They tied me up again.
Different village, same bad knotwork. At least they were consistent.
This time, it was an altar of stone — not the usual slab, but a great circular arch half-buried in the savanna, the kind of thing ancient cults probably used for calling down comets or ex-boyfriends. The grass around it was tall, gold, and whispering like gossip in the wind.
Offerings glittered at my feet: a sad little pile of silver coins, two ceremonial goblets, and some daggers so decorative they couldn't cut cheese.
And me.
Flat on my back, arms and legs spread in an X, wrists chafed against rough hemp. Naked — again — except for a gold body chain that clinked whenever I breathed. Tiny medallions all down my chest and hips, like breadcrumbs for very perverted birds.
I sighed.
"Really," I muttered to the horizon. "Do they practice this somewhere? Is there a manual? 'Sacrificing Virgins for Dummies'?"
The sky didn't answer. The grass just swayed, whispering secrets to the wind.
No dragon yet. No hero either.
I watched a beetle crawl across my thigh, sparkling blue-black in the sun, and wondered if this was what enlightenment felt like: itchy and overexposed.
Then—hoofbeats.
Heavy. Steady. Confident.
Oh, thank the gods, finally.
I lifted my head, doing my best impression of terrified-but-fetching. Chin trembling, breasts heaving, eyes wide and glistening like a saint in a perfume ad.
The figure crested the hill, framed by sunlight like divine marketing.
Not a knight.
A woman.
She was tall — muscular, sun-browned, every inch of her screaming I once wrestled a minotaur and won. Her armor gleamed gold, her spear gleamed silver, and her expression was pure pious sisterhood.
"Fear not, sister!" she called out, dismounting in a single fluid motion. "I am here to rescue you for the Sisterhood!"
I blinked. "The… what now?"
She strode closer, spear in hand, eyes blazing with righteous zeal. "The Amazon Sisterhood! We free women from bondage, from cruelty, from the tyranny of men and monsters alike!"
"Oh."
Crap.
She circled me like a hawk assessing a wounded dove, every inch of her radiating competence. I tried to summon my usual weapon — charm — but it bounced off her like perfume on armor.
"Uh… hi," I offered. "Love what you've done with the whole warrior-priestess vibe. You must get so many squats in."
She frowned. "Save your strength, sister. You've suffered enough."
"I mean, technically I'm fine—"
"Silence." She knelt beside me, inspecting the ropes, her tone suddenly tender. "What kind of beast would do this to a woman?"
I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again. "…You'd be surprised."
She looked up at the altar's arch. "You were to be offered to the dragon, weren't you?"
"Define 'offered'," I said weakly.
She didn't hear. Or didn't care. "Not today," she declared. "Not while I draw breath!"
Oh gods. She was serious.
I twisted my wrists experimentally. "So… about untying me?"
She began to saw at the ropes with a dagger, muttering prayers to some moon goddess with too many syllables.
I forced a smile. "You know, this is really sweet of you. Heroic, even. But maybe—hear me out—we wait a bit before cutting me loose?"
Her eyes flared. "Are you afraid?"
"Not exactly. It's just… I'm part of a very complicated situation. There's… a dragon, yes, but also, um, a business arrangement, and—"
"You've been brainwashed!" she gasped.
"Oh for the love of—"
She pressed a hand to my brow. "You poor, broken thing. Don't worry. Once the beast is slain, you'll see clearly again. You'll join us. The Sisterhood will heal your soul."
I stared up at her, speechless.
This was worse than paladins.
At least the horny ones were predictable.
She cut the last rope. My arms fell free. She started working on my legs, still chanting. I sat up, gold chain jingling, dust sticking to my skin.
"Wait," I said. "If you kill the dragon, who's supposed to get the treasure?"
She blinked. "Treasure?"
"Yeah. Big pile. Coins, jewels, cursed tiaras. All very feminist-adjacent."
She scowled. "We do not fight for greed, sister."
"Right, of course. Totally. Just—hypothetically—if the dragon were to, say, repent instead of die, would that count as victory?"
She frowned again. "What nonsense is this?"
"Nonsense?" I laughed nervously. "No nonsense! Just wondering if we could maybe not stab him today."
"You fear him."
"Oh yes. Terrifying. Big, scaly, gouty. But also, y'know, sentient."
"Sentient evil," she hissed.
"Sentient and insured."
Her eyes narrowed. "He has bewitched you."
"Technically it's a business partnership with benefits."
She froze. "Benefits?"
I coughed. "Metaphorical ones."
And that's when I heard it.
The faintest rumble in the distance.
A low, irritated growl rolling across the savanna like thunder wearing pearls.
"Oh no," I muttered. "Not now."
The Amazon stiffened. "The beast!"
She seized her spear, eyes gleaming, every muscle poised for righteous violence.
I scrambled to my feet, nearly tripping on the chain. "Wait, let's think about this!"
"There is nothing to think about!" she cried. "Justice will be done!"
I groaned. "Justice never pays."
The clouds broke. Shadows swept across the grass. The air thickened with the smell of ozone and indignation.
And there he was.
The Dragon.
Descending like a thundercloud having a midlife crisis, scales flashing, wings beating hard enough to flatten the grass for half a mile. He landed with the grace of an anvil and the sigh of a man whose gout had returned.
His eyes locked on me first. Then her. Then me again.
"Who," he said, smoke curling from his nostrils, "is that?"
I threw up my hands. "I don't know! She just showed up! Don't kill her yet!"
The Amazon stepped forward, spear raised. "Foul beast! Release this woman and prepare to meet your end!"
He blinked, slowly. Then looked at me. "Is she serious?"
"She's very serious," I hissed. "Don't antagonize her."
"You attract the worst rescuers."
"Tell me about it!"
The Amazon lunged. The Dragon sidestepped — well, as much as a creature the size of a barn could sidestep — and her spear glanced off his foreleg, leaving a tiny scratch and a massive offense.
He stared at it. Then at her. Then sighed, like someone told him the opera was canceled.
"Do we have to do this?" he asked.
She shouted something about divine vengeance.
He looked at me again. "I'm killing her."
"No! She's nice!"
"She just stabbed me."
"Barely!"
He spread his wings. "Saya."
"Fine! Knock her out gently!"
He exhaled, and a gust of wind blasted her backward into the tall grass. I covered the face with my hands. When I dared to peek between my fingers the fire was still hissing. What was left of the Amazon lay in the middle of it, a blackened silhouette in the shape of bad decisions and good muscle tone. The air smelled like cooked pride and burnt sandalwood.
I sat on a rock, knees drawn up, watching the smoke curl toward a disinterested sky. My gold body chain was hot from the flames, sticking to my skin. My hair smelled like barbecue.
The Dragon crouched beside me, wings folded tight, a faint wisp of smoke still rising from his nostrils. He looked... smug. And a little tired. Like a cat who'd caught the wrong bird but was too proud to admit it.
"You didn't have to scorch her," I said finally.
"She stabbed me," he grumbled.
"It was a scratch."
He flexed his foreleg, showing a tiny singe mark where the spear had grazed a scale. "Still hurts."
"Oh please. I've had worse papercuts from temple scrolls."
"I'm old," he muttered, settling heavier into the dirt. "Things don't heal like they used to."
"Big baby," I sighed.
"Ancient baby," he corrected, stretching his neck with a creak that sounded like a ship's hull about to split.
We sat there a while, listening to the crackle and pop of what used to be a very motivated feminist. The flames threw lazy shadows across the savanna, flickering over coins that had tumbled out of the offering bowl. I watched one roll into the ashes, hissing softly as it cooled.
He glanced at me, eyes half-lidded, voice softer now. "Fine couple we make."
I turned my head, met his gaze, and smiled. "I'm not complaining."
He snorted smoke through his nose, a puff of warmth that smelled faintly of guilt and victory.
The Dragon poked at the ashes with one talon, scattering what used to be an idealist. The wind carried off a wisp of burnt hair and self-righteousness.
After a while, he said, "So… what exactly was that Sisterhood she kept shouting about?"
I shrugged. "No clue. Some kind of club, I think. For women who like shouting at men with swords."
He tilted his head. "You mean a militia?"
"More like a traveling support group," I said. "They probably meet under a full moon, braid each other's hair, and talk about feelings. Then someone cries, someone else burns a symbol into the dirt, and boom—instant sisterhood."
He blinked slowly. "Sounds exhausting."
"Oh, absolutely. All that earnestness? Makes my skin itch. But they mean well, I guess. Liberating women from oppression and corsets and common sense."
He rumbled, amused. "And you?"
"What about me?"
"You don't feel… liberated?"
I glanced at the scorched spot where the Amazon's spear had melted into slag. "I feel alive. That's usually enough for me."
He gave a slow, heavy nod, the kind that meant he was pretending to understand. "So not joining, then?"
"Gods, no," I said, stretching my legs out toward the fire. "They'd make me attend meetings. Probably a uniform, too. Something made of leather straps and irony."
He chuckled—a deep, smoky sound that rolled out into the tall grass. "Pity. You'd look good leading a rebellion."
I smirked. "Oh, I am leading one. Against poverty. And boredom."
He flicked a coal with his claw. "How's that going?"
"Mixed results," I said. "But at least I'm winning the war on clothes."
That made him snort, smoke curling around his grin.
The wind shifted. The savanna sighed. And for a moment, we just sat there—two criminals under a wide, star-stained sky—watching the ashes of zealotry drift off into the dark.
The savanna was still burning in little sighs of smoke when the sun began to bleed out behind the grass. Everything turned gold and copper and then that dusky violet that makes you think of endings.
The Dragon had stopped muttering about his leg by then. The fire had gone quiet, just embers glowing like the eyes of tiny gods.
I was tired. Sticky with sweat and soot and smelling like roasted feminism. So I did what I always do when the world feels too big — I crawled closer to him.
He lifted one wing without a word. Always the same motion, lazy but deliberate, like he was letting me into a secret. The air underneath smelled of smoke, metal, and something older. I slipped under, curled against his side, and used the curve of his tail as a pillow. Warm. Heavy. Real.
The night hummed around us. Crickets, the whisper of grass, my heartbeat slowing until it matched the slow thunder of his breathing. Every time he exhaled, a little cloud of smoke rolled over me. It should've been disgusting. It wasn't. It smelled like safety, which is the strangest perfume I know.
After a while he rumbled, "You'll need clothes tomorrow."
I made a noise halfway between a sigh and a laugh. "Maybe. Or I'll start a trend. Bare and brave. The savanna look."
He snorted smoke. "Why do you humans need clothes anyway?"
I smiled into the dark. "To stay warm. To look decent. To lie, mostly."
He shifted, the ground vibrating under me. "Lie?"
"Clothes tell stories," I murmured. "You put on a tunic and suddenly you're a peasant. Add silk and you're a lady. Armor and you're a hero. It's all make-believe that everyone agrees to believe."
He rumbled again — amused maybe, or just thinking. "We have no such disguise. Dragons are what we are."
"Yeah, well, you've got scales. I've got lies. We work with what we're born with."
That earned me a slow chuckle, deep and warm through his chest. It made my cheek tingle where it rested against him.
"You talk too much," he said.
"I know." I yawned. "That's why you keep me."
He didn't answer right away. Just breathed, long and even. The kind of sound that feels older than sleep.
Then, so quiet I almost missed it, he said, "You're trouble."
"Always," I whispered.
The stars came out — thousands of them, sharp and cold — and I felt his wing settle heavier over me, sealing out the night.
And there, under a thousand miles of sky and dragon scale, I thought: Clothes are stories, and maybe tonight, I didn't need one.