We were perched on a cliff above the South Pass, hot stone under my thighs and a half-eaten fig sticking to my palm. Below us, a slaver caravan was snaking its way along the road.

  At first, I wasn’t really paying attention. Just some camels, some guards, the usual chain gang of unfortunate girls.

  Then I .

  Then I .

  “Dragon,” I said, slowly, pointing. “Are my eyes broken? Or are those… fat slave girls?”

  He didn’t look up. Just flicked a scale with one claw and muttered, “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “. . ” I hissed, leaning forward. “Not chubby. Not padded. Not ‘well-fed for the auction.’ I mean . Proper pillow-bodied, belly-jiggling, thighs-like-bread-dough !”

  Now he looked. Raised one brow ridge like a particularly judgmental eyebrow. “Hmm. Yes. Quite rotund. Luxurious even.”

  I nearly fell off the ledge.

  “Luxurious?! When was sold, I was so scrawny they debated whether to list me as a girl or a decorative broomstick! I got boiled lentils and scalded twice a week to keep the sheen up! girls look like they nap in custard!”

  The Dragon let out a soft, amused rumble. “Times change. Maybe plump is fashionable again.”

  “They look like they’ve been . What are they feeding them, pie and compliments? Look! That one’s got a snack tray balanced on her cleavage.”

  “I believe that’s rosewater pudding.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “Unbelievable! Is this some sort of sultan’s collector’s edition? A full buffet of boudoir bliss?”

  “They do seem rather... content.”

  “Of course they’re content. They haven’t seen a treadmill in their lives. That one down there is practically . I bet she’s never had to share a crust of bread with three other girls in a mildew-infested cellar.”

  He scratched his chin with a talon. “Maybe it’s a specialty market. There's always been a niche for the well-cushioned. Emphasis on .”

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  I groaned. “You’re telling me I survived the Seebulba brothel circuit on goat broth and humiliation, and is where the market’s gone? Gilded shackles and afternoon pastries?”

  “It would appear so.”

  I slumped back against the rock, scandalized. “What’s next? Noble patrons paying extra for snoring and snack breaks?”

  Dragon chuckled. “You do have a particular way of expressing envy.”

  “It’s not envy. It’s righteous outrage. And maybe a bit of envy.”

  We watched in silence as the caravan rolled by—perfume trailing in the wind, silks shimmering, giggles rising like flutes in a dream sequence.

  I muttered, “This world’s broken. You can’t even be a tragic waif anymore. Now it’s all about curves, cookies, and premium cuddle capacity.”

  “Don’t worry,” Dragon said, stretching his wings lazily. “You’re still plenty marketable in the chaos category.”

  “They’re on a steady diet of , I swear to all that is unholy,” I hissed. “Just at them!”

  I pointed like I was accusing the horizon of treason.

  Dragon squinted. “They do look… plump.”

  “ They look , Dragon. Obscene! That one jiggles when she breathes. This is an insult. An insult to all slave girls everywhere.”

  He tilted his snout. “There’s a solidarity network for that now?”

  “There be!” I was halfway to frothing. “We’re supposed to be , , ! You know—desirable but tragic! Aesthetic suffering with a hint of backstory! Not——walking dessert carts in ankle cuffs!”

  Dragon gave a thoughtful hmm. “So more ‘ballet of the damned’ than ‘baklava in bondage.’”

  “Exactly!” I slapped his haunch for emphasis. “What happened to standards?! Why did have to live on yogurt and stale bread for three years while get cinnamon buns and daybeds?!”

  “You also lived on seduction, lies, and dramatic exits.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” I glared down at the caravan like I could will it to collapse under its own frosting weight. “Do you know what it does to a girl’s psyche, being told to suck in her stomach while chained? Meanwhile, these cream puffs get decorative fans and probably mid-afternoon poetry readings.”

  Dragon rested his chin on one claw. “I’m sure it’s not poetry. Some of them might be trained in the ancient art of sensual lounging.”

  I turned to him slowly. “If you say ‘voluptuous’ I will push you off this cliff.”

  He wisely stayed silent. Smug, but silent.

  I exhaled through my nose. “This is what the world rewards now, huh? Soft curves, soft beds, soft brains. The delicate art of existing horizontally while dripping honey glaze.”

  A moment passed.

  Then I added, “I could’ve done that. I done that. Happily. Just… no one .”

  “Maybe you were too intimidating. Or too sharp. Not enough custard in your soul.”

  I gave him a look.

  He coughed. “Figuratively speaking.”

  We both looked back down at the caravan, now winding its way toward the bend in the road, the girls swaying gently like marzipan statues on parade.

  I crossed my arms, still scowling. “You know what this is, don’t you?”

  Dragon raised an eyebrow.

  “Reverse body tyranny,” I muttered. “And I missed both eras.”

  He chuckled. “At least you’re still agile enough to throw a tantrum.”

  “Don’t tempt me, scaled one.”