We were walking a dusty ridge trail that overlooked nothing in particular. Just scrubland, a few sunburnt boulders, and the vague threat of bandits who hadn't realized yet that a girl and her dragon might be more trouble than treasure.
I picked a pebble from my sandal and squinted up at him. "Did you really eat people?"
He didn't even look down. Just kept walking, tail swaying like a lazy whip. "I prefer beef."
"Uh-huh."
"Mutton, if it's seasoned. Sheep if they've been massaged."
I frowned. "You're dodging."
He sighed. "Anything but ape."
"You know what I'm asking."
He paused. Just a moment. Then: "Only well-roasted people."
I blinked. "Oh."
He tilted his head, theatrically casual. "Why waste good fire?"
I mulled that over. "So… how do we taste?"
He gave a slow, thoughtful exhale, like he was savoring a memory—or faking one. "Chicken."
"Liar."
"Fine. Depends on the region."
I raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."
"Well," he said, "Delivdans are my favorite. Crunchy. Always well-dressed. Taste of spice and defiance. Probably that cuisine of theirs. Everything marinated, even the personalities."
I snorted. "Okay. What about Tanagrans?"
He made a so-so gesture with one claw. "Earthy. Notes of pumpkin. Occasionally chestnut. Would go well with wine, if I drank anything made by monks."
"And Seebulbans?"
He didn't hesitate. "Too much iodine aftertaste."
I stopped walking. "What?"
"Seaweed in everything," he said, shrugging. "You people salt your fish, your rice, your lovers."
I stared. "You're saying I'd taste… briny?"
"Brackish," he said helpfully. "Like pickled mischief."
I punched his flank. He laughed.
We walked on, the breeze carrying the scent of wild thyme and the vague possibility of cannibalism.
I squinted up at him, suspicious. "Is that why you didn't eat me that first day?"
He gave me a long, unreadable glance. "Who says I'm not going to eat you eventually?"
I blinked. "Wait, what?"
He smirked. "I'm saving you for dessert."
"Oh great. Briny dessert?"
He sniffed. "Please. With the amount of honey cakes and glazed figs you shovel into that pretty little face, you must taste like candy."
I made a face. "Gutter candy."
"The best kind," he said cheerfully. "Sticky, indecent, vaguely illegal."
I kicked a rock at him. "So what, one day you'll just toast me up and nibble me with coffee and cognac?"
He nodded solemnly. "A civilized ending."
I rolled my eyes. "You're disgusting."
"And you're chewy," he said with a wink.
I tried not to smile. I failed.
He flicked his tail idly, knocking dust off the trail. "Also, you're scrawny."
"Excuse me?"
"I said scrawny. Wiry. All sharp elbows and stubbornness. You know how many of you get tossed at dragons? Skinny little maidens raised on goat yoghurt and false hopes of womanhood."
I stared. "False what?"
"You heard me," he said, puffing smoke out of one nostril. "The whole ritual's a sham. Virgins. Pfft. Barely edible. All bone and insecurity."
I gagged on a laugh. "So what, dragons want curvier sacrifices now?"
"Most dragons," he said, "would much rather eat a fat merchant. Or a chubby tax collector. Marbled. Tender. Seasoned by guilt and soft living."
"That's revolting."
He shrugged. "Better for nutrition. Better for society. Frankly? Better for the economy."
"Eat the rich," I muttered.
"Exactly," he said. "You, meanwhile, are like chewing on a salted twig."
I threw a pebble at him. He caught it in his mouth, crunched it like candy, and winked.
"Still saving you for dessert, though."