They found me just past dawn, crumpled at the edge of the road like a discarded rag doll with nice cheekbones.
I made sure of that.
Tunic torn just enough to be scandalous but not indecent. Face smudged with ash. One sandal missing. The other artfully charred. I'd even rubbed a little sheep dung on my elbow for that "authentic survivor of a flaming massacre" aura.
A farmer with a limp and more eyebrows than teeth spotted me first. I heard him gasp. I whimpered on cue. A soft, tragic little sound, somewhere between "dying bird" and "stage actress with unresolved lineage issues."
"By the Old Ones," he muttered, dropping his bucket. "It's a girl!"
"Fire," I rasped, "everywhere… the sky… screamed..."
That got him. Hook, line, and simpering terror. Within moments, I had a small entourage: farmers, a few old women in linen veils, a charm-witch muttering protective syllables under her breath. Even an apprentice scribe with ink on his fingers and no idea what to do with his hands.
They were murmuring, clutching at me, dabbing my forehead with herb-scented cloths, asking where I was from, what happened, if I needed a charm against possession.
I didn't answer immediately. I stared into the distance, dead-eyed, like a cursed seer. That always makes them nervous.
Then I whispered:
"He came."
Gasps. One of the women clutched her string of bone beads. A boy spat over his left shoulder. The charm-witch hissed and drew a sigil in the dirt with her staff.
"The Dragon?" someone asked.
I nodded, slowly. "Came screaming out of the clouds. Black as midnight. Eyes like molten gold. Wings that swallowed the sun. He burned Tarmel Hollow to the ground. Left nothing but ash and bones."
"Tarmel Hollow?" someone echoed. "But that's four valleys over—"
"Not anymore," I said gravely. "Now it's just... Hollow."
There was silence. Delicious, heavy silence.
Then someone screamed.
Not at me. Behind me.
We turned as one toward the western hills—where the wind carried the sound of another scream, real this time, rising above the clamor of panicked livestock and the distant fwoosh of something very flammable being set on fire.
"Barn," someone muttered.
"The haystack too," an elder croaked. "I told you it was too dry."
Perfect.
"He's here," I gasped. "He's hunting."
That got them moving. Someone began to bang a brass gong strung from a wooden pole. Women tied red ribbons around their wrists. One man threw salt over his own head in every direction.
I let myself collapse into a convenient hay pile—unburned, for now—and clutched my side like I was nursing a tragic internal injury. A few of the villagers clustered protectively around me.
I wept. Artistically.
They ate it up like soup on a cold day.
By midmorning, I was propped up on a straw-stuffed cot in the longhouse, sipping weak nettle broth like a war survivor too brave to complain and too beautiful to ignore.
They'd given me a shawl. Someone offered me a polished antler comb. A child brought me a pinecone, which I accepted solemnly as if it were a sacred relic. The charm-witch laid three pebbles on my chest "to absorb the grief." I let her.
A cluster of villagers huddled around, watching me like I might shatter into tears or flames at any moment.
I took another theatrical sip and cleared my throat. "He came at twilight."
A murmur swept the room. Twilight is when the veil is thinnest, obviously. Everyone knows that.
"He did not roar. He purred. Like a beast who knew exactly what he was about to do."
The boy with the pinecone whimpered. The charm-witch added a fourth pebble.
"He circled once, twice... then he opened his jaws and breathed the wrath of forgotten gods. Fire hotter than a midsummer forge. Flames that melted bronze."
Someone gasped. The village bronze was their pride—crude, ugly, sacred.
"The grain tower exploded first," I said. "Then the livestock pen. Goats screamed. They always scream the loudest, don't they?"
Nobody answered. But a few nodded gravely, as if they, too, had once mourned goat-based tragedy.
"He didn't stop there." My voice dropped, conspiratorial. "The well boiled. Chickens ignited. A man ran into the street with his beard on fire. He screamed, 'Tell them—tell them the sky is angry.'"
"Did he say where he was from?" someone asked nervously.
I shook my head. "He isn't from anywhere. He is ruin given wings."
The charm-witch clutched her staff tighter. A burly man with soot on his hands muttered, "It's the fault of Seebulba. The city folk angered the heavens again."
"Oh no," I said quickly. "This has nothing to do with cities. This one seeks gold. And vengeance. And goats, obviously, but only out of spite."
Several eyes turned toward the village elder, who looked suddenly very small on his ceremonial stool.
I leaned forward. "He burned a widow's house because she only offered copper. He torched a granary because someone sneezed during his landing. He melted a man's teeth—in his skull—for calling him a lizard."
"He's not a lizard," the pinecone boy whispered.
I nodded. "He hates that comparison."
The villagers looked increasingly pale and poor. Someone whispered, "He was seen circling the eastern pastures just two nights ago…"
"The dragon?"
"No, a shadow. But the chickens haven't laid since. That's an omen."
It wasn't. But I nodded grimly. "It begins."
And just like that, hysteria had fermented nicely.
I added a few final flourishes: a melted idol, a baby born with scales, a sheep that exploded under mysterious circumstances.
They soaked it all in. No one questioned. No one doubted.
Fear is the oldest currency in the world. And I was suddenly very rich.
The longhouse trembled with noise. Someone banged a wooden ladle against a drumskin. A child cried. A goat outside began bleating, possibly in anticipation.
"What do we do?" someone wailed.
"Do we flee?"
"Fight?"
"Hide the women?"
"I am a woman!"
"Then hide yourself!"
I stood, slowly—just wobbly enough to keep up appearances, just steady enough to command the room. Shawl draped around my shoulders like a martyr's mantle, face pale and tragic, I raised a single soot-streaked hand.
They fell silent.
"My village," I said, voice soft as ash, "was proud. Foolish. We had grain. Strong backs. A smith who claimed his iron could slay a god. We told the dragon no."
A few gasps. One man muttered, "Brave folk."
I met his eyes. "They are dead folk."
More gasps. Someone crossed two fingers and whispered a charm to ward off doom.
"We thought we could reason with it. We tried prayer. Spears. One of our elders sang an ancient hymn of placation. The dragon ate him midway through the second verse."
A woman stifled a sob. The charm-witch began grinding herbs more aggressively.
"It was not iron he sought. Not meat. Not hay, nor wine, nor incense."
I paused. Let the room hold its breath.
"It was tribute."
Murmurs.
"Gold," I continued. "Silver. Jewels. Rings. Coins. He hoards it. Sleeps upon it. Counts it with monstrous claws. His heart is cursed to ache for it. Nothing else will ease the pain."
"But we're poor folk," someone muttered.
"Poor?" another cried. "He burned three barns just this week! That's half our harvest!"
"I say we offer him a prize cow!" one farmer shouted, slapping his thigh. "Our best, fattened with honey oats!"
"Or a year's worth of fava beans," another offered. "In clay pots. Decorated."
I turned slowly toward them, pity radiating from every pore.
"He is no country ogre to be swayed by livestock and legumes."
I leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. "He melts cows. Effortlessly. He flambés oxen for fun. He juggles the skulls of kings with his teeth."
"Then what?" someone whispered. "What do we have?"
"Haven't you any gold?" I asked innocently.
A long, collective silence followed.
Then all eyes turned. Slowly. Reluctantly. Toward the corner of the hall, where a squat, beady-eyed man sat on a stack of ledgers, clutching a carved wooden abacus like it was a weapon.
He blinked. "Now, now—let's not be hasty."
"Rimok," someone growled.
Rimok the Tax Farmer.
Fat fingers, greased beard, face like a rat in mid-denial.
"You've got coin," the elder said.
"I have the people's taxes!" Rimok protested. "Seed levies! Regional tithes! Coppers, not gold!"
"Liar," someone muttered.
"Enough to fill a pouch," someone else said.
I tilted her head, smiling sweetly. "Dear Rimok. The dragon has many hates. But few burn hotter than his hatred for tax collectors."
Rimok paled.
"He thinks them hoarders," I whispered. "Leeches. Scribes who steal instead of bleed. He says their gold smells greedy. He would sniff it out. Even buried under six feet of dirt."
Rimok swallowed hard. "Now, hold on—"
"Didn't you say," I turned to the elder, "you'd rather spare a cow than lose a child?"
"I did."
I faced Rimok again. "Then perhaps it is better to lose a single pouch than an entire village. Surely a smart man like you sees the math. One year's profit… in exchange for continued breathing."
Rimok whimpered. His abacus clicked twice. Sweat had begun to bloom under his arms, staining the sleeves of his fancy dyed tunic.
I gave him a sympathetic smile. The kind of smile you give a man who's already halfway into the oven.
"You remind me," I said gently, "of Tonnus. From Varth's Hollow."
"The name sounds familiar," the elder muttered.
"It shouldn't," I said. "Nothing's left of it."
I stepped closer to Rimok, lowering my voice to a near whisper—but loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Tonnus was a tax farmer. Sharp dresser. Liked his cuffs starched and his profits plump. He heard about the dragon, just like you did. And you know what he did?"
Rimok's lips twitched. "What?"
"He hid the gold. Dug a pit beneath his floorboards, lined it with goose feathers, covered it with fig crates. Very clever."
A few villagers nodded. Rimok perked up slightly.
"And the dragon—he landed in Varth's Hollow, as promised. Everyone knelt. Laid out their tribute. Burned some incense. But something didn't smell right to him."
I held up two fingers. "He sniffed once. Sniffed twice. Then his eyes glowed. Said he could smell unpaid taxes. Smelled greed. Said it stank like goat piss and oiled parchment."
The room was dead quiet.
"So he took a stroll through the village. Sniffed his way right to Tonnus's house. Didn't knock. Didn't roar. Just exhaled through the keyhole and turned the whole structure into charcoal fondue."
Someone gagged.
"And Tonnus?" I said sweetly. "He survived. For a moment. Ran out the backdoor. Clothes on fire. Beard alight. Screaming, 'I was only holding it for the province!'"
Rimok looked absolutely green.
"And then?" the pinecone boy whispered.
"Oh," I said lightly. "Then the dragon ate him. Headfirst. Just his legs left sticking out. Kicked for almost ten seconds."
Someone whimpered.
Someone else said, "Weren't you from Tarmel Hollow?"
I smiled. "Varth's Hollow. Tarmel Hollow. Ash is ash."
Then I turned back to Rimok.
He was shaking. "Maybe we could… perhaps… hire someone? A sword-for-hire? A slayer?" His voice rose hopefully. "There are heroes in Tanagra. Men of steel. Women of might. The Sisterhood. The Iron Caste. That blonde idiot with the sun medallion."
And there it was.
"Oh no," I said, hands raised like I'd just been threatened with ritual dismemberment. "Not a hero."
The villagers jumped at my tone. Even the charm-witch flinched.
"You know what my folk did?" I continued, turning my tragic gaze on them. "After we refused the tribute, we hired a hero. A big one. Towering. A cape with runes. A sword named God-Splitter. Promised us glory, safety, and half-off on funerals."
The room leaned in.
"He swaggered right into the hills. Climbed onto a rock. Pulled out his shiny sword. And shouted, 'I fear no dragon!'"
I paused.
"And the dragon said, 'Good. It'll hurt less.'"
More gasps.
"They fought?" someone asked, eyes wide.
"Oh yes," I said. "For almost six seconds. Then the dragon bit him in half like a honey fig and used his leg to scratch his back."
A man in the back crossed his arms. "Didn't even get a swing in?"
"He swung," I said. "At a butterfly. Before he died. Very majestic."
That sealed it.
Nobody wanted a hero now. Not with the image of sun-medallion guts splattered across a hilltop in their minds.
And then—music to my ears—someone shouted:
"Go to Rimok's house! Bring the pots!"
"What? No!" Rimok tried to stand, but two burly men were already halfway to the door.
"Under the bed!" someone called.
"Behind the fake wall in the pantry!" added a helpful voice.
"I know he buries them in sealed amphorae," hissed an old woman. "The bastard taxed my smokehouse."
Rimok sagged.
I put a hand on his shoulder. "Consider it an investment in not being flambéed."
He whimpered, but didn't resist.
They came back hauling sacks.
Big ones.
Clay pots sloshing with clinking coins. Wooden chests creaking under their own weight. One man dragged in a cracked amphora half-filled with silver rings and copper medallions—Rimok's "emergency temple donations," which apparently had never reached any temple.
I had to bite the inside of my cheek not to cackle.
The longhouse floor glittered. It shone.
The villagers stood around it, panting, dusty, glowing with the desperate righteousness of people who had very much chosen not to die this week.
I pressed my hand to my chest, staggered slightly, and whispered, "He may yet spare you."
The elder turned to the crowd. "We pile it on the old sanctuary! The one on the promontory!"
A murmur of agreement. Someone beat the bronze gong again for emphasis.
"Not near the houses," said a woman. "In case he's in a mood."
"Or constipated," muttered the charm-witch.
Within the hour, the entire village was hauling the dragon's ransom up the slope. The sanctuary was half-crumbled stone, moss-covered and forgotten, but it had a circle of carved columns and just enough pomp to impress a monster.
They poured the gold onto the central altar: coins, rings, figurines, half-melted charms, a gilded candlestick someone swore was holy, and Rimok's favorite inkwell. I had to avert my eyes. From the pile. From the sheer erotic glint of it all.
I mean, I kept the act together. Just.
Mostly.
Then someone shouted:
"What about the sacrifice?"
The crowd paused.
I blinked. "What now?"
"The virgin," said a stout woman with suspiciously calloused hands. "It's customary."
"Not always," someone else offered. "Sometimes we do a cow."
"But cows are useful," the elder grunted.
"So are maidens!" shouted a voice from the back, definitely one of the maidens.
I stepped back slightly. "Surely the dragon won't require both—"
"Oh, better safe than sorry," another woman said. "He's already burned three barns."
"Four," added the charm-witch.
I looked around. "So… who will it be?"
All at once, the village went quiet.
People looked down.
Studiously.
Maidens blushed furiously. One dropped her flower wreath and kicked it into a ditch. Another suddenly remembered she had to go wash her brother's tunic and vanished behind a tree.
Old crones muttered curses under their breath, something about loose daughters and shameful lads.
Just as the silence began to crack under its own weight, the charm-witch spoke.
Flat. Dry. Deadpan, like someone stating the weather.
"Aren't you a virgin?"
Every head turned.
I blinked.
There it was. The dagger. Point-first, no ceremony.
I gasped. "I—"
Then I faltered. Just slightly. Let my mouth hang open a beat too long. Let my eyes shift like I was trying to suppress a truth too shameful to speak.
"I… I don't… I mean…"
The villagers leaned in. The tension sweetened like fruit on the edge of rot.
"I was raised by a maiden aunt," I said, voice trembling just enough. "In chastity and… and hygiene. We followed the rites. Slept on stone. Bathed in cold water. Read the sacred scrolls of Lady Tilmura's Codes of the Womb."
"Those are banned," someone whispered.
I ignored them.
"I was… kept pure. Too pure. To the point where boys called me uncatchable. I once flinched when a merchant brushed my shoulder in the market."
Eyes widened. Heads nodded. It was exactly the kind of awkward prudery they associated with true, unbearable virginity.
"I begged the gods to make me normal," I whispered. "But no matter what I did, my virtue remained… intact."
I clasped my hands together. "Please don't make me be the sacrifice."
A collective gasp.
The pinecone boy actually whimpered.
And then, from somewhere in the crowd, a voice rang out:
"SEIZE HER!"
Before I could perform another round of faux resistance, two women grabbed me by the arms. An old man tied a ribbon around my wrist "for purity," and someone else handed me a ceremonial fig branch I was definitely not allowed to throw at their faces.
"Wait—please—there must be someone more worthy!" I cried, already halfway up the slope toward the sanctuary. "Someone with fewer… feelings."
"No," said the elder, solemnly. "Only a true virgin will appease the beast."
"And you're the purest one here!" someone yelled. "We can feel it radiating off you!"
"Like mildew," the charm-witch muttered.
And so it was done.
They lashed me to the tall wooden stake at the center of the treasure pile, arms bound above my head, ankles tied, fig branch still tucked behind my ear like a crown of unwelcome chastity. The gold glimmered below me. The sanctuary stones radiated heat. Somewhere down the hill, a goat bleated nervously.
I looked to the sky, dramatically.
The clouds were already darkening.
A wind stirred.
The dragon was coming.
And I, poor, humble, virginal me—was exactly where I wanted to be.