Riding a dragon is not as glamorous as it sounds.
There’s wind. There’s height. There’s the constant, numbing terror of your partner sneezing mid-flight and sending you pinwheeling into so unfortunate goat village.
But worst of all?
The scales.
His scales were hard. Bumpy. Like polished gravel with commitnt issues. And between them and my sore, tunic-draped butt cheeks… well. Let’s just say romance was very much not in the air.
I shifted again, trying to redistribute pressure away from anything I needed for future sitting. “You never talk about your past.”
He didn’t answer imdiately. Just flew.
Clouds whipped past like gossip. Below, the world rolled in greens and browns. Sowhere, a flock of birds made a startled V away from our path, probably mid-therapy.
“Well?” I poked a scale with my toe. “Don’t make guess.”
He exhaled smoke through his nostrils. “I’m old, Saya.”
“No kidding.”
“Ancient, by your standards.”
“Most brothels are older than . That doesn’t make them mysterious sages.”
He rumbled. “What’s there to tell?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe what you were doing before you started extorting villages with a freelance harlot?”
He banked slightly, the wind hissing between his teeth. “I was around when the Soo’ook Empire was still a thing.”
“The what Empire?”
“Soo’ook,” he repeated. “Mighty coastal nation. Spanned half the continent. Invented aqueducts, baked cheese, and passive aggression.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Exactly.”
I blinked. “How long ago are we talking?”
He gestured with a wing. “See that forest?”
I peered down. A thick green swathe like a sleeping beast across the hills.
He continued, “I rember when it was just fields and huts. Dirt roads. Goats that hadn’t evolved eyebrows yet.”
“Wow.”
“And before that,” he said, voice lower, almost reverent, “it was another forest. Older. Wilder. Untad.”
I stared at the trees, then back at him. “So… how *old* are you?”
He growled. “That’s impolite.”
“Oh, co on.”
“I’m not a barrel of ad with a date scratched on the bottom.”
“Are you triple digits? Quadruple? Quintuple?”
He gave a sidelong glance. “I have personally witnessed the rise and fall of thirteen currencies, eight empires, and at least two sandwich-related religions.”
“So… old.”
“I don’t count.”
“Because you forgot how?”
“Because *it doesn’t matter.*”
I flopped forward over his neck ridge dramatically. “You are no fun.”
“Fun has nothing to do with it.”
“Says the dragon with a poetry collection and four kinds of scented oils hidden in his hoard.”
He snorted. “I use those for stress.”
“You used one to polish your claws.”
“They shine.”
I sat up again, pulling my tunic forward so I wasn’t flashing passing clouds. “So tell . Why the burning? The terrorizing? You don’t even *like* virgins. And you hate goats.”
“It’s the order of things.”
“What does that even an?”
He didn’t answer imdiately. Just beat his wings once, twice. The air trembled.
Then, slower, “Because that’s what we *do.* Dragons burn. They hoard. They *terrorize.* We play our part in the world’s theater.”
“That’s bleak.”
“That’s biology.”
“Biology doesn’t make you demand tribute from peasants and hoard tiaras.”
“It does if you’re a dragon.”
I crossed my arms, sulking behind his horns. “You’re not just a dragon. You’re *you.*”
“I’m *because* I’m a dragon.”
“That’s circular logic.”
“That’s tradition.”
“That’s a cop-out.”
He growled softly.
I leaned down and whispered near his ear-hole ridge. “What if you didn’t?”
“Didn’t what?”
“Didn’t follow the script. Didn’t burn. Didn’t hoard. Didn’t scare the locals unless they *really* deserved it.”
He scoffed. “And do what? Knit?”
“Open a tavern. Host orgies. Beco a traveling courtesan. I don’t know. You’re very warm and good at exfoliating.”
Silence.
Then: “I tried once.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I tried. A long ti ago. Swore off burning. Swore off tribute. Went vegetarian for half a century. Lived in a cave near a lake. Painted sunsets.”
“Holy shit. You’re serious.”
“It was peaceful.”
“What happened?”
He sighed. “A prince found . Wrote a ballad. Brought a hunting party. Called it a rite of manhood.”
“Oh.”
“I lted his armour.”
“Fair.”
“With him still inside...”
“Oh”
“And then I burned a village.”
“Also fair.”
Silence again.
The wind roared around us. My hair whipped in my face. Below, the world went on pretending we didn’t exist.
I reached down and gently stroked one of his neck ridges. “You know, for a terrifying symbol of primal chaos, you’re kind of a sweetheart.”
“I eat people.”
“Only the stupid ones.”
“I hoard treasure.”
“So do bankers.”
“I set things on fire.”
“Okay, that’s actually a little hot.”
He groaned.
We flew on.
I didn’t press further.
Because I’d seen it.
That mont. That tiny fracture in the sarcasm. A glimpse of sothing raw and real and old beneath the scales and wit and theatrical disdain.
He wasn’t just playing a role.
He was surviving one.
And maybe—just maybe—so was I.
He was quiet for a while after that.
Then, without turning his head: “What about *your* past?”
I blinked. “Mine?”
“Yes.”
I leaned forward, arms wrapped around his neck ridge again. “What about it?”
“You’re young,” he said. “Not much karma accumulated, maybe. But you must have sothing.”
I shrugged. “You know what they say. Yesterday is history, tomorrow’s a village we haven’t scamd yet.”
“I know you were a harlot.”
“Still am,” I corrected. “Just freelance now. Set my own hours. Scales instead of sheets.”
“And that you’re from Seebulba.”
“Loosely.”
“What’s that supposed to an?”
I sighed. “I passed through Seebulba when I was, like… ten? Eleven? It was big. Loud. I got a job serving drinks and sleeping with sad people. Stayed a few years. Left. That’s it.”
“Family?”
“Orphan,” I said. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I don’t rember them, if I had them. Maybe I got dumped. Maybe they died. Maybe I just wandered off one day and nobody followed. You tell which makes the best bedti story.”
“Who sold you?”
“Indentured,” I said, the word sticky in my mouth. “In-den-chur-ed. That’s what they called it.”
“Indentured,” he corrected gently.
“Yeah. That.”
“To whom?”
I straightened, spine tight. “You’re nosy.”
“I’m not asking to pity you,” he said at last.
“Good. Because I hate pity.”
“I just want to know who I’m flying with.”
“Then call Saya. From Seebulba. Whore. Thief. Not sentintal. And very, *very* good with my toes.”
He made a sound like a laugh swallowed by smoke.
“Fair enough,” he said.
We didn’t speak again for a long ti.
But his tail curled slightly backward.
Brushed my calf.
Warm.
“Humans are cruel,” he said finally. “And that’s sothing, coming from a mythical monster.”
“Bit rich,” I muttered.
“But true. Look what they do to girls like you.”
I smiled grimly. “I must’ve done sothing really dreadful in a past life if that was my karma.”
“Might not be *that* dreadful,” he said. “You still got to et .”
I chuckled. “Fair. And you? What sort of past life karma gets you born as an ancient flying monster with scale dandruff and commitnt issues?”
“No clue,” he said. “Do dragons even reincarnate?”
“Do they?” I asked.
He shrugged under . “I don’t rember any past lives.”
“Well,” I said, “maybe this is your chance to get it right.”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t disagree.
The clouds parted ahead, revealing a glittering river far below, winding like a silver ribbon through a velvet-green valley.
I leaned forward, breath catching. “That’s pretty.”
“It’s full of leeches.”
“Okay, less pretty.”
“Accurate, though.”
I sat back again, hair whipping behind . “So, no past lives. No great destiny. Just us.”
“Just us.”
“You ever think that’s enough?”
“I do now.”
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