Saya and the Dragon

I’m not praying.

Let’s get that clear right away.

I don’t pray. I don’t kneel. I don’t light candles or whisper to sky ghosts or beg invisible old men for favors. That’s temple-girl nonsense and I burned that life down with the rest of my childhood.

I’m scouting.

That’s what I tell myself as I climb the cracked marble steps of the little roadside shrine just outside town. The stones feel warm under my bare feet. Half-collapsed roof. Ivy choking the columns. Offerings scattered—wilted flowers, copper coins, a chicken skull for some reason.

Local superstition says travelers stop here before long roads.

For luck.

I’m not superstitious either.

But.

Well.

You know.

Just in case.

The idol sits at the center.

Bronze. Squat. Smiling in that unsettling fertility-god way. Belly round. Beard curled. And between his legs—

…gods.

Massive.

Shiny.

Polished to mirror sheen by generations of desperate hands.

I fold my arms.

“Stupid,” I mutter.

Wind rattles the broken roof slats. Somewhere a crow laughs at me. Feels personal.

I look left. Right. No one around.

“…Fine,” I sigh. “Just in case.”

I crouch.

Reach out.

Tap one.

Cold bronze.

Nothing happens.

I wait.

“…Do I do both?”

I glance around again—still alone—then put both hands on the statue’s balls like I’m checking ripeness at a fruit stall.

Rub once.

Twice.

There’s a squeak. Gods help me, there’s an actual squeak from how polished they are.

I grimace. “This is degrading.”

But I keep going.

Slow circles. Because if I’m doing this humiliating shit, I’m doing it properly.

“Luck,” I mutter. “Wealth. Fewer stabbings. Maybe a decent mattress once in a while—”

A voice behind me:

“Still devout, I see.”

I slam my forehead into the statue.

Hard.

“FUCK—”

I spin around clutching my head.

Ogden stands at the shrine entrance, arms folded, trying—and failing—not to smile.

I glare. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to question my faith.”

I stand up too fast, wipe my hands on my skirt like I’ve been caught stealing pastries.

“It’s local custom,” I snap. “For luck.”

“So I gathered.”

He steps closer, glancing at the idol. “They say it works better with sincerity.”

I squint. “Did you just make that up?”

“Maybe.”

I cross my arms. “I’m scouting. Not praying.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t do that tone.”

“What tone?”

“That smug knight tone like you caught me confessing sins to a turnip.”

He studies me for a moment—not teasing now. Just… looking.

It makes me itch.

I turn away, start down the shrine steps. “You done spying on women and their religious practices?”

He falls into step beside me.

“Did you ask for anything?” he says.

I snort. “Yeah. Bigger balls.”

He almost laughs.

But he doesn’t push the joke.

We leave the shrine steps behind, walking the dusty path back toward the road.

After a few paces he says, quieter — not soft, just… closer.

“So. What were you really hoping for, Saya?”

I keep walking.

Dust crunches under my bare feet. Wind drags my hair across my mouth. I spit it out like it offended me personally.

“Luck,” I say flatly.

He makes a low sound. Not quite a laugh.

“Liar.”

I stop.

Turn slowly and step into his space — not touching, but close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.

“You think you know what I want?” I ask.

“I know you don’t fondle roadside gods in broad daylight because you’re feeling philosophical.”

I snort. “Local custom.”

“Mm.”

He leans a fraction closer — not enough to trap me, just enough to make the air feel tighter.

“You always hedge your bets when you’re worried,” he says.

I hate that he says it like fact. Like he’s catalogued me.

So I shove his shoulder — sharp, dismissive.

“Don’t get ideas, hero,” I mutter. “If my luck improves, it’s because of those shiny bronze balls. Not your brooding presence.”

He exhales through his nose — almost amused.

“Of course.”

I wiggle my fingers in front of him.

“For the record,” I add, “statue’s less impressive than the rumors.”

That gets a flicker out of him — jaw tightening, eyes narrowing just a touch.

There you are.

“I’m sure you’ve conducted thorough research,” he says dryly.

“Professionali obsession,” I shoot back. “I keep notes.”

We hold eye contact a beat too long.

Heat. Static. That familiar almost-moment neither of us steps into.

So I break it — stepping past him, shoulder brushing his arm on purpose.

“Relax,” I toss over my shoulder. “If I ever start praying for anything involving you, I’ll warn you first.”

“Generous,” he says, falling into step beside me.

Behind us, the bronze idol gleams in the dying light — those ridiculous polished balls catching the sunset like twin coins.

I don’t look back.

But I do rub my palms together once as we walk.

Just in case.