The wind moaned through the broken teeth of the old battlements. Dry grass rasped under my feet as we picked our way through what once passed for a gate. The sky had that piss-yellow tint it gets before rain, and the whole place stank of owl shit, moss, and ancient arrogance.
I tugged my shawl tighter around my shoulders. "This is shelter? Really?"
Behind me, the Dragon huffed, his nostrils flaring as he eyed the jagged outline of the ruined hilltop fort. Crumbling towers leaned like drunkards against the sky. One wall had collapsed entirely, spilling stone and memory down the slope like a broken jaw. Still, he looked… impressed.
"Marvelous," he muttered.
I blinked. "What, the pile of rubble or the aroma of damp regret?"
He ignored me. Stepped gingerly over a fallen lintel stone, his tail curling behind him with reverence.
"Uncle did this," he said.
I paused. "Did what?"
He didn't even look back. "This. The ruin. One of his finer works."
I raised an eyebrow. "Wait—you mean he built it?"
A beat.
"No," the Dragon said, with the smug satisfaction of a wine critic sniffing a bottle from the year kingdoms fell. "He destroyed it. See that arch?" He pointed a claw. "Still standing. That's dwarven. Vaulted to last. And over there—look at that fresco. You can still see the scorch marks."
I followed his gaze. Sure enough, there was a half-charred relief carved into the wall—some doomed lady with uplifted arms and terrified eyes, now blackened at the edges.
He sighed, almost fondly. "The precision. The poetry. My uncle was a true artist."
"You're admiring a massacre," I muttered.
He turned, eyes glowing faintly. "Saya, darling. Civilization is fleeting. Destruction, when done with care, becomes legacy."
I sat on a fallen column and shook the owl pellets off the end. "Remind me to never let you near a cake I've baked."
"Oh please. As if you bake."
Fair point.
Still, I looked up at the cracked ceiling, bits of starlight poking through, and muttered, "So this was a fortress?"
"Once," he said. "Built by the Sabrabenan princelets. All vanity and ivory tiles. Thought they could tame the highlands. My uncle disabused them of the notion."
"And now we're sleeping in it."
He glanced around. "We'll bed down in the old chapel. Less draft. Decent acoustics."
"For snoring?"
"For monologuing. In case I get inspired."
I rolled my eyes, but followed him.
Because honestly? The walls still stood. Sort of. And the Dragon, for all his drama and historical fetishism, wasn't wrong.
There was beauty in ruin.
Especially when it kept the rain off.
The Dragon's claws clicked softly on the stone as he paced through what remained of the old chapel—his tail swaying with the lazy rhythm of someone mid-lecture. Bits of shattered stained glass crunched under his steps, and he didn't even flinch. He was in his element. Surrounded by ruin. History. Smugness.
"See," he said, gesturing with one claw at the scorched murals, "the land isn't big enough for all your petty princlings. Every goat with a banner thinks he's a sovereign."
I leaned back against a half-fallen column, arms crossed, one foot idly flicking a bone fragment away. "And you dragons are the solution? What, divine smiters of overgrowth?"
He nodded solemnly. "Exactly. We're like… game wardens."
"Game wardens."
"Ecological stewards. Population control specialists. Cosmic sanitation workers, if you will."
"You burn things."
He snorted. "Yes, but tastefully. See, left alone, you humans—and don't get me started on elves and dwarves—build and breed like mold in a bread bin. Duchy here, barony there, suddenly there's a lord of the lettuce fields and a Count of Carrotpatch." He pointed toward the window slit. "Every hill gets a keep. Every hillock, a shrine. Every pumpkin patch, a principality."
"And your solution," I said, "is to swoop in and torch it all."
He gave a satisfied little shrug. "We thin the herd. Keep things from tipping over. It's very elegant. Without us, the entire ecosystem collapses under the weight of its own self-importance."
I raised an eyebrow. "So burning this place was… conservation?"
"Absolutely. Do you have any idea how many minor royals were squatting in this fort? Fourteen. Fourteen princelings. One family. All cousins. Each with their own crest, their own tax policy, and their own pretensions of divine right. It was obscene."
"And your uncle just… corrected the imbalance."
"With fire," he said, smiling. "Lots of fire."
I looked around the chapel. Charred beams. Collapsed dome. An altar cracked in two. Somewhere in the corner, an owl hooted disapprovingly.
"You dragons are psychos."
"Ecologists," he corrected.
"Pyromaniac ecologists."
"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to."
I rolled my eyes. "You're lucky you're pretty when you monologue."
"And you," he said, flaring his wings just slightly, "are lucky I'm too old to smite charming little pests who talk back."
We both smiled.
The Dragon's voice took on that reverent, slightly dreamy tone he reserved for the really obscene parts of history. His claws traced the air above a wall, not quite touching, like a curator admiring a priceless fresco.
"Look at the splatter, Saya," he murmured, eyes alight. "See how the stone flakes outward? That was a pressure blast—full exhale, no restraint. Beautiful."
I squinted. "That's… a bloodstain?"
"Was. Now it's pigment. Time has made it tasteful." He moved a few steps down the wall, where a blackened figure was seared into the stone, arms outstretched in some tragic, smoky plea. "Now this—this is exquisite. Look at that silhouette. You can tell he was a monk. The robes. The posture. Mid-prayer, most likely."
"Are you admiring the way someone exploded?"
"Incinerated," he corrected. "There's a difference. Vaporization is crude. This? This was deliberate. You can tell by the edges—crisp, but not overdone. You want to leave a little ash for contrast."
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
He went on, oblivious. "Not everyone can pull this off, you know. Incinerating clergy with such precision requires immense control. You have to factor in the airflow, the weight of the robes, the sanctity radius…"
"The what?"
"Blessed garments add resistance. Everyone knows that." He tapped a claw against the floor, as if disappointed I didn't. "But it's not all science, Saya. It's flair. Showmanship. You don't just sneeze fire and hope for the best."
He turned to me, eyes glowing like a hearth. "It's art. Choreography. A symphony in smoke and screams."
I gave him a long, hard look. "You worry me sometimes."
He beamed. "That's how you know it's working."
The Dragon sighed, long and theatrical, smoke curling from his nostrils like the last breath of a dying empire. He lowered himself onto a chunk of fallen masonry with a groan of ancient joints and heavier memories.
"Alas," he said, gazing wistfully at the scorched silhouette on the wall. "There are no such artists anymore."
I tilted my head. "You mean arsonists."
He gave me a sharp look. "Art is what separates a massacre from a masterpiece. But who am I to talk? I'd never presume to claim such greatness."
I blinked. "You torched a windmill last week because they overcharged me for wine."
"That was righteous indignation, and you were being fleeced."
"But it exploded."
"Exactly."
He shifted, wings rustling like old parchment. "I mean, yes… I can still execute a decent torching of a small keep. With time. Patience. A clean wind. When I was younger—" he chuckled, a low, rumbly thing "—there were a couple castle burnings I'm still proud of. The siege at Borth Hollow? Magnificent. Smoke columns so thick the sun didn't rise for three days. And that tower at Delvia's Ridge? Collapsed in a single breath. Elegant."
His voice dropped. "But now? Eh."
He stared off into the distance, like he could still see it—the flames, the ruin, the applause that never came.
"And the younger generation… don't get me started. No respect for craft. They grill a duke the same way they'd grill a cow. Sloppy. Loud. Charcoal everywhere. Not a single ruined ballad left behind. No dignity anymore, Saya. No proper pathos."
I folded my arms. "You're ranting like a drunk playwright."
He gave a soft groan. "Gods, maybe I am a relic. A dinosaur among lizards."
"Technically—"
"Don't."
I sat beside him, kicking a pebble. "For what it's worth, your last rampage gave two bards PTSD and made a widow vow celibacy."
He smiled, just a little. "See? That's the mark of true craftsmanship."