Back in the dungeon.
Still chained. Still filthy. Still damp in the wrong ways and not the fun ones.
They'd hauled me off the rack and tossed me back in like a broken doll. I ached everywhere, but I was alive. Sort of. My spine clicked every time I shifted, and my wrists were rubbed raw, but I still had my voice, my legs, and most importantly—my attitude.
Elira was slumped beside me, half-conscious and mumbling about bread. Sweet girl. Sweet dumb bread-baking almost-witch of a girl.
Me? I was plotting.
And then came the rattle of keys and the telltale clomp of horny teenage doom.
Dungeon Guard #3.
Gods preserve us. Barely old enough to shave, and I'd bet good silver he thought "foreplay" meant poking a girl with the flat end of a broom.
But there he was. Big eyes. Bigger ears. Spear clutched like he was compensating.
Perfect.
I let out a little whimper. Just a breathy, needy thing. Like a woman bruised, betrayed, and in desperate need of attention.
"Is that you?" I whispered, lifting my chin, baring a bit of neck. "My savior?"
He blinked. "Huh?"
I gave him a slow once-over. Bit my lip. Let my thighs part just slightly as I shifted on the cold floor, the torn hem of my tunic riding dangerously high. No underwear. Naturally.
"You're cute," I said, breath hitching. "They send you to… check on me?"
He swallowed. Hard. "I—I—uh…"
"You want a closer look, don't you?" I purred. "Go on, pretty boy. You ever see a real witch before?"
He took a step closer.
I arched my back—just enough to make the chains jingle—and let my legs slide apart fully, one foot raised, toes pointed, skin glistening with sweat and grime and raw, living mischief.
His jaw dropped.
Then he blinked.
Then he fainted.
Just collapsed. Spear clattered. Body hit the stone with a sad little flump. A moment later, he twitched. Then farted.
I blinked.
"Well," I said, "I guess I still got it."
Elira stirred beside me, eyes fluttering open. "Did you kill him?"
"No," I said, craning my neck to peek at the carnage. "I liberated him from the burden of virginity. Through sheer suggestion."
She groaned. "What now?"
I pointed with my foot. "Keys. Belt. We have a window. And I am not dying in this hellhole without making at least one guard wet himself."
She stared at me. "You're serious."
"I'm always serious when I'm half-naked and seconds from execution."
And so began the least erotic tango in dungeon history.
Elira and I, both straining our legs like tipsy dancers in a tavern revue, toes extended, thighs trembling, straining toward that glint of freedom hanging from the boy's belt like a prize just out of reach.
"Little more," I grunted. "Come on. Stretch those legs, Elira. Channel your inner courtesan acrobat."
"I bake pies!" she hissed. "Not perform contortionist escape routines!"
"You want to be pie in a few hours?"
She grit her teeth and reached harder.
My toes brushed metal. Slipped.
Again.
Closer.
Then—clink.
The keys dropped.
Between us.
Elira and I looked at each other. Then at the spot where they now lay, just barely out of reach.
And then we both scooted.
Naked thighs, bruised knees, straining and cursing and giggling like lunatics.
And I swear to all the gods watching—if we get out of this, I'm making that boy my patron saint of premature arousal.
A low groan echoed through the cell.
Elira and I froze.
The boy twitched.
Still face-down in his own drool puddle, he let out a pained grunt and shifted. One hand flailed blindly, pawing at the floor. His fingers brushed the ring of keys.
I sucked in a breath. "No, no, no, no—"
His hand curled.
He started to lift his head.
Elira whimpered. I clenched.
And then, with the precision of a pissed-off ballerina, I raised my foot and slammed my heel down on the back of his skull.
Thunk.
His head bounced once, and he collapsed again with the satisfying limpness of a stunned duck.
"Stay down, perv," I muttered, flexing my ankle.
Elira blinked. "Did you just—"
"Self-defense."
"Wasn't he already unconscious?"
"Emotional self-defense."
But—bless his horny little soul—as his body flopped, his arm spasmed, and the tips of his fingers nudged the keys. Just enough.
Just enough for them to skitter an inch closer. Right into Elira's range.
She didn't even hesitate. Her toes snapped out like she'd been training for this moment since birth.
Clink.
She caught the ring between two trembling toes.
We both stared.
Then she looked at me, grinning like she'd just pulled Excalibur from a particularly disgusting stone.
"I got them," she whispered.
"You beautiful, miraculous baked-goods witch," I gasped.
She started shimmying the keys up toward her bound wrists. Awkward. Wobbly. Pure theatre of the absurd. But slowly—blessedly—the lock clicked.
One hand free.
Then the other.
She dropped beside me, fingers fumbling with my manacles.
I beamed. "Elira?"
"Yes?"
"When we get out of here…"
"Yeah?"
"I'm buying you a whole bakery."
She smiled. "Deal."
The first shackle popped.
Then the second.
And just like that—we were free.
Barefoot. Bruised. Half-naked.
Elira and I slapped through the dungeon halls like a pair of panicked frogs. Every wet footstep echoed off the stone with the subtlety of a drum solo. The torches on the wall flickered, throwing our shadows like drunk ghosts. Our breath steamed in the cold air.
"I hate this," I hissed.
"You hate everything," she panted.
"Not true. I love gold, orgasms, and overpriced bath oils. This, however, is at the bottom of the list."
We crept past rows of empty cells, broken chains, and a rat that looked at me like it owed me money. A stairwell loomed ahead, winding upward toward the promise of a door. Freedom. Escape. Possibly cheese.
We made it halfway up before I heard it.
Bootsteps.
Voices.
Torchlight.
We froze.
Then came the voice. That voice. Like wet gravel gargling sin.
"Bring the whores to the pyre."
Fuck.
We turned the corner.
And there he was.
Mr. Witchfinder General himself.
In full sanctimonious peacock regalia. Tall hat, black robe, torch held high like he thought it made him look holy instead of deranged.
Two guards flanked him. Beefy. Bearded. Holding spears and trying very hard not to look at our exposed thighs.
We skidded to a halt.
They stared.
We stared.
Elira whimpered.
I said, "Well. Shit."
The Witchfinder sneered. "Going somewhere, little temptresses?"
"Bathroom?" I offered. "All that righteous torture really loosens the bowels."
"Seize them!"
The guards stepped forward.
Elira grabbed my hand.
We turned.
Ran.
Down the hallway, through the arch, past the cells again. Somewhere above us a bell started ringing. Alarms. The town was waking up. The torches were coming.
We burst through a side door into the courtyard and—
Oh gods.
The stakes were already set.
Two of them. Freshly built. Center of the square. Bundles of kindling stacked like welcome baskets. The crowd was gathering. Nightgowns. Nightcaps. Torches and grim faces.
They were expecting a show.
I skidded to a stop.
Elira slammed into my back.
"Nope," I whispered. "Nope nope nope nope."
The door behind us slammed open.
The Witchfinder's voice rose like a plague.
"STOP THEM!"
Elira grabbed my arm.
"What now?!"
I scanned the courtyard. Square. Barricaded. No horse. No cover. No dragon.
And that's how we ended up here.
Where we started.
Me. Elira. Two freshly-built stakes. Ropes tight. Kindling stacked high like a peasant's idea of a spa day. Crowd packed in, faces flickering in torchlight. Some curious. Some ravenous. All of them stupid.
The Witchfinder General stood tall before us, voice booming like a man who'd waited his whole life to yell "burn the witch" and finally got an audience.
"BEHOLD!" he bellowed. "THEIR FIENDISH WILES HAVE FAILED! THEIR CHARMS EXPOSED! LET THIS FIRE PURGE THEIR CORRUPTION!"
Elira whimpered beside me.
I rolled my eyes. "This outfit was new," I muttered. "And now it's going to smell like singed whore forever."
The executioner raised the torch.
And then—
Whomp.
A gust of wind.
The torches flickered. The crowd gasped.
Then came the roar.
Low. Rolling. Ancient.
A shadow blotted out the moon.
And with a thunderclap of wings and smug righteousness, he swooped.
Great black body coiling through the sky like a vengeful stormcloud. Eyes blazing gold. Mouth already glowing from within.
He landed hard in the middle of the square, sending peasants flying like bowling pins. The ground cracked beneath his talons. His tail snapped through a cart and knocked over a pig.
And then he spoke.
"Now," he said, voice deep enough to rattle bones, "you're all in trouble."
The crowd screamed.
The Witchfinder shrieked, "DEMON! BEAST! THIS IS THE PROOF! THE PROOF OF THEIR UNHOLY ALLIANCE!"
The Dragon roared—voice cracked, wild, delirious—like something ancient and unchained had just slipped its collar.
"UNCLE!" he bellowed to the sky. "You wanted carnage? You said I was going soft?"
He spun toward the crowd, smoke billowing from his nostrils.
"WELL HERE'S YOUR CARNAGE!" he shrieked. "THIS IS FOR YOU, UNCLE!"
The townsfolk froze.
His lips curled back.
And the fire came.
A tidal wave of it.
Searing. Golden. Furious.
It swept through the square like a divine tantrum. Screams turned to shrieks. Cloaks ignited. The Witchfinder tried to run, tripped over his own righteousness, and vanished in a plume of smoke.
The torches? Gone.
The gallows? Gone.
The audience? Extra crispy.
The Dragon stood tall, fire still dripping from his jaws, tail twitching like he was barely restraining the urge to turn the whole town into a crater.
I blinked at him from the stake.
"You took your time."
He sniffed. "I was napping. And also getting a lecture from my uncle about how I should stop enabling your reckless mortal behavior. Apparently I'm 'setting a bad example for the hatchlings.'"
He raised one claw.
"Let's untie you before you do something else stupid."
Elira was staring at the smoking ruin of the town square.
Mouth open.
Eyes wide.
Face pale and lit up in flickers of orange from the freshly grilled crowd.
"You… you incinerated them," she whispered.
The Dragon gave a lazy shrug beside me. "Correct."
"All of them," she said, louder this time.
Another shrug. "They started it."
Then she raised a shaking hand and pointed at the charred, still-smoking crater where about half the town had been gathered just minutes ago.
"Even… even…"
Her voice caught.
"Even little Timmy."
I blinked. "Wait. Who the fuck is Timmy?"
She didn't answer.
She giggled.
Just a tiny little sound at first. Soft. Nervous.
Then again—sharper.
Then she laughed. A full, belly-deep laugh.
And then it kept going—higher, meaner, twisted like hot iron, something that didn't belong in a sane woman's chest.
"Elira?" I said.
No answer.
Only laughter. Rising. Warping.
She straightened slowly.
Her eyes—those big, soft, sky-colored eyes—weren't blue anymore. They were glowing red like two coals, bright and hungry.
Her neck cracked as she turned her head toward me.
And she grinned.
Gods, it stretched far too wide. No human face should grin like that.
Then came the sound—SHRRK—as two massive, black wings burst from her back, skin tearing open like parchment soaked in oil. Wet. Awful.
Leathery, veined, and gleaming in the firelight like they'd been waiting centuries for this exact moment.
"Ohhhh," she said, and it wasn't just her voice anymore—it was layered, like there were two voices speaking from inside her throat. "Everyone thought I was the wicked one."
She swept one of her new wings toward the smoking mess behind us.
"Look at you," she said, giggling again. "Look at this carnage."
Her smile turned razor-sharp. "Delicious."
I couldn't even move. My mouth just hung open. My brain had been forcibly ejected.
She spread her wings wide—burnt embers trailing off her skin like glittery bits of nightmare—and looked at me like I was a particularly quaint footnote in her origin story.
"Thank you," she purred. "For unlocking me."
And then—she jumped.
Wind blasted into my face as she took off. The air exploded around us. Her wingbeats thundered as she spiraled up into the sky, laughing like an absolute lunatic.
"FREEEEEE!" she shrieked, wheeling above the rooftops. "FREE AT LAAAAST!"
I stood there, still tied to a half-scorched stake, slack-jawed and half-convinced I was hallucinating from smoke inhalation.
She disappeared into the dark. Gone. Just like that.
I turned my head, very slowly, toward the Dragon.
"What," I said, "the actual fuck just happened?"
He groaned and rubbed his massive forehead with a claw like he was trying to massage his last brain cell back to life.
"I told you," he muttered, "we don't pick up strays."
Then he sighed. Deep. Old. The sigh of someone who's watched humanity mess up one too many times and still hoped for better.
I stood there for a solid minute, mouth open, hair singed, dress scorched halfway up my thigh, and half my ass still tied to a half-burned stake. Smoke curled lazily around me. Somewhere behind us, something collapsed with a soft thunk—probably what was left of the tavern. Or a baby stroller.
I finally managed to close my mouth.
"What," I said, "in holy fuck-stained hell just happened?"
The Dragon exhaled a long, slow breath, his eyes following the last drifting ember.
"She was a demon," he said flatly. "Or possessed. Or repressed. Maybe all three."
"You think?"
He gave me a look. The tired, weary look of a creature who'd once witnessed the fall of empires and now watched me unravel basic reality with a rusty spoon.
Then he turned his massive head toward the smoldering ruin of the village square and asked, completely deadpan:
"Wanna pilfer through the ashes?"
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"There might be silver. Maybe some melted jewelry. You never know what people keep in their pockets at public executions."
"You're suggesting looting the crispy remains of a town you just flambéed?"
He shrugged his enormous shoulders. "I'm a dragon. It's what I do."
I looked at the ashes. Then at him.
"You have no feelings about what just happened?"
"Oh, I have feelings," he said. "Mostly indigestion and mild regret. But I'm channeling them into constructive action. Like treasure-hunting. You should try it."
I let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a shriek and sagged against the half-melted post.
"Gods," I muttered. "I think I miss the rack."
He snorted. "Don't tempt me."