The camp is tucked into a fold of rocks above the beach, fire low, waves doing their slow, smug applause below. The Dragon coils like a judgmental hill, watching everything with the long-suffering patience of someone who knows how this usually ends.
He clears his throat.
"…Are you sure about this."
I don't even look up from tightening the knot. "Oh, very."
"That was not the question," he says.
Loma sits on a blanket, wrists tied behind her back, ankles bare and dusty, posture trying very hard to be dignified despite the rope and the fact she's basically a kidnapped picnic item.
The Dragon's eye slides to her wrists.
"Was it truly necessary to bind her hands."
"Yes," I say brightly. "Authenticity."
He blinks. "Authenticity of what."
"Kidnapping," I say. "Also—" I glance at Loma, who is staring very intently at the fire and not at me. "—she likes it."
The Dragon's brow ridges rise.
Loma goes pink. Not a dignified rose. A full, embarrassed, ripe-peach pink.
"I—it's just—" she murmurs, then gives up. "It's… not awful."
I clap once.
"See? Barefoot princess just learned something new about herself."
"Sayaaa," Loma protests weakly, shoulders hunching, trying to hide her face while failing completely.
The Dragon stares at her. Then at me.
"…How long have you known."
"Since she stopped complaining about the rope," I say. "I have an eye for these things."
I plop down on a crate, drag out parchment, ink, quill. I chew the quill for a second, thinking very hard.
"Now," I announce, "serious criminal work."
I start writing. Slowly. Painfully. Muttering as I go.
TO THE ROYEL PEOPLE OR WHOEVER HAS MONEY
WE HAVE YOUR PRINCESS LOMA
SHE IS FINE
MOSTLY
IF YOU WANT HER BACK
YOU PAY RANSOM
GOLD ONLY
NO SILVER NO TRICKS
IF YOU TRY TRICKS WE WILL
KEEP HER
(SHE IS QUITE NICE)
BRING THE GOLD TO THE OLD
TOWER BY THE ROAD
THE ONE THAT IS BROKEN
YOU KNOW
SIGNED
SERIOUS PEOPLE
I lean back, proud.
Loma twists to peer at it upside down.
"…You spelled royal wrong."
I squint at the parchment. "It's implied."
"And 'mostly'?"
"Honesty builds trust."
The Dragon pinches the bridge of his nose with a claw.
"This is extortion," he says. "Written by a feral child."
"Thank you," I say. "That's the brand."
Loma hesitates, then asks softly:
"…Do I really have to stay tied up the whole time?"
I tilt my head. Smile slow.
"Depends," I say. "On how convincing you want this to be."
She swallows. Then, very quietly:
"…I think I want it convincing."
The Dragon groans.
"I am surrounded," he mutters, "by maniacs."
I dip the quill again.
"Shh," I say. "We're about to get so rich."