Saya's perspective
They kicked me out.
Just like that.
No drumroll. No trial. No ceremonial Sisterhood-style lecture about how my spirit was "an untamed flame yearning for structured rebirth."
Nope.
One bite — ONE — and suddenly I'm persona non grata, unworthy of their barefoot cult calisthenics and ant-themed spa treatments.
Let me explain.
We were doing hand‑to‑hand drills. Again.
I was already in a mood.
A foul, blistering, post‑ant, post‑itching, post‑ointment mood.
The kind of mood where I would happily fistfight a god.
My skin still tingled in places I'm not emotionally ready to talk about. My hammock still smelled like trauma. And every time the zealot twins passed me, they gave those synchronized little smiles that made me want to dunk them in honey and toss them into a termite mound.
So yes. I was primed.
Sister Clarity, with her smug bandage-free hand and fresh crop, marched us into a fighting ring and said — and I quote:
"Defend yourself with whatever skills you possess."
Whatever.
Skills.
You.
Possess.
Do you hear any restrictions?
Any, oh I don't know, guidelines?
Any "please refrain from using teeth like a rabid sewer ferret"?
No?
GOOD.
Because neither did I.
They shoved me in first, because of course they did — the "mouthy one always sets the tone," said Clarity, which is hilarious coming from someone whose tone is vinegar mixed with condescension.
Across from me stepped one of their senior Sisters — one who has been trying to break me since day one. Big shoulders. Bigger ego. A face like she's been sucking lemons since birth.
And she had a blade.
Ceremonial, they said. Dull, they said. "Part of the ritual," they said.
No thank you.
She lunged.
I dodged.
She pressed.
I slipped.
She got cocky.
And the old street rat in me kicked right the fuck in.
I went low, grabbed her wrist, twisted, and because the gods blessed me with exactly zero restraint, I bit her.
Hard.
Right on the soft part between thumb and forefinger.
The Seebulban Special.
She screamed.
Dropped the blade.
Clarity screamed louder.
Someone yelled, "Unsisterly conduct!"
Someone else yelled, "Is that blood!?"
The zealot twins whispered, "Transgressive liberation…"
And me?
I spat.
Wiped my mouth.
Said, "You told me to defend myself. Be specific next time."
Ten minutes later they marched me to the ridge, shoved a goatskin of lukewarm water into my hands, gave me a dagger so small I could've flossed with it, and said:
"Go. You're more trouble than you're worth."
So yeah.
They kicked me out.
Not defeated.
Not humbled.
Just… expelled.
Because apparently even militant anti‑patriarchal zealots draw the line at dental self-defense.
Cowards.
***
I stood there on that ridge, wind slapping my bare legs, dust already sneaking between my toes, clutching my pathetic butter‑knife dagger and goatskin like a deranged desert pilgrim, and all I could think was:
So I didn't even need an escape plan.
Not the midnight route.
Not the cheese heist.
Not the whole "Saya strikes out alone under the stars, mistress of her destiny, feared by ants everywhere" fantasy.
Nope.
All I needed was a foul temper, three days of accumulated itch‑rage, and the kind of judgment that has ruined every job, relationship, and opportunity I've ever touched.
They did the work for me.
They kicked me out.
Freedom by expulsion.
Classic Saya.
I threw my hands up — well, one hand, because the other was still holding the goatskin.
"Really? That's it? No sandals, even?"
Because yes. They kept the sandals.
They kept the fucking sandals.
"Is that too much to ask?" I yelled at the empty camp behind me. "Basic footwear? A parting gift for your favorite disciplinary case? A memento of my suffering?!"
Silence.
Just wind and distant chanting as they marched off without me, probably feeling spiritually superior and very smug about their decision to release the feral problem child back into the wild.
I kicked a rock.
Ow.
Bare toes.
Right.
"Unbelievable," I muttered. "They could've at least tossed me a pair of those ugly rope sandals. Just one. Just the left one. I could've hopped."
I tightened the goatskin strap, tucked the useless dagger into my waistband, and glared southward like the horizon had personally insulted me.
"So fine," I grumbled to nobody. "No plan. No shoes. Just me and the raw power of terrible life choices."
I took a step.
The ground was hot.
"OW. Perfect. Love that for me."
Another step.
"RUN AWAY, I said. MAKE A BREAK FOR IT, I said. AND THEY BEAT ME TO IT. Gods."
I sighed.
Long.
Dramatic.
Full of doom and breadcrumbs of self‑awareness.
"Okay, Saya," I muttered. "South it is. Maybe the sea. Maybe death. Maybe a tavern with cheese. Maybe a city that doesn't tie women to poles coated in honey."
I squared my shoulders.
Took one more barefoot, resentful step.
"Fuck it. Let's go."
***
So that's it then.
No daring escape.
No midnight dash under moonlight with a stolen cheese wheel and a whispered farewell.
No clever plan.
No heroic last stand.
Just bad temper.
Worse judgment.
And a well-placed bite.
Turns out, all I ever needed was to be myself at my absolute worst.
Typical.
Honestly, I'd be proud if my feet weren't already half-flayed from marching and they hadn't sent me packing without my sandals.
Who does that?
I mean, come on. Even slavers usually give you a boot. Singular, at least. For balance.
I sigh and scan the horizon, one hand shielding my eyes against the merciless sky.
Let's see…
North?
Stone ridges. Ridges behind ridges. That's upper steppe country — colder, windier, full of mountain cults and, if I'm really lucky, another bloody Amazon encampment waiting to shave the rest of my hair and tell me suffering is empowerment.
East?
Flat. Bleached. Empty. Like the gods forgot to texture it properly. A whole canvas of fuck-all, with heat waves dancing over the dust and not a tree in sight. No thanks. I've suffered enough introspection.
West?
Too quiet. Too still.
That's where stories end in bones.
South?
Maybe the sea.
Maybe civilization.
Maybe just a whole lot of walking toward absolutely nothing.
But there's a breeze coming from the south.
It smells… better. Like salt, or fish, or hope.
It might be a day away.
Might be three.
Might be a week of blisters and sunburn and me screaming at rocks for company.
I adjust the goatskin strap on my shoulder. It leaks. Of course it leaks. I poke the dagger at my belt — still useless, still decorative, still insulting.
Then I point myself south.
Because of course south.
And mutter, "Fine. Let's see what else the world wants to throw at me barefoot."
And I start walking.