I sit on a flat rock, legs sprawled, thighs out, dagger in hand, scraping the blade down a hunk of river stone I found two villages ago. It’s not fancy. But it makes that gritty little song I like. Rhythmic. Satisfying. Like I'm preparing for sothing.
Like I'm dangerous.
He watches from across the fire, perched on his pile of cushions and stolen silks like so ancient, gay volcano. One brow ridge lifts.
“You look ominous,” he says, voice all velvet sarcasm.
I shrug. “Better safe than sorry.”
“You say that every ti you sharpen sothing. Then you hide it in your boot, your hair, your cleavage, or my saddlebags.”
“Exactly. See how safe we are?”
He snorts, then resus delicately grooming one of his claws. He’s got a tiny file. Like a golden sliver of murder. He buffs the edge until it glints in the firelight.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Pedicure.”
I squint at him. “That’s not pedicure. That’s tactical preparation.”
“Excuse ?”
I point my dagger at his talon. “Pedicure is for pretty. Paint. Sparkles. Little flowers maybe. What you’re doing is polishing your murder sticks.”
“They are aesthetic weapons. There’s nuance.”
“They’re talons. You use them to gut rcenaries.”
“I also use them to scratch behind my horns. And occasionally pluck fruit.”
“You skewered a man through the neck last week.”
“He startled !”
“You burped after.”
“I’m ancient. Digestion takes focus.”
I shake my head and return to my blade, still grinning. “Call it what you want. We’re both sharpening things for violence. Yours just happen to match your scales.”
He looks down at his claws, admiring them.
“They are elegant, aren’t they.”
“Deadly and stylish. Just like .”
He tilts his head. “You’ve got dried blood on your ankle.”
I glance down. “Oh. Right. From the fruit vendor. He shouldn’t have grabbed .”
“You stole six pears.”
“His grip was inappropriate.”
We fall into silence again, fire crackling, tal scraping stone, dragon claw whispering against file.
It’s dostic. In a weird, slightly homicidal way.
Like foreplay for monsters.
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