilt my head down. “Hungry like peckish or hungry like you’re about to faint and embarrass me in public?”

She considers. Too long.

“I tried to steal something,” she whispers.

I blink. “You what.”

“Just—just a fig,” she rushes. “Or bread. Or anything that wasn’t staring back at me. But the man at the stall gave me this look.”

She imitates it: chin down, eyes narrow, mouth thin. It’s… actually pretty good.

“A very stern look,” she says. “Like he could tell I wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s called being poor.”

She winces.

“So I walked away,” she continues. “And then I tried another stall, but the woman crossed her arms and I thought she might shout, and I didn’t want guards and—”

She trails off, curling tighter against me.

“I haven’t eaten in three days,” she admits.

Three.

I click my tongue. “Wow. You lasted longer than I expected.”

She looks up, affronted. “I’m resilient.”

“You’re decorative,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”

Her stomach betrays her with a quiet, pathetic growl. She freezes like she’s been exposed committing a crime.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

That does it.

I sigh, already defeated by my own stupid heart. I reach into my belt pouch, rummage past a broken hairpin, two questionable coins, and something sticky I refuse to identify.

“Alright,” I say. “Listen carefully, Your Former Highness.”

She nods, solemn.

“You don’t ask food for permission,” I tell her. “You don’t make eye contact. You don’t hesitate. You walk up like you belong there, grab, and leave before your brain catches up.”

She blinks. “That sounds… illegal.”

“It’s called eating.”

“But what if they shout?”

“They always shout.”

“And if they chase me?”

“That’s why you don’t do it alone.”

I pull her to her feet. She wobbles immediately.

“Oh,” she murmurs. “I feel light.”

“Fantastic,” I say. “You’re officially portable.”

She clutches my arm as we start toward the market, barefoot and trembling.

“…Saya?”

“Yeah.”

“Could we steal something soft?” she asks earnestly. “My mouth hurts from not chewing.”

I snort. “Princess problems.”

Then, quieter, because I’m not that awful:

“We’ll get you bread. Maybe cheese. If I’m feeling generous, something sweet.”

Her eyes fill instantly.

“Really?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

She squeezes my arm like I just promised her a kingdom.

“I missed you,” she says.

I groan. “You’re starving. That’s the hunger talking.”

***

At some point—between one sniffle and the next stomach growl—Loma actually looks at me.

Really looks.

Her eyes slide down. Pause. Slide back up. Then down again, slower this time, like she’s counting sins.

“Saya…” she whispers.

“Mm?”

“You look… good.”

I arch a brow. “Define good.”

She points with one finger, careful not to touch, like it might vanish.

“Those slippers,” she breathes. “They’re silk. And embroidered. With silver.”

I wiggle my foot just to be cruel. The silver thread catches the sun.

“Don’t scuff them,” she adds automatically, then frowns. “Actually, scuff them. It means they’re lived in.”

Her gaze keeps traveling. The wrap dress—new, deep-colored, the kind that knows exactly what it’s doing when it falls open. The chunky jewelry at my throat and wrists, silver and coin-weighted and very much not borrowed.

“…Are you rich now?” she asks, awed.

I grin. Not a small one. The full, stupid, unapologetic version.

“Oh, temporarily,” I say. “Which is the only kind that counts.”

Her eyes go wide. “How?”

“Me and the Dragon,” I say, casual like I didn’t nearly die twice. “Good run. Sea lanes. Wrong pirate, right timing.”

I lean in, conspiratorial.

“We robbed a pirate ship that was already loaded.”

She gasps. “You robbed pirates?”

“Pre-looted,” I say. “Very efficient.”

“And then,” I add, because it gets better, “we turned around and claimed the bounty on the captain.”

Her mouth falls open.

“You… you stole from him and got paid for killing him?”

“Not killing,” I correct. “Delivering. Mostly alive. Very angry.”

She stares at me like I just explained a new law of nature.

“That’s—” she searches for the word. “—that’s genius.”

“Thank you,” I say, preening. “I try.”

Her gaze drifts back to my jewelry, lingering.

“You look like someone important,” she murmurs.

I snort. “I look like someone who hasn’t been hungry in three days.”

She presses closer, half envious, half relieved.

“Do you think,” she asks softly, “you could maybe be rich near me for a while?”

I bump her shoulder with mine.

“Let’s get you fed first,” I say. “Then we’ll discuss your reintroduction to luxury.”

Her stomach growls again, loud this time.

She winces. “Sorry.”

I grin wider.

“Good news, princess,” I say. “You just befriended a woman with pirate money.”