It starts like all the cruelest dreams do: with peace.
I'm barefoot on wood floors that creak just right. Not spooky-creak. Old-creak. Home-creak. The kind that says someone lived here before me, and maybe they were happy, too.
The sun spills golden through lace curtains. Flowerbeds riot beneath the windows—lavender, poppies, something pink I never learned the name of. There's a cat in every sunbeam, stretching like they own the place. They do. I rent.
A chicken clucks somewhere in the garden. She's wearing a tiny ribbon around her leg. Dignified. Possibly cursed.
I'm wearing a tunic with embroidery so fine it had to be done by someone with no ambition in life except making flowers bloom in thread. It's soft. Clean. I don't smell like campfire or swamp rot or last night's regrets.
I walk past a kitchen where tea steams in a chipped pot. A plate of scones rests beside it. Scones. With clotted cream and jam. This is definitely a dream—I would never waste coin on fruit-based garnish.
Through a crooked arch I see him.
The Dragon.
Curled in the living room like some oversized philosopher-pet. There's a blanket across his haunches. Not one of my scandalous silk throws either—a proper blanket. Woven. Sturdy. Possibly made by a shepherdess with strong opinions on marriage.
He's wearing slippers.
Slippers.
Baby blue. Embroidered. I can't even.
There's a pipe clamped between two elegant claws, puffing out spirals of rose-scented smoke like a brothel with literary aspirations.
One of the cats is sleeping between his wings.
Another is kneading his tail.
A third sits on his snout, as if claiming dominion. He lets it.
The fire crackles. Somewhere, I hear a clock ticking. That's how you know it's a dream—real life never leaves enough room for silence.
I cross the room and sink into a pillow pile. It sighs under me. Not collapses. Sighs.
My body is loose. Pliable. Rested.
He glances at me.
"You made scones," he says.
I blink. "I made scones?"
He exhales smoke in my direction. "You have dreams. I have standards."
I grin. "You're wearing house shoes."
"They were a gift."
"From me?"
He huffs. "From the woman I wish you were."
I stretch out on the rug, arms overhead, and one of the cats pads over to flop on my stomach. I let it. It purrs like a tiny thunderstorm.
For a long moment, we just… are.
It's perfect.
A little stupid.
But perfect.
I look over at him. He's reading a book. A real one. Pages rustle. He even licks a claw to turn the page like some ancient librarian who eats knights on weekends.
"I hate this," I say.
"Of course."
"We'd burn this place down in a week."
"Three days," he agrees.
I close my eyes.
But I don't move.
And neither does he.
I woke up with dirt in my mouth and a beetle in my bra.
So, you know. Reality.
The fire had died sometime in the night. My blanket—if you could call a threadbare cloak that—had migrated halfway down a hill. I'd curled up against something warm, and that something now snorted and shifted.
Dragon.
Big. Smug. Awake.
Of course he was awake. He doesn't sleep like the rest of us. He broods in long, contemplative sulks while composing scathing couplets about mankind's mediocrity.
I rubbed my face, sat up, spat out half a leaf.
"Had a dream."
"Hm."
"You were there."
"Unsurprising."
"You were in slippers."
A pause.
He turned his head just slightly, one golden eye slitting open. "Blue?"
"With roses."
He grunted. "Tacky embroidery. I preferred the phoenix ones."
I stared. "You—"
"It was your dream," he said smoothly.
"You were reading poetry by the fire."
"I usually do."
"There were cats."
"There are always cats. You attract them like mildew attracts shame."
I narrowed my eyes. "It was a country cottage."
Another grunt. "Overgrown garden. Chickens. Lace curtains. Domestic squalor pretending to be charm."
"You knew."
"I said nothing."
"You knew."
He rolled onto his side, tail flicking. "What gave me away?"
"You were smug."
He bared his teeth in a smile too slow and too fond to be real. "I am always smug."
I hugged my knees. The fire crackled back to life with a puff of ash and spark. I didn't look at him.
"We both hated it."
"Obviously."
"Absolutely loathed the peace. The scones. The flowerbeds."
He gave a delicate sniff. "And the tea service. With the chipped mugs. One said 'Bitchcraft.'"
"You remembered."
He didn't reply. Just stretched, long and slow, and pretended like he hadn't just betrayed the deepest secret of his fire-singed soul.
"You'd make a good tea dragon," I muttered.
"You'd ruin the upholstery."
We both sat there, staring into the flames like they might burn the dream from behind our eyes.
I picked at a blister. "Anyway. Dumb dream. Don't know where it came from."
"Subconscious rot."
"Has to be."
"Pathological desire for stability. Nauseating."
I nodded. "Disgusting."
Silence.
He nosed my shoulder. Just once. Just barely. A motion so soft it might've been the wind.
I didn't say thank you.
He didn't ask.
But later that night, when I curled up beside him again, his tail wrapped around me a little tighter.
Just enough to suggest he still remembered the slippers.