I prop my heel on the edge of a rock, spit on the pumice, and start scrubbing.
Hard.
Like I'm trying to erase the trail of ex-lovers from the soles of my feet.
The Dragon's watching me.
Pretending not to.
Pretending he's more interested in the fire, or the smoke, or whatever celestial hemorrhoid is currently aligning with Mars.
But I know he's watching.
"You missed a spot," he says finally, without looking.
I don't pause. "Do you want a turn?"
He snorts. "I have claws, darling. I exfoliate naturally. You, however, look like you're trying to sand yourself down to the bone."
"These feet," I say, switching legs with a satisfied hiss, "have walked across half the continent. Climbed out of slave pits, danced on altars, kicked two princes and a goat. They deserve some love."
"You mean pity."
I flash him a grin. "Jealous?"
He huffs, puffing a little smoke into the air. "Of your blistered hobbit hooves? Absolutely."
Still watching, though. I can see his eye tracking every motion.
I take my time. Scrub slow. Let the steam of the cauldron kiss my ankles. Dip a toe in the basin and let the water spill down my calf like a temptress in a wine ad.
"Do you want to lick them?" I ask sweetly.
He nearly chokes on his own breath. "By all the gods—no."
"Then stop staring."
He turns away, offended, scandalized, dramatically affronted.
For about five seconds.
Then:
"…You really take this seriously."
I glance at him, surprised.
He's still not looking directly, but his voice is softer now. Curious. Almost reverent.
"Of course I do," I say. "These feet carried me out of every cage I was thrown in. They've bled for me more than any man ever has. So yes, I scrub them. I oil them. I make them smell like victory and stolen rosemary."
A long pause.
Then, gruffly:
"…You missed a spot between the third and fourth toe."
I grin.
I scrub it.
And from the corner of my eye, I catch it:
One slow blink of golden admiration.
The smallest curl of smoke from his nostrils.
The flicker of pride he'll never admit out loud.
Because my dragon may be a hoarder of gold,
But tonight—
he's watching me polish the real treasure.
I finish the last pass with the pumice and blow on my foot like it's hot soup.
Then I stretch—leg fully extended, toes pointed like I'm in some half-nude ballet for deranged pirates—and admire the results.
"Look at that," I declare, wiggling my toes. "Smooth as a baby priest's conscience. I could seduce royalty just by stepping on them."
The Dragon grumbles something about standards in decline.
I twist around to flash both feet at him, soles up, ankles crossed like an invitation and a threat.
He flinches slightly, because I aim the pose. Like a weapon.
"Go on," I say. "Admit it. You're impressed."
He doesn't answer immediately. Just snorts. But it's that thin-snorted one he does when he's trying not to give me the satisfaction.
I grin wider. "All I need now is some dye. Berry juice, henna, crushed beetle shells, something. These toes are begging for color."
He eyes my feet like they've insulted his lineage.
"You'll ruin it," he mutters.
I blink. "Ruin what?"
"That." He nods, begrudging. "The polish. The effort. The—"
He waves a claw vaguely. "Foot craftsmanship."
I raise a brow. "Is that praise, old man?"
He pretends to scratch his snout. "It's… commentary."
"Mmhmm."
I rotate my ankle, admiring the gleam. "They deserve it. They've kicked gods, lovers, and three types of nobles. These toes have history. They should be celebrated."
He looks like he's going to gag.
I smirk. "I'm thinking a deep red. Something slutty, something regal. Blood and rubies. You know—'kiss me or die' vibes."
Another huff.
But then, softer:
"…I think the bronze would suit you."
I blink.
He doesn't meet my eyes.
He just lays his big head down on his claws and mutters,
"Not that I care. Obviously."
I smile into the firelight.
"Obviously," I echo.
And mentally add "Dragon-approved" to my list of victories for the day.
He shifts again, watching me flex my freshly scrubbed foot like it's giving a lecture on divine elegance.
Then, with that trademark ancient beast baffled by modern trash tone, he rumbles:
"I didn't even know humans spend this much time… pampering themselves."
I snort. "Most don't. Just the important ones."
He lifts a brow ridge. "Ah. So all it takes to be important is narcissism and a rock."
I grin. "That, and excellent arch support."
Then I lean back on my elbows, letting the firelight gleam off my calves like a walking sin.
"I'll have you know, I was temple trained in seduction."
He makes a choking noise. "You got kicked out for offering 'private blessings' behind the altar."
"Yes," I say proudly, "but before that, they taught posture, scent layering, toe flexing, oil ratios, nipple glitter—all the sacred arts."
He groans.
"And," I add, "the henhouses I was indentured to? They ran tighter routines than most royal courts. You think you can charge extra for a half-hour if your cuticles look like goat hooves? Please."
He eyes me sideways. "You were indentured to five different establishments, Saya."
"Exactly. And I left each one with better skin and a longer client list."
There's a pause. Then, grudging:
"…Your callouses are unusually symmetrical."
I flash him both soles like a saint blessing her followers.
"That's temple precision, baby."
He mutters something about scandalizing the gods.
I blow a kiss.
They can get in line.