We were camped somewhere in the ass-end of nowhere again. Ruined aqueduct above, some crumbled statue of a forgotten fertility goddess to the left, fire crackling like it was trying to summon its dignity. I was half-dressed, as usual, feet bare, picking twigs out of my hair. Dragon was coiled nearby, staring into the flames like they owed him rent.

  I stretched, popped a few joints, and dropped onto my blanket with a sigh.

  “You know,” I said, conversationally, “being a harem slut is not as glamorous as people think.”

  He didn’t look at me. Just flicked one ear ridge. That was his way of saying

  “I mean, you'd assume there's a system. Right? Like a rotating roster. Some enchanted ledger with columns—who gets dick on Mondays, who does laundry, who is on pillow duty. Maybe a jeweled cock-ring as a sign of current ownership. Something.”

  Still nothing from him. But the smoke curled slightly more aggressively. That’s Dragon for

  I leaned back, arms behind my head, toes tapping to some internal rhythm. “But no. That’s only for the big places. Imperial harems. The ones with eunuch accountants and perfumed schedules.”

  I turned my head and grinned at him. “Most other places? You’ve got four girls. Five, tops. Which means—gossip. Backstabbing. Hair-pulling. Petty little ‘accidents’ involving depilatory powder and your favorite tunic.”

  Dragon exhaled through his nostrils. A judgmental puff. “Sounds... inefficient.”

  “Oh, it’s inefficient,” I said. “It’s passive-aggressive warfare. It’s ‘accidentally’ breaking the lute of the girl who sings too well. It’s ‘oops, I used the last of the perfumed oil’ when you know damn well she has a client with a fetish for lavender. And of course—chores.”

  That got him. One golden eye opened, slit pupil narrowing.

  “Chores,” I repeated. “Harem edition. Cook duty, sweep duty, bathhouse duty. And if you're the mouthy one?”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  I raised my hand theatrically.

  “They say: ”

  Dragon groaned.

  “I KNOW,” I said, clutching my chest in mock offense. “How they. Just because I can arch my back like a goddess doesn’t mean I enjoy scrubbing chamber pots with my dignity.”

  He rumbled. “You had dignity?”

  I threw a pebble at his tail. It bounced off a scale and went .

  “And you know what’s not my fault?” I went on, voice rising with righteous fury. “That their boring, donkey-faced husband saw me in a slave cage—topless, in chains, looking like a tragic erotic poem—and just to splurge.”

  I pointed a finger at him. “Not my fault I’ve got good tits and a compelling sob story.”

  Dragon gave me a slow, theatrical blink. “Compelling?”

  “Very compelling,” I said. “There were tears. There was a trembling lip. I might have sung something mournful in broken High Elvish. He cried. The merchant cried. I think even the camel cried.”

  “And then?”

  I smirked. “Then he bought me. Upgraded me from cage to cushioned corner. Gave me bangles. Called me ‘precious jewel’ for a week. His prime wife tried to poison me twice.”

  “Charming.”

  “Oh, and she also made me polish her sandals. With my ” I waved a hand. “Eventually they sold me back to the market. Something about me being a bad influence on the junior wives.”

  Dragon didn’t comment.

  I rolled onto my side, chin in my palm, watching the flames dance. “You’d think sharing a bed would make women bond. That we’d form sisterhoods. Cultivate solidarity. Maybe have a little circle where we share skincare tips and healing salves for rug burn.”

  Dragon muttered, “That sounds suspiciously like your Sisterhood of Amazons.”

  I snorted. “Please. Those girls would bite your throat out for putting the salve in the wrong drawer.”

  He didn’t argue.

  I poked at the fire. “Nah. Harems aren’t soft. They’re gladiator pits in silk. No rules. Just who can cry prettiest, moan loudest, and stab you in the back with a sharpened hairpin when the prince isn’t looking.”

  Silence for a beat.

  Then Dragon said, in that dry deadpan of his, “I see you flourished.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Well. Let’s just say I didn’t get promoted of my embroidery skills.”

  I let that hang for a moment.

  Then, wicked grin in place, I added, “But I get one prime wife demoted after convincing her son I was his real mother.”

  Dragon choked. “You didn’t.”

  “Oh I did. Poor boy still sends me birthday poems.”

  Another pause.

  Then he muttered, “Gods help the next harem that gets you.”

  I stretched luxuriously. “They’ll need it.”

  And with that, I leaned back, tucked my hands behind my head, and stared up at the stars like I was royalty again.

  Just not the kind they expected.