So, listen. Don't act surprised by what you're about to witness. Yes, we're technically outlaws now. Yes, it's a small step from conning gullible villagers with fake virgin sacrifices to robbing broad-daylight caravans in scenic canyons. But in my defense… I look very good doing it.
We're in one of those tight little gorges where the sun only kisses the rocks at noon and everything echoes like a drunk in a bathhouse. Dragon is already blocking the path ahead—perched like a pompous gargoyle on a narrow ledge, wings half-spread, tail lazily flicking, all gleaming menace and scaly indifference. He hates this part, says it lacks subtlety. I say subtlety is for people with less stunning legs.
The coach trundles into view—one of those canvas-roofed affairs pulled by shaggy white oxen, decorated with tribal paint and bone charms. A banner fluttering on the side says something about a merchant guild or peace envoy. It doesn't matter. The oxen smell fear and stop. Wheels creak. The guards look up. And that's when they see the giant lizard having a yawn.
Panic.
I step out of the thornbushes, sandals crunching on gravel, dust swirling around my ankles like I paid it to. Short tunic—bronze clasps at the shoulders, hem scandalously uneven. Hooded cloak. Scarf tied across my face for the mysterious outlaw look, though my eyes are doing most of the talking.
I lift the flap of the coach. "Glorious day to you all," I purr.
Inside, four passengers freeze like I just caught them mid-orgy. A veiled noblewoman clutches her amber necklace. Some older man in a pleated kilt instinctively shields a clay jar like it's his only child. There's a girl with ink-stained fingers and a tablet of wax—scribe or apprentice priestess. And, gods bless it, a shirtless spear-armed warrior type with a topknot and dumb heroic jawline. He actually starts reaching for something.
Behind me, the Dragon exhales just enough to make a boulder glow red.
The warrior type freezes.
"Now," I say, "as you've no doubt surmised—this is a robbery. Think of it as a spiritual test. The gods are watching to see how gracefully you part with material attachments."
Pause.
"Quickly, please. Let's not force my associate to do anything… melty."
Bracelets, rings, carved combs, a tiny silver statuette of some fertility goddess—into the bag they go. Even the jar gets handed over, which turns out to be full of saffron threads. I blow a kiss at the scribe girl. "Love the braid," I say. "You could do better than this lot."
She blushes. The noblewoman sneers. I ignore both.
Back to the Dragon, who is doing that unimpressed eyelid-half-closed look that says I'm wasting his time.
"Ready," I chirp, swinging the loot sack over my shoulder.
"You call that a haul?" he grumbles as I hop onto his back.
"They were traveling light. Pilgrimage or tax dodge, I'm guessing."
He groans and lifts off, wings beating the air like storm drums.
Below us, the coach is a dot in the dust and panic. I wave cheerfully. "Thank you for your contribution to the Greater Outlaw Fund!"
"You're a menace," the Dragon says, voice half-swallowed by wind.
I grin. "A well-accessorized menace."
***
We're on the Redwind Gorge road, one of those narrow cuts between crimson cliffs where sound echoes forever and retreat is not an option. The perfect place for an ambush. Some would call a crime and I call creative redistribution of wealth. Yes, fine, it's a robbery. In daylight. On a holy day. In a sacred canyon. With a dragon. Sue me.
I'm elbow-deep in a burlap sack, stuffing it with loot we just scored, like a starving raccoon. Bangles. Dyed silk wraps. A bronze nose ring that still smells of whatever scented oil she was wearing. Gods, I love robbery. So clean. So efficient. So much more honest than all that temple prostitution crap.
Dragon looms behind me, tail coiled on a sun-warmed rock, eyes half-lidded in his usual judgmental squint.
"Did you really have to strip all of them naked?" he asks, tone dripping with the kind of theatrical disappointment only a thousand-year-old gay lizard can pull off.
I toss a gilded hairpin into the sack. "I liked the lady's dress," I say. "And now it's mine."
"It was not even your size."
"It will be after some hemming and some chest tape."
He huffs. "And the guardsman?"
I bite my lip. "Don't even pretend you weren't curious to see what was under those leather breeches."
He lifts an eye ridge. "Mildly. For academic reasons."
"Uh-huh. Academic. I, on the other hand, was horny."
He sighs. I keep packing.
"That man is lucky I didn't kidnap him," I murmur, mostly to myself. "Maybe next time."
Another sigh. Deeper this time. "We should talk," he says.
"No, we shouldn't."
"Yes, we should. Saya. The ethics of this—"
I slam the sack shut and turn to face him. "Dragon. You made a living kidnapping virgins and extorting entire villages."
He blinks. "That was different."
"How?"
"That was the natural order of things. I'm a dragon. It's what we do."
"And you didn't even care about the girls, did you?"
"Of course not. I cared about the hoard."
I cross my arms. "Crass."
He shrugs with all the guilt of a stone altar. "It's tradition."
"Well lo and behold," I smirk, slinging the sack over my shoulder, "we are now getting gold, and silks, and spicy naked guardsmen. I'd say tradition is thriving."
He mutters something about moral decay and late-stage barbarism.
I wink. "You're welcome."