"So yeah," I say, real casual, watching his face while I stretch like a smug cat in the sun. "I once posed for a sculptor."
Dragon squints at me like I just claimed to be a royal astrologer. "You?"
"Yes, me." I flip my braid over my shoulder. "It was in Thelveth. Cultural, sophisticated, tits-out Thelveth."
He gives me this long, slow blink that just screams bullshit. So I grin and lean in.
"No, seriously. Guy came in all breathless, straight to Madam Ishri. Said he needed a model for a religious piece. Something for one of the temples—you know, the slutty ones with incense and positions that require a lumbar surgeon."
Dragon mutters, "Charming."
"Oh, it gets better. Madam rounds us up. Whole roster. Lined us up like we're a buffet of divine sin." I gesture vaguely. "And guess who gets picked?"
He doesn't answer. Just sighs. I press on.
"Me. Obviously. And okay—fine—six other girls also got picked. But there were like, fifty of us in the lineup. That's top tier, lizard. I was chosen. Selected. Artistically validated."
"You were part of a seven-pack of titties."
"Exactly!" I beam. "He needed variety. Symbolism. Fertility in all its flavours. I was blueberry cream."
He rubs his snout like he's in pain. "And what exactly did this sculpture depict?"
I waggle my eyebrows. "A goddess of mercy. Mid-blessing. Hands raised, back arched, thighs slightly parted. Very reverent."
He stares at me. "And you're sure it was a temple commission."
"Totally. Probably. I mean, it looked like a temple. There were candles and a very sweaty apprentice carrying figs."
He exhales. "You got scammed into porn."
"Oh please. I am the scam. And it was classy. Marble. Drapery. Very tasteful. I even got tipped."
He narrows those big shiny lizard eyes at me, tail curling like he smells bullshit. Which, okay, fair.
"Did the sculptor… finish his work?" he asks, all slow and suspicious.
I blink. Innocent. Play with a lock of my hair. "That's not really the point."
He doesn't blink. Just tilts his head like a cat about to ruin your furniture. "Saya."
"I mean, art is about the journey, not the destination," I say, picking dirt from under my nail. "The experience. The vibe."
He leans in, voice dropping to a purr of pure menace. "You didn't answer the question."
"I did," I protest. "Sort of. In a spiritual way."
He exhales smoke. "Did. He. Finish. The. Statue."
I roll my eyes so hard I almost see my past lives. "Ugh. Fine. Whatever. Details."
"Saya."
I fidget. "Okay, gods, no, alright?" I cross my arms. "He didn't finish. Because somebody—and I'm not naming names—may have been a little too fidgety to hold the pose."
He stares. I squirm.
"I had an itch," I mutter. "Then a cramp. Then a very distracting draft."
He blinks. I talk faster.
"And those marble pedestals are cold, okay? And that incense gave me the sneezes. And the guy kept saying 'hold that pose' and I was like, which part? The arch? The gaze? My left boob was falling asleep!"
"So you got kicked out," he says, deadpan.
"I stormed out," I correct. "With flair. And at least two figs."
He grunts. "So your immortal legacy is a half-chiseled tit and a reputation for twitching."
I sniff. "Could've been worse. At least I wasn't the one who farted during the incense prayer. That was Miraya. She got excommunicated."
He groans.
I grin.
Art is pain. And sometimes gas.