The wind up on the hill smells wrong. Old. Like dust and wet teeth.
We made camp at the top just before dusk. The Dragon said it was "strategic." I said it was creepy. He said I was being dramatic. I said the rocks were being dramatic—big, jagged standing stones leaning inwards like they were gossiping about us behind our backs. Each one carved with ugly, primitive faces. No two alike. All of them scowling.
Now it's past midnight, and the fire's burned low. He's curled around the flames like a smug furnace, half-asleep, tail twitching every so often. I'm lying beside him, wrapped in a blanket that still smells like goat cheese and regret.
And I'm wide awake.
Every time I close my eyes, I hear something. A crack. A shift. A whisper that could be wind. Or not.
I sit up for the third time.
The Dragon groans. "Girl…"
"There's something out there."
"Yes. It's called night."
"I mean something else."
He lifts his head, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "You are literally sleeping next to a fully grown dragon. What exactly do you think is lurking out there that's more dangerous than me?"
"…Your auntie?"
He snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Fair. But unless she's vacationing in this haunted pebble garden, I am, by every known metric, the most terrifying thing in a five-mile radius."
I scan the stones. One of them looks like it has teeth. I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
He groans again and unfurls a wing, draping it lazily over me like a giant, leathery quilt. "Okay, okay, big child. Lie down. I'll keep watch."
"You promise?"
"On my hoard."
I settle in, the wing surprisingly warm and solid over my back. I can still hear the stones whispering.
But now they're whispering to him. Not to me.
It's a start.
A minute later—
"Did you hear that?" I whisper.
The Dragon doesn't open his eyes. "No."
"There was a sound. Over by the rocks."
He snorts. "It's probably a mouse."
"A mouse dragging a bone across gravel?"
He opens one eye. "A very ambitious mouse."
I don't laugh. I stare at the stone with the face that looks like it's grinning. Just barely.
"…Ok," I mutter, curling tighter under his wing. "Ok."
Five minutes pass.
"Dragon?" I whisper.
He grunts something that might be words or just indigestion.
"Are you sleeping?"
Another grunt. A twitch of his tail.
"You said you'd keep watch."
He shifts. Doesn't open his eyes. "I am keeping watch."
"You were sleeping."
"I was resting my eyes. It's different."
"Please," I whisper. I hate how small my voice sounds.
He lets out the most dramatic sigh in the history of dragons. The kind that shakes pebbles and makes you feel like you just asked a demigod to hold your purse.
"…Fine," he says. "I'm watching."
"You promise?"
He rolls his eyes, then lifts his head, nostrils flaring. "There. Watch mode engaged. Ancient predator alert. Anything sneezes wrong out there, I'll incinerate it."
I nod, not quite reassured. "Thanks."
Another sigh. "Go to sleep, Saya."
I close my eyes.
But only halfway. Just in case.
*** (maybe ditch this part)***
The sun's barely up when I feel something poking my ribs.
Not danger.
Claw.
The Dragon's claw, nudging at my blanket like a bored cat.
"You do know you slept with a dagger in your hand, yes?" he says, voice too smug for this early in the day.
I grunt, roll over, clutch the blanket tighter. "No I didn't."
"Oh, you very much did. Tucked under your chin like a comfort goat. Pointy end toward your face, by the way. Brilliant."
I open one eye. The dagger is there. I must've pulled it in under the blanket sometime after he fell asleep—or while he was allegedly "keeping watch." I don't remember.
He chuckles. "Tell me, oh mistress of paranoia, what exactly was the plan? To stab the ghost of a rock? Duel a squirrel? What, in the name of flaming lizard balls, is that dagger going to do that I could not?"
I sit up slowly, hair a mess, voice dry. "I don't know. Maybe the ghosts were polite enough to knock before entering. You? You'd snore through a siege."
He snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils. "If you stabbed anything in your sleep, it'd be me. And then I'd be forced to write a tragic poem about betrayal and bedtime homicide."
I stretch, grimace, and slide the dagger back into my boot. "It made me feel better."
He rolls his eyes. "So would sleeping on a bed of gold. But you don't see me stuffing coins under your pillow."
I grin. "You did once."
"That was a bribe. You were in a sulk and threatening to marry a miller."
"I still might. He had strong arms."
"And missing teeth."
"So do you."
We bicker like that while I tie my sandals and he kicks dirt over the remains of the fire. But I keep glancing at the standing stones as we pack up. Just to be sure.
And I keep the dagger close. Not for ghosts. Not really.
Just… in case the world forgets I'm dangerous too.