Okay. So maybe I got carried away.

  Maybe.

  It supposed to be hand-to-hand combat.

  They lined us up in the circle, all ceremonial and self-righteous, talking about “discipline of the body,” “unity of the sisterhood,” “honoring the sacred pact of non-lethal engagement,” blah blah .

  And sure, they picked me to go first. Again.

  Because nothing says “learning opportunity” like throwing the mouthy one to the wolves in front of an audience.

  I was game.

  Until stepped into the ring.

  The one who’s made it her personal mission to break me since day one.

  Now, in my defense — and this is important — she had a .

  Maybe ceremonial. Maybe not. I wasn’t sticking around to get filleted and find out.

  So yeah.

  Maybe I bit her.

  Hard.

  Right on the hand.

  You want blood, I’ll give you blood.

  And she screamed.

  And she dropped the dagger. And they had to bandage it with clean cloth and mutter about possible infection.

  But come on.

  No one said biting was off-limits.

  No one handed me a list.

  No one said

  If this had been Seebulba, I'd have gotten applause. Hell, if she’d been a man, I’d have followed up with a knee to the jewels and collected tips from the crowd.

  But no. Instead they kicked me out.

  Just like that.

  No ceremony. No final lecture. No flaming brand of shame pressed to my forehead. Not even a slap.

  Just a grunt from Clarity — her hand still bandaged, by the way — and a gesture toward the hilltop.

  “Go,” she said. “You’re more trouble than you're worth.”

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  Fair.

  So now here I am.

  Standing barefoot on a rocky, windswept ridge in the middle of fucking nowhere. Wearing that godsdamn short linen skirt that rides up when I breathe, a goatskin of lukewarm water slung over my shoulder, and clutching a dagger so small it wouldn’t scare a squirrel.

  They didn’t even return my sandals.

  “Well… fuck,” I mutter, squinting at the horizon like it personally offended me.

  Not the first time someone’s given up on me.

  Not the first time I’ve been left with nothing.

  At least this time, no auction block. No collar. No shackles. Just freedom, served cold and solitary on a bed of dust and rocks.

  I spin slowly, scanning the endless scrubland.

  They went east. I saw the banners vanish into the haze at sunrise. Full procession. Singing. Marching. Victory chants echoing like self-congratulation.

  Good riddance.

  North? Mountains. Jagged. Snowy. I’m not in the mood to freeze to death today.

  West? Too quiet. Too flat. That’s where you go to disappear and not in the good way.

  South?

  Maybe the sea.

  Maybe two days’ march.

  Maybe a month.

  Maybe starvation and a dramatic, skeletal collapse that some shepherd will find and assume was a poorly-dressed prophetess.

  Huh.

  I tighten the strap of the goatskin. Tuck the useless dagger into my belt. Spit once, for luck. Then take a breath. And start walking.

  South.

  Because what else is there?

  Dry hills rolled on forever, dotted with thornbrush and regret. The sun burned overhead like it had a personal grudge. My feet were bleeding, my thighs were chafed raw, and the goatskin tasted like boiled goat sweat.

  I had no idea how long I’d been walking. Hours? A day? Time was a vague blur of dust and curses.

  And then I heard it.

  That sound.

  Low. Heavy. Air bending under ancient wings.

  I stopped.

  Didn’t look up. Just kept walking, slower now, muttering.

  The wind shifted. Loose stones rattled.

  Then . A gust of warm air hit my back, full of scales and smugness.

  I turned.

  There he was.

  The Dragon.

  Big. Black. Gleaming. Sitting like a guilty dog that’d just pissed in your shoes. Wings half-folded. Eyes cautiously unreadable.

  “Well, well,” I said, hands on hips. “Look who remembered he has a .”

  He blinked. Slowly.

  “You look… alive,” he said.

  “You look ”

  He snorted. “I would have come sooner, but I—”

  “ Took a nap? Went antiquing? What, you smelled smoke and figured I was already toast so why bother?”

  He scratched at the dirt with one claw, sheepish.

  “I was… observing. From a distance.”

  “Oh gods.” I threw my arms up. “Unbelievable. I get snatched by a cult, half-starved, turned into a barefoot war mascot, and were ‘observing’? Were you taking notes?”

  “I you escaped,” he said defensively. “Which, by the way, well done. I knew you’d wriggle out.”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “Don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t try to spin this like you had faith in me. You me.”

  “I was the horde,” he snapped. “From a safe distance. You think I didn’t see them? The griffons? The ballistas? They made out of my cousin. I’m not getting skinned for your character arc.”

  I flinched. The words hit harder than expected.

  He tilted his head. Voice lowered.

  “They… kicked you out.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  I turned away. Shoulders stiff.

  “Fine. Yes. They did.” My throat tightened. “Even the Sisterhood gave up on me.”

  Silence.

  Just the wind, the dust, the sound of me swallowing down something sharp.

  Then:

  “I didn’t.”

  I turned. Slowly.

  He didn’t look smug now. No smirk. No sarcasm.

  “I didn’t give up on you, Saya,” he said, quietly. “I followed. I waited. I knew you'd get out. I just… didn’t know how broken you’d be when you did.”

  I sniffed.

  Looked away again.

  “…You got anything to eat?” I muttered.

  He smiled. A little.

  “Always.”