Right. Picture this.
A pirate den masquerading as an inn, perched on a crossroads so cursed even the crows mutter slurs. The kind of place where chairs have more stab wounds than patrons. Where the floor sticks to your soles like guilt. Where the air smells of blood, old ale, sweat, and ambition. The fire's low. The gamblers are lower. The women are loud. And me? I'm in the darkest damn corner, looking very roguey.
Like, suspiciously roguey.
Cloak? Check. Daggers? Check. Eye smudge for tragic backstory? Oh, absolutely. I even practiced brooding. A whole three minutes in front of a broken mirror before I gave myself a cramp.
I swirl a mug I haven't paid for. Look thoughtful. Watch the door.
And lo, as if on cue, a hero stumbles in. Chainmail tits out, sword still stained, hair tousled just so. Smells like wet horse and desperate glory. Oh yes. He'll do.
I beckon him with the kind of subtlety that gets you arrested in nicer towns. He comes over like a fly to a turd with a crown.
"You look like someone who's killed a wyrm or two," I purr, sipping foam. "Or at least waved steel at one and lived."
He puffs up. Of course he does. They always do.
"Well," he says, "I did slay the Scaled Horror of Grelnar's Pass."
I blink. "Wow. That must've been… very scaly."
He nods, utterly sincere. "It was. Also a horror."
I lean in. "Then maybe you're exactly who I'm looking for."
Hook. Line. Bait wriggling.
"See," I whisper, "I know where a dragon sleeps. A real one. Old. Greedy. Guarding treasure beyond imagining. Somewhere off the Ashen Trail. Obsidian Cave, third ridge past the fall of shadow. Heard of it?"
He hasn't. They never have.
"Why haven't you taken it?" he asks.
I give him the look. The Look™. Equal parts haunted and slutty. "Because I'm just a rogue, darling. Fast hands. Faster legs. But not built for beast-slaying. I need someone… heroic."
"And for a small fee," I continue, sliding a scribbled map across the table, "I can guide you. Safely. Stealthily. To glory."
He eyes the map like it's foreplay. I resist the urge to grin.
The cave's real. The dragon's real. The hoard?
Eh.
The hoard is me.
And he's already paid for it.
Tomorrow, we ride.
He'll find a big old lizard waiting. Who might be in a mood. Who might be very disappointed.
But by then, I'll be long gone. With his purse. And his boots.
And possibly his underthings, if they're silk.
***
We ride at dawn.
On birds.
Giant, twitchy, murder-eyed birds. With claws like cleavers and feathers that stink of dried blood and old onions. I think this one's named Murderbeak. Or maybe I just named him that now. Either way, he keeps trying to peck at my braid, and I swear if he snaps off my earring I'm selling him to Madam Zoobaya.
Grung—gods, what a name—sits stiffly on his own feathered hellbeast beside me. He's got the look of a man who's trying to act heroic while simultaneously holding in a fart and the urge to scream.
"You better not be playing me," he mutters, gripping the reins like they owe him money. "Two hundred silver. Two hundred! For what? A map, some vague directions, and this… cursed poultry?"
I give him a slow smile. The kind that's all teeth and maybe a hint of future nudity. "It's not cursed. Just moody. Like me."
He groans. "You're enjoying this."
"Oh absolutely. But also, it's not just a map. It's a cause." I sniff, dramatically. "That silver? That's to buy out my little sister. Poor baby's stuck in Madam Zoobaya's silk den, chained to a bedpost and forced to recite erotic poetry while greasing old men's feet. Every coin brings her closer to freedom."
Grung narrows his eyes. "You don't have a sister."
I pout. "Not anymore. Madam Zoobaya made her read The Lustful Litanies of Saint Clavicle out loud till her brain melted."
He looks at me like he's not sure whether to laugh, cry, or leap off the bird.
I wink.
"Also," I add, "your bird's saddle is on backwards."
His bird shrieks.
He curses, flails, and spins halfway off, clinging to its neck like a drunk trying to seduce a lamp post.
I ride ahead, humming a jaunty tune. The cave awaits. The dragon awaits. Glory, doom, and one very salty adventurer await.
Me?
I'm just the guide.
And the girl with his coin pouch tucked safely in her cleavage.
***
We make camp under a crooked olive tree, the kind that looks like it's been punched by time and left to sulk. Grung's trying to light a fire with a flint he definitely doesn't know how to use. Sparks everywhere. No flame. I sit cross-legged nearby, nibbling dried figs like a bored concubine on her day off.
"Need help?" I ask, voice all honey and thigh.
"I've got it," he grunts, red in the face, hammering the flint like it insulted his mother.
I lean forward just enough for cleavage. "Strong hands," I murmur, letting it hang there.
He freezes. Just for a heartbeat. Then goes back to scraping, harder now. Probably imagining he's striking something else.
Poor boy.
He gets the fire going eventually, more by accident than skill. We eat in silence, roasted lizard and soggy bread. Then he shifts closer. Just a bit. Testing the waters.
"So…" he starts, voice low, "you and me—"
I stretch with a soft moan and immediately stand up. "I'm gonna pee."
He stares. "You just—"
"It's the figs," I say sweetly, already disappearing into the dark.
Next night, same thing. He sharpens his sword. I comment on how firm his grip is. He blushes. I sit on his bedroll just long enough to mess up his head, then roll off with a giggle and pretend to fall asleep.
Third night, I share his cloak. Curl right up against his chest. Let my breath tickle his neck. He smells like pine sap and frustration. His hand finds my hip.
I snore.
Well. Fake snore. But by the time he figures it out, I've already rolled away again, pouting in my sleep like a sainted whore.
It's not cruelty.
It's control.
He's a would-be hero. A dragon-slaying idiot with too much sword and not enough sense.
And I?
I'm the one guiding him into the trap.
Might as well make the ride entertaining.
***
We make it to the ridge by late afternoon, just as the sun starts getting smug about its angles—golden light slanting through the rocks like it's painting a damn epic.
The cave yawns ahead. Big. Black. Impressively ominous.
Thank the gods.
Because for a moment there—riding up on those overgrown poultry beasts—I wasn't entirely sure. He's supposed to be here. The dragon, I mean. We agreed. One roar, one wing-flap, one terrifying shadow right as the idiot rounds the corner.
I even rehearsed my gasp.
If he's napping or late or off somewhere trimming his claws—gods, I'll scream.
I motion Grung down and we duck behind a boulder near the entrance. He's sweating. Sword drawn. Brows furrowed in maximum heroic constipation.
I give him a grave nod.
"That's the place," I whisper. Voice low. Shaky. I even put a little tremble in my hand as I point.
"The lair."
He stares.
I clutch his arm. "If I die, tell my sister I tried."
He blinks. "The one in the pleasure den?"
I sniff. "Yes. Her name is… uh… Velvet."
Then I shove him gently forward. Into destiny.
Or at least into the very expensive, very well-rehearsed teeth of my ancient, cranky lizard.
***
The cave is empty.
Almost.
Cool and quiet, the kind of silence that echoes. Dust curling lazily in shafts of dying light. No bones. No treasure piles. Just a faint whiff of scorched goat and a dragon.
My dragon.
Stretched out on his side like a reclining god of smugness. One claw lazily sharpening the other. Eyes half-lidded. Mouth already curled in that infuriating smirk he swears isn't a smirk.
"Well," he drawls, voice echoing like velvet over stone, "you actually brought one."
Grung stops dead.
Mouth open.
"Oh," he says.
Just oh.
Like his brain is trying to reboot and keeps failing the loading screen.
I see it happening—the shift. That dumb flicker in his eyes. The hero-spark re-igniting. The realization. The betrayal. The classic oh-shit-I've-been-played moment.
He starts to reach for his sword.
And I—without ceremony, without warning—grab the nearest sizable rock and whack him over the back of the head.
Thunk.
He drops like a sack of armored potatoes.
Silence.
Then—
"Really?" the Dragon sighs, lifting his head just slightly. "You brained him?"
I wipe my hands, checking my nails for blood. "He was about to get all noble and stabby."
"I could have taken him," he mutters, offended.
"Sure," I say, stepping over Grung's twitching body. "But then you'd get a cramp, pull a wing muscle, and complain for a week."
He opens one golden eye. "He's not even wearing enchanted boots."
"He is, actually," I say, crouching to start unbuckling. "I saw the shimmer. These'll fetch a good price."
The Dragon grumbles something about amateurs and stretches again.
I hum.
Everything according to plan.
***
We leave him right there.
Unconscious. Drooling slightly into the gravel. Sword half-unsheathed like a broken promise.
I toss his boots into the saddlebag and swing up onto the Dragon's back. He grunts—pure theatre—and mutters something about "having a spine made of ancient ruin, not a rental mule."
As we lift off into the dusk, I glance down at the twitching figure below. Poor Grung. So brave. So dumb. So very robbed.
"One more would-be hero," I say, flicking a fig at his motionless form, "who gets to go around saying he faced a real dragon… and lived to tell the tale."
The Dragon huffs a lazy plume of smoke. "Assuming he remembers anything."
"He will," I smirk. "The concussion helps with the drama."
He levels me a sidelong look as we rise above the canyon. "You do realize this only adds to our legend."
"Exactly," I purr, leaning back against his warm scales. "Infamy grows. Makes the next sucker easier to fleece."
"Or more dangerous," he mutters.
"Same difference," I say, and close my eyes, smiling.
The wind howls. The night stretches. And below us, another tale is born—of the hero who met the Dragon… and lived. Sort of.
You're welcome, Grung.
***
We ride the thermal up into the clouds, the wind snapping through my hair like applause. Below us, Grung becomes a speck. A broke, bootless speck with a mild concussion and a story he'll never quite get right.
The Dragon's silence stretches for a while, like he's letting the altitude do the talking. But eventually—
"So," he rumbles, "remind me again—why is this version of the scam better than the old one? The whole fake virgin, altar-chains, screaming-for-help routine? It had pizzazz."
I stretch luxuriously across his spine. "Because this way, the hero pays up front."
"Mhm."
"Fixed price."
"Mhm."
"No relying on villagers. No counting on their 'generosity'—which, by the way, is always suspiciously tied to whether I scream loud enough or keep my tunic on."
He snorts.
"And," I add, pointing a triumphant finger into the sky, "no waiting around for them to decide whether the cheese wheel is a sacrifice or just lunch."
"Mm. Yes. I do miss the cheese, though," he says mournfully.
I smack his side. "Focus. It's cleaner this way. Quicker. Predictable margins."
He makes a thoughtful noise. "Still... less gold on average."
"I'll do the tally when we land."
He twists his head just enough to look at me. One eye gleaming. "How is it that you can't read or write properly, but you can tally coin, convert weights, and adjust for distance flown?"
I shrug. "I'm a thief. Not an idiot."
He chuckles. "Basic skills?"
"Exactly. You want to survive in this world, you learn three things—how to lie, how to run, and how to count."
He rumbles in amusement. "What about how to read?"
I make a face. "Optional."
We glide in silence for a beat, then he sighs. "Fine. But next mark better bring wine. I'm tired of heroes who drink boiled root tea and talk about honor."
"Next mark," I say, "is a wine merchant who thinks he's descended from phoenixes."
The Dragon growls in satisfaction.
"Now that's a flavour worth toasting."