I wake to the whisper of grass bending wrong.
Not wind. Not crickets. Not the Dragon's snoring, which sounds like a boiling kettle full of grudges.
Footsteps. Careful ones.
I freeze, every inch of me screaming "play dead," but I reach for the dagger under the bedroll instead. My fingers brush silk—ugh, one of my stupid night shawls. Then—yes—cold hilt, thank the gods.
The hillock is quiet, except for the occasional clink of coins from the sack we definitely should've buried. Right. Right there in the middle of our camp. Huge, ridiculous, loot-stuffed sack like a beacon for idiots with sticky fingers.
I nudge the Dragon with my foot. Hard.
He blinks awake, squints at me, then at the shadowy silhouettes around us.
"Oh no," he says flatly. "Not again."
He pushes himself up, all cranky joints and glittering scales. The moon catches his pupils—slits of golden judgment.
"Gentlemen," he calls into the darkness, voice syrupy with sarcasm, "what exactly made you think this was a wise career choice?"
The figures freeze. Five? Six of them? One has a sack. Another has a spear. All of them now look like they've just walked in on their own funeral.
"That's a dragon," one of them whispers, stunned.
"No shit," I mutter.
The Dragon sighs. "Can we not do the torch-and-pitchfork routine? It's a school night. I've got gout."
One of the robbers drops his weapon. Another just bolts. The rest stand dumb as burnt porridge.
I sit up, hair a mess, shoulders bare, glaring from under my sleep wrap. "You absolute goblins. Who raids a camp with a dragon in it?"
The one holding the sack stammers, "W-we thought… maybe it was fake."
The Dragon growls. Real low. Real slow.
"Fake?" he repeats, like he's considering how many bones that word has.
Oh, they're about to learn how real it gets.
The Dragon rises to his full, looming, shimmering, oh-now-you-fucked-up height, tail curling around the gold sack like a protective serpent. His wings flick once, just enough to rustle the grass and send a few of the would-be thieves scrambling back a step.
"Honestly," he begins, voice cutting through the night like silk over steel. "I have seen many things. Peasants throwing turnips. Priests trying to exorcise me with garlic. One idiot in Lerida tried to challenge me with a soup ladle. But this…"
He sweeps a claw toward them, utterly offended.
"This is next-level idiocy. Did it not occur to you—even for a moment—that a fully grown dragon might, just might, notice when you go poking about his bloody hoard?"
He narrows his eyes.
"And waking me up from my beauty sleep? That's the real crime here. I was in the middle of a dream involving velvet cushions and an elf named Lars. Now look what you've done."
He snorts—just a puff, just a warning—and the nearest bush bursts into delicate flame.
"Seriously, gentlemen. Seriously. You are... cosmically challenged."
The one with the sack drops it. Another pees himself.
Behind me, I'm grinning. It's going to be a long night, but at least it won't be boring.
The Dragon inhales deeply, flaring his nostrils, then exhales with theatrical patience. The grass ripples. The night air smells faintly of scorched regret.
"Alright," he says, voice suddenly calm in that I'm-about-to-do-something-apocalyptic way. "Here is how this is going to go."
He stretches his neck, vertebrae cracking like war drums in the dark. His eyes narrow, slitted gold catching every twitch of the twitchy morons in front of us.
"I'm going to close my eyes. I'm going to count to ten. After that, I'm going back to sleep. Deep, satisfying, treasure-nestled sleep."
He lifts one claw, slowly, precisely.
"And you—all of you—are going to fuck off back to whatever goat-haunted swamp or flea-ridden ditch you crawled out of. Empty-handed. Silent. Grateful."
He leans in, voice dropping to something that feels like it could peel bark off trees.
"We will all pretend this never happened. No fire, no screaming, no picking your friends' limbs out of the shrubbery."
A pause.
"Because honestly, I am too tired to charbroil six idiots tonight. And you," he points at the one who pissed himself, "you especially, look like you'd taste like cheap beer and cowardice."
He closes his eyes.
"One…"
Saya, still half-wrapped in her blanket, props herself up on one elbow and murmurs, "You boys should probably start running."
"Two…" the Dragon rumbles.
By "three," they're gone.
A flurry of yelps, clattering boots, a dropped spear or two, and one particularly poetic scream fading downhill like a drunken banshee on roller skates. You'd think we set off a nest of harpies.
The Dragon doesn't even open one eye. He just sighs—long, suffering, deeply theatrical.
"So loud," he mutters, curling back around the gold. "You'd think people fleeing for their lives could do it with a shred of dignity. Or at least some hush."
He shifts, tail draped protectively over our loot, and flops one wing over his snout like a sleep mask. "Wake me again and I'm burning someone on principle."
Within moments, the soft sound of his snoring returns. Like a kettle. Boiling over with contempt.
I lie back down, dagger still in hand, grinning at the stars.
Idiots. But at least now I'm fully awake.
And bored.
Maybe I'll go through the loot. Just a little. For inventory purposes. Obviously.