The plateau spread beneath us like a secret the gods had misplaced and never bothered to retrieve. A highland ribbon of green and stone, veined with goat paths and stitched together by streams that glimmered like spilled coins. Craggy ridges framed it like teeth. Pines whispered. Mist clung to the hollows like regret.
It was perfect.
Scattered hamlets blinked up at us—stone hovels with flowerbeds, whitewashed fences, and woodpiles stacked with religious dedication. The kind of place where people married their cousins and trusted dreams more than maps. Not too rich. Not too poor. Just enough silver in the hills and goat cheese in their guts to breed delusions of fortune.
"This," I breathed, hands on hips, "is the land of suckers."
The Dragon sniffed. "They smell like sheep and yeast."
"Exactly. Innocent. Gullible. Unspoiled by the rot of coastal education."
He stretched a wing, half-yawning. "You mean they're desperate and bored."
I turned to him, grinning like a fox in a nursery. "They're ripe. And about to be spiritually enlightened."
By sundown, I was transformed.
Prophetess attire is part costume, part bait. You need to look otherworldly, but not so clean they think you're from the capital. So I put on a show.
Layered veils of violet and swamp green, with enough slit in the sides to suggest divine breezes. Gauze sleeves trailing to the ground. Ankle bells. Wrist bangles. Necklaces made of bones, buttons, and things I'd stolen from various altars. I painted my eyelids black and added a dusting of ash to my cheekbones for that haunted, fasting-in-the-desert look.
A veil over one eye. Mystery. Drama. Possibly blindness.
And the staff: a gnarled walking stick topped with a chicken skull, feathers bound in twine, and runes I carved based on whatever shapes looked vaguely threatening. Probably said "toilet" in old Seebulban, but who was going to call me on it?
I stepped out of the tent.
The Dragon stared. Said nothing.
"Say it."
He tilted his head. "You look like a banshee got halfway through a burlesque routine and then fell into a hedge."
"Perfect," I said, and spun.
He groaned. "You're going to terrify goats. Possibly children."
"Also perfect."
I looked back down at the villages. My temples pulsed with potential. A new persona rising in me like smoke.
"Saya the Flame-Touched Oracle," I whispered. "Seeress of the Searing Sky. Bringer of riddles and sheep-based doom."
He muttered, "You need a hobby."
"I have one. It's called monetized deception."
Sunset laid itself over the plateau like an offering—amber and crimson spilling across the slopes, making even goat dung look poetic. The village below was little more than a knot of stone houses, crooked fences, and the suspicious silence of people holding their breath.
Perfect.
I walked barefoot, slow and swaying, each step deliberate. Dust curled around my ankles like incense. My veils drifted behind me. My staff clicked softly against the dirt. A grin played on my lips—serene, all-knowing, and just barely obscene.
At the center of the village—where four cart tracks met under a leaning wooden sign—I stopped.
They were watching. From behind shutters. From roofs. From outhouse gaps. All eyes. All fear.
I let my head loll sideways like I was listening to something none of them could hear.
Then I twitched.
Muttered something about smoke and chickens. Let my eyes roll back just enough to show the whites.
Spun once. Spun again. Arms out, veil fluttering.
"The air trembles," I intoned, voice low and scratchy like I was channeling a very drunk minor deity. "The wind carries secrets. Blood on the lintel. Bread in the brook. The child with the red cap must not eat apples till the next moon!"
A woman gasped. A man dropped his pipe.
I pointed at a stooped elder with a lazy eye and yelled, "Your goat dreams of fire!"
He clutched his chest. People backed away from him like the goat was contagious.
I took a deep sniff of the wind, nodded solemnly, and—without a word—climbed the nearest apple tree.
Yes. In full robes, bone jewelry rattling, barefoot and smug.
I settled in a fork halfway up, arranged my robes like I was posing for a prophetic nudity painting, and declared:
"I shall sleep here, amid the branches, unless this village remembers the rites of hospitality."
A beat of stunned silence.
"Preferably with stew," I added. "And eggs. And maybe something sweet."
Someone bolted toward their kitchen like I'd cursed their oven.
I lounged in the tree like a divine raccoon, basking in awe and the scent of apples.
Somewhere above, hidden in the cliff shadows, the Dragon was probably crying with laughter.
Let him.
This was theatre.
And I had an audience.
***
Night fell like a drunk off a barstool—sudden, graceless, and full of noise.
For a while, the village slept. Quiet. Tense. As if holding its breath under the weight of prophecy.
Then, just past midnight, the wind changed.
It started with a whoomp.
Then another.
Heavy wingbeats, slicing the dark like a curse spoken too loud.
Shutters clattered. Dogs howled. Goats scattered. Somewhere, a child wailed.
Then—fwoosh.
One haystack lit up like divine judgment. A second followed. Flames clawed at the stars. Heat rolled over the fields in waves.
And above it all—a silhouette. Enormous. Reptilian. Gliding with slow menace across the moon.
And just for extra effect?
He snatched a cow.
Because of course he did.
From my perch in the apple tree, I stirred.
Let my head loll. Arms twitch. A low moan escaped my lips—somewhere between ghost and indigestion. I half-fell, half-floated down from the branches, robes trailing like smoke.
The villagers were already gathering at the crossroads in panic. Hair wild, nightshirts askew. One man clutched a frying pan like it was holy.
I landed barefoot in the dust, eyes unfocused, mouth parted in prophetic rapture.
"You were warned," I said, voice low and echoing like I had swallowed a thundercloud. "The signs were clear. The omens were spoken."
They froze. Silence fell. Then gasps. Knees buckled. A few dropped right into the dirt like stunned hens.
"Did you listen?" I whispered. "Did you heed the visions?"
A chorus of mumbled apologies and head-shaking rippled through the crowd. One old woman was openly sobbing into her apron.
I lifted my staff. Let it hum in the air with righteous judgment.
"But the beast has mercy still," I intoned. "His wrath need not return. His hunger can be turned. His fire… redirected."
I paused for effect.
"However," I said, letting a note of very human irritation slip in, "I cannot continue sleeping in an apple tree. The branches whisper nonsense and the bark gave me a rash."
Eyes widened.
"I require an abode. A modest one. A hut. A yurt. A proper tent, at the very least. With a roof and privacy and perhaps, gods willing, a chamber pot."
There was a beat.
Then half the village scattered like beetles, babbling about spare beams and canvas and borrowing Aunt Thessa's goatskin canopy.
I stood in the center of it all—barefoot, windswept, smoldering with holy drama.
The Dragon was probably watching from his cliff perch, laughing his scaled ass off.
Let him.
This was divine spectacle. And I was nailing it.