They didn’t even ask if I was a virgin.
Which was rude, frankly.
They just saw a pretty face, a scandalous amount of thigh, and decided I was altar material. Strapped to a stone pylon like a particularly slutty lawn ornant and dumped a handful of gold coins and a note in a bowl beside .
It read: “O Great Beast. Please accept this humble offering. We’re very sorry about the shepherd.”
I squinted at it. “You’d think they’d at least spring for calligraphy.”
The wind howled. My nipples stiffened. My ankles were bleeding slightly from the manacles. A goat watched from the bushes, chewing sothing judgntally.
So, yeah. I was having a day.
And I was scared. I’ll admit that now. I hadn’t planned this one. I didn’t con my way into the role. I was just passing through, dusty and hungry and looking for sowhere to sell my last pair of shoes. Next thing I know, I’m trussed up on a promontory like an appetizer.
Then the sky changed.
It always does, before they arrive.
The clouds darkened—not storm-dark, but sothing heavier, older. The air stilled. The goat ran. I considered doing the sa but was short on wiggle room.
Then: the roar.
Not a sound, really. A feeling. Like your spine rembered being prey.
He landed with a thunderclap. Wings spread. Scales like tarnished armor, smoke curling from his nostrils like an exasperated teapot. He was beautiful and terrible and clearly overdue for a facial.
I scread.
Because it seed appropriate.
He ignored .
Just padded toward the offering bowl, claws clicking on the stone. He sniffed the gold, sneezed, and muttered, “Cheap bastards.”
Then he looked at .
Really looked.
I sucked in a breath and prepared to be eaten, or ravished, or both in a complicated order. I twisted my hips slightly for effect.
But he just tilted his great horned head and said, “Hmph. Human.”
“Y-yes?” I managed.
He snorted again. “Relax. I’m a dragon, not a man. I don’t fuck sacrifices.”
I blinked. “You... don’t?”
“What would I do with you? I have gout.”
“Oh.” I paused. “What about devouring?”
He made a face. “Do you have any idea how many tavern wenches and runaway thieves these villages offer ? Full of anxiety and mutton fat. Indigestible.”
“So you’re… not going to eat ?”
“I said I’m a dragon, not a human. What use would I have for a loud, sweaty little harlot?”
“Hey!” I said. “I’m only loud when I want to be.”
He squinted. “You sll like sex and broth.”
“Thank you,” I said instinctively, then frowned. “Wait—”
He turned back to the gold, sighed dramatically, and began sweeping it into a cloth bag with one claw. “Gods, even the coin is greasy. Is that… lard?”
I cleared my throat. “So... what happens now?”
“You get off that rock and go back to whatever brothel or barn you escaped from. I take the gold. The villagers sleep easy for three weeks. Then I flap off to the next hellhole and repeat the performance.”
“You’re just going to leave?”
“Yes.”
“But I—” I scrambled after him, trying to keep up without tripping over the hem of my nearly nonexistent tunic. “You can’t just— I an, I was offered. Like a al. Or a... consort.”
He snorted. “I’m not hungry. And I’m definitely not lonely.”
I planted myself in front of his snout before he could unfurl his wings. “Take with you.”
He blinked once. Twice. Then said, with the infinite patience of soone who’s dealt with far too many screaming villagers, “No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a dragon.”
“I noticed.”
“I don’t travel with people.”
“I’m not people,” I said quickly. “I’m... useful.”
“Useful?” he drawled, like the word had personally offended him. “Can you cook?”
“Yes!” I lied instantly.
He narrowed one golden eye. “Tend wounds?”
“Absolutely.”
“Track prey?”
“Of course.”
“Speak ancient draconic?”
“Fluently.”
“Tell the difference between poison hemlock and parsley?”
“Obviously.”
“Recite the lost epics of Bal-Hadra’zhuul?”
“Backwards.”
He gave a long look.
I smiled. Wide. Innocent. Maybe a little deranged.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then said flatly, “You’re lying.”
“Not about all of it.”
“Which parts?”
“I guess you’ll find out.”
He exhaled a puff of smoke straight into my face. I coughed, fanned it away, and kept smiling like a lunatic. He shook his head, muttering sothing about divine punishnts and foolish wenches.
I stepped closer. “Look, I’m not asking for much. Just a ride. A chance.”
“To what? Loot, burn, and seduce your way through the countryside?”
“Yes. Obviously. I thought that was the plan.”
He groaned. “Gods, you talk so much.”
“And yet, you haven’t flown away.”
Pause.
“You remind of a magpie I once t,” he muttered. “Pretty, loud, and constantly trying to hump shiny things.”
“I am shiny.”
He closed his eyes. “Fine. You can walk behind.”
“What?”
“Behind. Far behind. If I sll perfu or hear singing, I’m dropping you in a swamp.”
I grinned. “You like .”
“I tolerate you.”
“You begrudgingly respect .”
He sighed, spreading his wings with the weariness of soone who knew they were making a mistake and doing it anyway. “No touching my hoard. No asking about my age. No humming during flight.”
I did a small, triumphant dance.
“Oh, and if you ever try to ride sidesaddle again—”
“I won’t!”
“—I will land midair and let gravity sort it out.”
“Understood!”
He beat his wings once, testing the air.
Then, without looking at , he muttered, “Well? Are you coming or not?”
And that was the start.
Of sothing big. Chaotic. Probably dood.
A greedy girl.
A grumpy dragon.
And a sky full of bad decisions.
***
So. Apparently, soaproot isn’t food.
Who knew?
The cauldron belched a gout of blackish-grey smoke that slled like boiled regrets and maybe feet. I stood over it like a war widow, ladle in hand, face streaked with soot, sweat, and sothing sticky I absolutely didn’t want to identify.
Behind , I could feel him watching.
I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. His silence was loud enough to rattle spoons.
Finally, he spoke.
“You don’t actually know how to cook, do you?”
I stiffened. Kept stirring. Sothing inside the pot made a glorp noise and twitched like it was trying to escape.
“That’s a rude accusation,” I said.
“It’s an observation,” he replied. “You boiled mint leaves and charcoal. And what is that floating on top?”
“Flavor.”
“That’s a fingernail.”
I blinked. “Oh.”
He exhaled smoke like a disappointed art critic. “You told you could cook.”
“I can! This is just a... rustic peasant stew. Very authentic. Earthy.”
“Earthy,” he repeated, walking around to get a better look. “It’s bubbling like a curse.”
I dropped the ladle. It stuck upright in the goo.
He gave the look. “So. Cooking’s a no.”
“I patched your tail that one ti.”
“With a stolen shoelace.”
“And love.”
“You tied it like a corset and poured wine on the wound.”
“It healed, didn’t it?”
“It itched for two weeks.”
“You’re welco. Built character.”
He glared. “You also said you could hunt.”
“I can. I’m just more of a... hunter of opportunity. A gatherer of unattended at.”
“You brought a half-eaten squirrel with rigor mortis.”
“Still counts as protein.”
“And ancient poetry?”
“There once was a man from the coast—”
“Stop.”
I sighed. “Okay. So maybe I exaggerated a tiny bit.”
“You lied.”
“I *embellished.*”
He rubbed his temples. “You contribute nothing except chaos, thievery, and near-fatal dinner attempts.”
“I also moan convincingly in fear and passion. That counts.”
He stared.
“It’s a *skill.*”
He looked back at the bubbling black ooze threatening to climb out of the cauldron. It was dead. Just a scorched ring of goo clinging to the bottom like a taphor for my dignity. Smoke still hung in the cave like a bad mood. The Dragon was curled up beside the embers, tail twitching occasionally like he wanted to slap with it but didn’t want to risk the arthritis.
He yawned. “So,” he said, “what are you exactly? Not a cook. Not a healer. Not a scout. Not a huntress. Not a bard. A barmaid? A whore? Very useful in the wilderness.”
“Wow,” I said. “Flattery.”
“Maybe I could sell you to slavers,” he added dryly.
“Excuse ?”
“I’d get at least a cauldron out of it.”
“Rude.”
He stretched his wings lazily. “Convince otherwise. You said you could be useful.”
“I *am* useful!” I said quickly. “I can cook—”
“Proven false.”
“Tend wounds.”
“Barely survived your last attempt.”
“Scout!”
“You got lost in a clearing.”
“Then what *do* you want from ?”
“Proof you’re worth keeping.”
That stung more than I expected.
I crossed my arms. “I *am* worth keeping. I just… need the right context.”
He looked at like a teacher waiting for the wrong answer.
And that’s when it hit .
“Alright,” I said slowly. “You’re a dragon. Big, scary, ancient. You fly in, roar a bit, and everyone loses their minds, right?”
“Correct.”
“And I,” I said, tapping my chest, “am small, tragic, and human. So when I show up at a village, crying about how the Great Dragon burned my ho, everyone believes . They scrape together gold, jewels, virgins, whatever you want—just to make you go away.”
He tilted his head. “Go on.”
“Then you swoop in, take the tribute, look terrifying, and fly off. No fire. No death. Just drama.”
“And if they don’t believe you?”
“Then you actually *do* burn sothing small. A goat. A haystack. Maybe their pride.”
He humd, eyes narrowing. “And the hero problem?”
“Oh, I handle heroes,” I said. “Distract them. Confuse them. Get them to drop their guard.”
He squinted. “You an you’ll sleep with them.”
“*Distract* them,” I repeated. “Sa outco, fewer stab wounds.”
He was quiet for a long ti.
Finally, he said, “We split the gold.”
“Evenly,” I lied.
He gave a long, smoky stare. “You’re a terrible cook.”
“I’m an excellent liar.”
That earned the smallest smile—crooked, ancient, and dangerous.
“Fine,” he said. “One village. One scam. If it fails, I sell you to slavers.”
“Deal.”
He grunted. “Get so sleep. We plan at dawn.”
I curled up beside the fire, smug and exhausted.
Behind , he muttered, “This will end badly.”
But his tone—his tone said *finally, sothing interesting.*
I hesitated. “Do you... ever shapeshift? You know, to blend in?”
He gave a tired side-eye. “I can. Into an old man with a bad back and no libido. And before you ask—yes, also gay.”
I blinked. “Well that’s disappointing.”
He grunted. “For whom?”
I looked down at my chains, then up at him. “Will you at least untie ?”
He sighed again—like he’d been put on this plane of existence to suffer minor inconveniences—and extended one talon. With a flick, the chains snapped.
I rubbed my wrists. “Thanks. That was chafing.”
“You’re welco. Now go. Before soone thinks I’m recruiting groupies.”
I didn’t move.
He watched for a mont. “Why are you still here?”
I tilted my head. “You know,” I said slowly, “you’re the first dragon who’s ever spoken to .”
“I should hope so.”
“And definitely the first one who didn’t try to eat, burn, or bed .”
He blinked. “You’re disappointed.”
“Honestly?” I stood, brushing soot off my thighs. “A little.”
He stared at . I stared back.
And then—for reasons still unclear—I smiled.
“So,” I said. “Need a partner?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Partner?”
“I’ve got ideas,” I said. “I can cry on command. Moan like a saint in heat. And I know how to make peasants panic in three languages.”
He tilted his head. “You’re shaless.”
“And flexible,” I added helpfully.
He was silent for a long mont. Then, with a low huff of smoke, he muttered, “Get on.”
“On what?”
“My back.”
I grinned. “Oh, darling. You do like .”
“Not even a little.”
“Liar.”
He crouched, wings flexing.
And that, children, is how I went from nearly-sacrificed tramp to business partner of the most neurotic, arthritic, treasure-hoarding lizard west of the Iron Hills.
You know what they say.
If you can’t beat the dragon...
Rob villages with him.
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