We were still slick with sweat when the shouting started downstairs. Clashing voices. A crash. Something wooden splintered. I lifted my head from the merc's chest just long enough to groan.
"Gods, can't they let a girl catch her breath before the next disaster?"
He grunted, already sitting up. Muscles rippling like he thought they were going to help.
I rolled to the edge of the bed and lit the stub of a candle. The room was high, corner tucked, top floor of that dusty inn with the bent chimney and the reek of boiled barley. We had two walls of windows and a bed that squeaked like a traumatized mouse. Perfect for passing through. Even better for forgetting names.
His was… Bragan? Branek? Something with a B. Didn't matter.
I stretched like a cat. "If that's your wife downstairs, you better start climbing out the window."
He was already reaching for his sword belt on the floor when the door exploded inward—splinters, hinges, all of it.
I screamed—because yes, I scream when armed strangers crash into my post-orgasm nap time—and the merc spun half-naked toward the noise.
A flicker of motion—too fast, too smooth.
Thunk.
He howled. I stared.
His hand was pinned to the nightstand by a dagger. One of theirs. Long, thin, silver-edged, etched with runes.
The two who stepped through the shattered frame weren't locals. Not even close.
White cloaks. Pale armor like stonewashed pearl. And eyes like something that hadn't seen dirt in centuries.
Elves.
Real ones.
Not some halfblood velvet trader or diplomat's errand boy. These were highblood warriors. Grove-style. Cold, carved, and deadly.
And between them, stepping soft as a snowfall, was her.
An elven lady. Gown flowing like breath. Face veiled in soft gauze. But the bulge of her stomach told the whole story.
She was with a child. And she was radiant in that way that made you feel filthy just for sweating.
The taller of the warriors pointed toward the bleeding, whimpering man still pinned beside me.
"Is it him?" he asked.
The lady studied him. Eyes narrowed. She shook her head.
"No. No, this one is scruffy. Mine was golden." Her hand drifted to her stomach protectively. "Like the sun through leaves."
The elf turned to me then. Really looked at me.
Bare-breasted, tangled in sheets, hair like a riot.
"You sell yourself to this sort of man?" he asked, voice flat.
I blinked, heart hammering like a drunk carpenter.
They stepped closer. Looming. Swords still sheathed, but not for long.
"We seek one who passed this way," the other said. "A man of gold and steel. Tall. Human. Righteous. Loud. Full of titles. The sort of fool who calls himself Sir before doing something unforgivable."
I swallowed. Air felt tight. My mouth worked before my brain did.
"I—I haven't seen anyone like that."
The air tensed. One of them tilted his head. Not blinking.
"You are lying."
My body locked. I quivered.
"I—" I gasped. "I knew someone like that. But—but he's dead. He died. He's buried outside Varn's Rise. I saw the grave. I swear by my—whatever."
The elven lady's breath caught. Her veil fluttered.
"Dead?" she whispered.
I nodded. Fast. Too fast. "Yes. Yes. Trampled by a rhino, they said. Big woolly bastard. Not much left to mourn."
One of the warriors looked at the other. Then at her.
The lady swayed where she stood, one hand pressed to the swell of her belly.
I pressed my face into the pillow and tried not to scream again.
"Please," I said, voice thin and breaking. "He's gone. Whatever he did... it's over."
They didn't answer. Just turned. Swift, fluid. Out the shattered door and down the hall like they'd never been there.
The lady lingered.
She looked back at me—just once.
And in her eyes, I saw more than grief. I saw doubt.
Then she vanished, and the cold was all that remained.
I lay there in silence.
The merc was still sobbing, hand still nailed down.
I didn't help him.
I just stared at the broken door and whispered:
"Fuck you, Ogden."
***
The fire was snapping quietly, low and oily. The wind kept worrying the edges of the bedrolls like it wanted to crawl inside and listen. I was pacing. Tight circles around the camp like some barefoot priestess mid-fit, except instead of gods I had regret and instead of incense I had that crusted smell of mercenary sweat still clinging to my thighs.
"Okay. Don't get mad," I said for the third time, mostly to the sky.
The Dragon didn't move. Just watched me from under his wing like I was a particularly dumb cloud about to rain on his parade.
"I slept with him. The merc. That loud one with the big chin and the leather harness that squeaked."
No reaction.
"Don't make that face. I needed coin. And he said he'd seen a caravan. Maybe. Possibly. At least that's what I thought he said before I was riding him like a cursed pony."
Still nothing.
"I was working, okay?"
The Dragon blinked once, very slowly. Like he was considering pretending to die just to get out of this conversation.
"But then they came."
That stopped him. A subtle shift. Just a flicker of the eye. But he was listening now.
"They kicked in the fucking door. Didn't knock. Didn't say hello. Didn't care that I was naked on top of a paying customer."
I stopped pacing long enough to gesture at myself. "Do you know how rare that kind of vulnerability is for me? Do you?"
No answer.
"Elves," I spat. "Real ones. Not the softcloth embassy types. These had blades and cheekbones and that floating quality like they're permanently gliding over their own sense of superiority. Elves."
I swallowed.
"There were two warriors. Grove style. The kind who look like they've murdered with poetry. And her."
I shook my head, wrapping my arms tight around myself. My voice dropped.
"She was pregnant."
The Dragon lifted his head slightly.
"Proper princess type," I said. "Not like Loma. Actual royalty. I mean, she had that stillness. Like a marble statue that might bless you or cut your throat."
I started pacing again, faster.
"They were looking for someone. Said they were hunting a man. Human. Tall. Golden. Some smug hero asshole."
I stopped. Looked up.
"They didn't say his name."
My voice was thin now.
"But they didn't have to."
I turned to the Dragon. My heart was thudding. The wind tasted like iron.
"It's him," I said. "It's Ogden."
The Dragon didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
And gods help me— I hoped the grave was real.
***
Later.
Much later.
The fire didn't warm me. It just hissed. Like it knew what I'd done and was judging me for it. The Dragon didn't speak. He didn't have to. His silence was big enough to drown in.
I kept pacing. My feet ached. My throat was tight. My insides were a tangle of old rope and newer shame. Gods, I wanted him to say something. Or roll over and snore. Or explode. Anything.
"Okay," I muttered. "Fine. You wanna know why I fucked that merc?"
The Dragon didn't look up.
"It wasn't for coin," I said. "Not really. That was just the excuse I gave myself. Easier that way. Easier to say I was whoring for silver than to admit I was breaking."
I stopped. Fisted my hands in my hair. Gritted my teeth.
"It was Ogden."
That made the Dragon's eye flick. Barely.
"I mean, his death," I snapped. "His big dumb heroic death. Crushed under a rhino like a dropped melon. That stupid pompous tombstone. That sun medallion I kept like some grieving widow even though I hated him. I hated him."
I kicked a rock hard enough it bounced into the fire and hissed.
"But I couldn't stop thinking about him. His voice. That cocky little smirk. The way he'd say something noble right before doing something unhinged. Gods. I couldn't sleep."
I turned my back to the Dragon. Pulled my cloak tighter.
"So I found the loudest, sweatiest, dumbest bastard I could. I climbed on top and rode him like a storm. Didn't ask his name. Didn't fake moans. Didn't pretend I was doing anything but slamming that ache into someone else's skin."
I spat into the fire.
"It didn't help."
Silence.
Then, low, almost gentle:
"You miss him."
I bit my lip so hard it bled.
"I miss hating him," I said. "It was pure. It was easy. Every time we fought, every time we fucked, I knew who I was."
The Dragon didn't reply.
I finally sat down, legs folding under me like they didn't want to carry the weight anymore.
"Now he's dead," I whispered. "And it's not clean. It's not righteous. It just… hurts."
I stared into the flames.
And somewhere, behind the pain and the panic and the shame—
I started to wonder what I'd do if he wasn't.
The Dragon shifted besides me, slow as old mountains, exhaling smoke like he was brewing something heavier than words.
Then, low: "He could be faking it."
I blinked.
"What?"
The Dragon's eye met mine. "The tomb. The rhino. All of it."
I stared at him, blank for half a second, like my brain stubbed its toe.
"You're saying… Ogden's not dead?"
He nodded once. "Think."
I did.
"Oh," I gasped, the sound catching somewhere stupid in my throat. "Oh. Oh."
I scrambled upright, mouth open, hands flailing like they might catch the thought as it bolted past.
"You mean—he faked it? The big noble death? The glorious martyrdom? The sun-medallion-in-the-grave exit?"
The Dragon arched a brow ridge.
I flopped back down, arms spread wide like the stars might need a performance.
"Gods. Of course. Of course he would."
The Dragon snorted softly.
"Who else," he said, "would be dumb enough—and smug enough—to defile an elven princess and then fake his own death to dodge the fallout?"
I groaned, dragging my hands over my face.
"Yes. Yes. Actually—yes. He totally would."
I could see it now. The whole scene. Ogden, sweaty and grinning, trousers half-buttoned, sneaking off under moonlight while elven horns sounded in the distance. Leaving behind a trail of crushed flowers and one very pregnant noble with a knife in her sleeve.
The Dragon grumbled, "And if the elves dig up that grave…"
I buried my face in my hands.
"He better still be in it."
The Dragon nodded, slow and grim. Then he added, almost casually—like mentioning the weather:
"And also… you just lied to an elven death squad."
I froze. Breath caught somewhere stupid and inconvenient.
"Oh shit."
The words tumbled out like I'd been punched in the gut. I sat bolt upright, cloak slipping off my shoulder, hair wild, eyes wide.
"They're gonna come back, aren't they?"
The Dragon gave the smallest, most infuriating shrug in the history of shrugs.
"They will want proof."
I slapped my hands over my face and let out a muffled scream into my palms.
"I told them he was buried at Varn's Rise! I pointed! I gave them directions! Gods, I even threw in a fake sob for flavor!"
The Dragon stretched a wing lazily. "Very convincing."
"Don't you dare," I hissed.
Silence for a beat. Then—
He rumbled, "Maybe they'll be satisfied."
I peeked at him between my fingers.
"You don't believe that."
"No," he said. "They brought a princess. They came all this way. That means they're not leaving without his head. Or his balls."
I groaned. Loudly.
"And now I'm an accessory to elven diplomatic vengeance porn."
The Dragon blew smoke toward the stars.
"Congratulations. You're in a saga now."
I flopped backward in the dust and screamed at the sky, limbs flung wide.
"I hate that man." I whispered it like a prayer.
But under it, quiet as breath:
Gods help me, if he's alive—I'm going to kill him myself.