They tied me to a pillar this time.
A big, ugly, grey thing — not even carved, just a chunk of stone pretending to be architecture. There was a bronze hoop bolted into the top, green with rust and optimism. My wrists were tied together and looped through it, so I had to stand on my toes to keep from hanging by my shoulders. It was undignified.
And hot.
The noon sun beat down like a personal insult, turning the whole hilltop into a frying pan. My hair stuck to the back of my neck, sweat rolled between my shoulder blades, and the ropes itched.
Around me shuffled the rest of the "offering."
A flock of sheep.
Twelve of them. Fat, glossy, self-satisfied. Every one wearing a red ribbon around its neck like it had just won a prize for stupidity. They bleated. They farted. They stared at me with the dumb confidence of creatures that believed in divine justice.
"Don't look at me," I muttered. "We're in this together."
One of them stepped forward and started sniffing my sandal. Then it sneezed. Wetly.
Fantastic.
There was supposed to be gold. That was the deal. A chest of coins, maybe a few trinkets, something shiny enough to distract him from the gout and the existential dread. But no — these villagers decided that sheep counted as wealth. "The dragon will appreciate good meat," they said.
He wouldn't.
He was going to be furious.
I twisted a little against the ropes, feeling them bite into my wrists. The pillar was rough, scraped my back whenever I moved. Standing on tiptoe made my calves cramp. The sandals didn't help much — thin leather, already slick with sweat and sheep filth.
This was officially the least glamorous sacrifice of my career.
I took in the scene again: dry grass, a few withered garlands, a scattering of bones from the last offering (probably goats), and me — human centerpiece, sweating and cursing.
Somewhere down in the valley, the villagers were already hiding in their huts. The priest had mumbled a prayer, rung a bell, and bolted. They didn't even bother to wait for the dragon. Cowards.
The wind shifted. The smell hit harder. I gagged.
"Gods above," I whispered, "if you're listening, I promise to give up lying. For an hour. Maybe."
A sheep answered with a mournful baaa. Another one pooped right beside my foot. Steam rose.
"Of course," I sighed. "Why wouldn't you."
The sky above was empty — bright, wide, and horribly quiet.
He was late.
Which meant he'd noticed the problem.
Which meant he was circling somewhere, counting sheep and muttering about my competence.
"Oh, he's going to be unbearable," I groaned, tugging uselessly at the rope. "I can hear it already. 'Saya, gold means gold.' 'Do you even read the briefings I give you?'"
A bell clinked as one of the sheep wandered too close. I nudged it away with my knee. It blinked at me, chewed, and farted again.
I closed my eyes. "If he doesn't kill me, I might kill myself."
Another pause.
Distant wind. The faint hum of heat.
Then—somewhere far above—a sound like air folding in on itself.
A ripple of pressure.
He was coming.
I could feel it in the soles of my feet, through the stone, through the air. That slow, inevitable thrum of wings.
I looked up at the sky, swallowed, and muttered the only prayer I ever knew: "Please, old man. Don't make this worse than it already is."
The air cracked with that familiar pressure—like the sky itself was exhaling after holding its breath too long.
A shadow rolled over the hilltop, stretching across the grass, the sheep, and me. The bells around their necks jingled in terrified unison. I didn't look up. I didn't have to. The ground trembled, a rush of wind hit my face, and then came the whump—wings folding, dust billowing, the faint scent of ozone and ego.
He'd arrived.
I opened my mouth before he even spoke.
"Please please please don't get mad," I blurted. "I know what you're thinking. But it's not my fault. The village is—how shall we say—financially challenged. And, um, a little weird. They're very into animal husbandry. Like, deeply. Disturbingly. The gold thing wasn't happening."
Silence.
I risked a glance up.
He was staring at me—massive, gleaming, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils. His eyes slid past me to the flock, then back again. One long exhale.
Then, to my complete shock, he just… shrugged.
"Fine."
"Fine?" I echoed, blinking. "That's it? Not even a sigh? No lecture about professionalism?"
He padded closer, tail sweeping dust, wings rustling like tired curtains. "Saya, I've been in this business longer than most gods have been taking worshippers. I've learned to manage my expectations."
I blinked again. "So… you're not mad?"
He reached up with one claw, sliced through the rope above my wrists, and stepped back.
The rope fell. I gasped, rubbing my wrists. "You're really not mad?"
He gave me a weary look. "You think this is the first time I've been offered livestock? There was once a town that sent me nothing but turnips and a priest with gout. This is practically luxury."
He stretched his wings, joints popping like distant thunder. "At least I'm going to feast on mutton tonight."
I gawked. "You're actually going to eat them?"
He tilted his head. "What else would I do with them? Enroll them in poetry lessons?"
The nearest sheep bleated nervously.
He sighed. "Turn around, Saya."
"What?"
"Turn. Around."
I hesitated. "You're not going to make a spectacle of it, are you?"
He growled softly. "Saya."
I turned. Slowly.
The ropes scratched against my wrists as I crossed my arms and faced the pillar, staring at the rough stone. Behind me came the shuffle of hooves, the sharp inhale of a dragon's breath, and then—
Crunch.
A wet, tearing sound.
Another.
The bells jangled wildly for a few seconds, then went still.
I closed my eyes. "Oh gods."
Another crunch. A slurp. A contented exhale.
"Are you… enjoying yourself?" I asked weakly.
"Mmh," he rumbled between bites. "Could use salt."
I grimaced. "That's disgusting."
"That's dinner."
The noises went on—chewing, bone-snapping, the occasional appreciative grunt.
When it finally stopped, I heard him lick his teeth with an audible shhhlk that made my spine crawl.
"Alright," he said at last, voice casual. "You can turn around now."
I did.
The ground was… well. Let's say decorated.
He was licking his claws daintily, like a man cleaning wine stains off his cufflinks.
I stared at the carnage, then at him. "You're unbelievable."
He arched a brow ridge. "What? Waste not, want not."
I sighed, rubbing my temples. "I can't believe I tied myself to a pillar for a flock of sheep."
He smirked. "You've done worse for less."
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. "…Fair."
He snorted smoke that smelled faintly of roast. "Come on. Let's go before they send me a thank-you basket."
And just like that, he lumbered toward the horizon, leaving me to step around what used to be twelve tributes and the shreds of my dignity.
"Next time," I muttered, trailing after him, "I'm negotiating the payment myself."
Behind us, the bronze hoop glinted in the sun, still swinging gently in the wind.