There was a single cloud in the sky.
Fluffy. Innocent. Absolutely unaware of how dramatic it was about to become.
I, meanwhile, was tied upright to a wooden stake in the middle of a truly magnificent pile of gold. Arms raised, ankles bound, sun on my face, hair tousled just enough to be tragic. I was, in a word: resplendent.
This was it. The payoff. The hoard.
It glittered around me like a divine spotlight—coins, bangles, plates, rings, even a partially melted figurine of what might've once been a fertility goddess. She looked as surprised as I felt. I'd expected maybe a modest hillock of tribute, a few token offerings. But this?
This was a bloody mound. Enough to fill a dragon's belly and line a courtesan's purse for a year. Maybe two if she didn't shop in Tanagra.
I inhaled deeply, letting the scent of hot metal, sun-warmed copper, and mildly singed sanctity fill my lungs.
The rope chafed a little. My wrists ached slightly. But that was nothing compared to the joy bubbling in my chest as I did mental arithmetic.
Let's see… say the dragon takes 60%. That leaves me… forty percent of this gold lump. No, wait—he said I could argue him up if the haul was "especially juicy." This is beyond juicy. This is succulent. This is moist, roasted greed with honey glaze.
I was already planning how I'd spin it.
"Oh, this is your share?" I'd say, wide-eyed. "But you don't even like bracelets. You said they pinch your scales."
And he'd growl. And I'd pout. And he'd call me a cunning little worm. And I'd say, "Yes, but a rich one."
Maybe we'd even laugh. Maybe not. He was moody that way.
But gods above, he was going to be so pleased when he saw this.
I tilted my head skyward, listening. The wind was shifting. The villagers were long gone—off hiding behind their goats and charms and hopeful denial. This moment was all mine.
I was basking in it.
I even started rehearsing a line.
"You came! I was so scared! I thought… I thought I'd never see you again!"
Cue tears. Maybe one real one, if I could squeeze it out.
He'd melt. Not literally. Hopefully.
I smiled to myself, flexed one toe above the pile, and sighed.
It was a good day to be a liar.
Hoofbeats.
Slow at first. Measured. Like someone wanted to make sure they were heard.
I frowned. Tilted my head. Definitely not the dragon. His landings were more... explosive.
The rhythm of the hooves drew closer. Steady. Confident. Smug.
Then the rider emerged from behind the sanctuary wall.
And of course it was him.
Shining cuirass. Flowing red cloak. That ridiculous sun-shaped medallion still strapped across his chest like an inflated ego. His jaw looked freshly shaven and aggressively clenched.
Sir Odran.
Hero. Idiot. Very nearly dragon poop, once upon a time.
We locked eyes.
His narrowed.
Mine widened.
Then narrowed.
Then blazed.
"You!" we shouted in unison.
"You conniving wench!" he snapped, dismounting in a single dramatic swing and drawing his sword—not to fight, mind you, but to look threatening while storming up the gold pile. "I should've known you were behind this."
I twisted against the ropes with more flair than effort. "Behind what? The pile of gold? The part where the village didn't hire you? The part where you're not naked and tied to an oak tree again?"
He flushed. "You robbed me!"
"That was an unfortunate misunderstanding!"
"Oh, you misunderstood all right. Misunderstood that you wouldn't knock me out, take my purse, and leave me hogtied for forest beetles."
He paced, circling the pile like a lion around a roast chicken. "I knew it. I knew the dragon didn't just show up. You're his whore, aren't you?"
"I'm his business partner."
"That's worse."
I sniffed. "Well, I'm not the one who just showed up uninvited. What are you even doing here?"
He pointed skyward. "Saw the beast. Followed the smoke. Thought perhaps a village was in danger."
He looked around, clearly unimpressed. "Turns out it's just you. And a lot of gold."
He stared at the pile. Then he smiled.
"Oh no," I said flatly.
"Oh yes," he murmured, crouching and plunging his arms into the coins like a child into a feast.
He began scooping gold into two sacks. Rings, bangles, coins, amulets—my amulets. "Fair compensation," he said, not looking at me. "For the mental trauma. And my horse. And that sun medallion you pawned in that rotten village."
"It was ugly!"
"It was ceremonial!"
"Did you cry when I sold it?"
He stuffed more into the sack. "I'm crying now, too. From joy."
"Touch one more coin and I swear the dragon will flay you into ribbons."
He stopped. Straightened.
Then turned to me with a grin that could curdle goat's milk.
"Speaking of flaying…" he said slowly, "what should I do with you?"
I froze.
"You've caused me nothing but humiliation," he said, sauntering closer. "Tied me to a tree. Stole my coin. Lied. Betrayed. Flaunted your... feminine wiles."
I blinked. "Wiles?"
"And now I find you here," he continued, "half-naked, tied up, and drenched in stolen treasure."
I opened my mouth.
He raised a hand. "Don't. Just don't."
He paced again, then snapped his fingers.
"I should take you with me. Sell you down in Toemacha. The pleasure barges there pay well for feisty little liars with hips like yours."
My jaw dropped. "You wouldn't."
"Oh, I would. You're not worth a knight's honor—but you might be worth a decent bonus."
I hissed. "The dragon will track you."
He laughed. "Let him try."
I smiled. "He will. And you'll be nothing but a scorch mark with a smug haircut."
At that moment, a breeze shifted.
The sky darkened.
The coin pile shivered.
And from above, a shadow fell.
A long, stretching shadow.
With wings.
Sir Odran stopped mid-smirk. Looked up.
His face drained of color.
"Oh," he whispered.
"Oh indeed," I said sweetly.
Sir Odran froze, head tilted back, eyes wide. The shadow swept over him like an eclipse of divine disappointment.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then came the sound.
Not a roar—no, not yet. Just the low, resonant whump-whump-whump of enormous wings slicing the air. Each beat rattled the sanctuary stones and sent loose coins slithering down the golden mound like rats abandoning wealth.
I smiled. "Told you."
He looked at me, at the sky, at the sacks of gold. His expression flickered between greed, pride, and the kind of existential dread you usually only see in men realizing they've just soiled their legacy.
"By the gods," he muttered, "he's here."
"Oh yes," I said. "Very soon. Very moody. And very possessive about his money."
He swallowed. Hard.
Another wingbeat hit like a gust from the underworld. The sanctuary gong—left behind on its post—started chiming on its own, tolling in terrified rhythm with each pulse of the air. The horse snorted, stamped, and tried to back away.
Then the roar came.
A deep, ancient, furious sound that started in the ground and ended somewhere inside your bones. Birds exploded from the trees in a panic. Even the goats, far down in the valley, screamed like they'd just remembered their sins.
Sir Odran's voice cracked. "He's close!"
"Really? What gave it away?" I shouted over the thunder of wings. "The gale-force wind or the bowel-loosening terror?"
He stumbled to his horse, fumbling with the reins. "I'll— I'll come back for you!"
"You won't even come back for your dignity!"
He ignored me, panicked now, fastening one sack of gold onto the saddle and clutching the other like a drowning man hugs a buoy.
The dragon's silhouette grew larger, a monstrous blur against the sun. A tail, long and sinuous, curled like smoke. A glint of scales caught the light.
I could almost hear him muttering already. "What in the blessed blazes did you do this time, woman?"
"Wait—" I shouted. "At least untie me before you die horribly!"
But Odran was past the point of chivalry. He glanced once at me, once at the oncoming doom, and made his decision.
He jumped into the saddle, spurred the horse, and bolted.
The horse screamed, gold clanged, and both vanished down the slope in a cloud of dust, coins spilling like metallic breadcrumbs.
I watched them go, then looked up at the descending shadow.
My heart thudded.
The dragon landed like an avalanche with wings.
The ground shook. Pebbles leapt.
The dragon blinked. His golden eyes swept over the scene. A few scattered coins. The empty sanctuary. The broken pots. The very obvious absence of a hoard.
He exhaled, smoke curling from his nostrils.
Then, in that rumbling, disappointed voice that could make gods confess, he said:
"Where's the pile?"
I smiled weakly. "There was a pile."
He stared.
"A big pile," I added helpfully. "Very impressive. You'd have loved it."
He tilted his head. "And where is it now?"
I bit my lip. "Funny story."
Another long pause.
He sighed, the sound of a thousand-year-old creature realizing he's once again partnered with a human disaster.
"Don't tell me," he said. "Let me guess."
I winced. "Remember that idiot from the oak tree?"
Smoke curled around his snout as he stared at me.
His claws dug into the sanctuary stones. Not aggressively—just… rhythmically. The way a scholar might tap a quill when trying to decide whether to write a polite letter or burn the village.
I, still tied to the stake and now ankle-deep in gold crumbs, offered my best innocent shrug.
"Technically," I said, "the pile is still partially here."
He blinked. Slowly. His jaw flexed.
"I mean," I gestured with a bound hand, "there are at least—what—six, seven coins? A few rings. Half a torque. That's not nothing."
"You promised me a hoard."
"And I delivered! You were just... late. Again."
He growled low. "I was circling dramatically. You said you wanted theatrics."
"I didn't say linger theatrically while some self-righteous jackass scooped up our hard-earned loot!"
He gave a snort, a small puff of smoke escaping his nose. "Our loot. You want to talk about shares now?"
"I had rope burn. You had altitude. I was the bait. You were the net. The net is supposed to catch things."
"I was admiring the lighting!"
I groaned. "He said he'd sell me to a pleasure barge."
The dragon paused. His head whipped toward me, one golden eye narrowing.
"He what?"
"Told me I'd fetch a good price in Toemacha."
His pupils shrank to slits. The ground vibrated beneath his claws.
"And he took the gold."
"Two sacks full."
"And the horse?"
"Of course the horse."
He let out a guttural growl that turned a nearby column to gravel.
"Great," I said, struggling against the ropes. "So are you going to roast him or untie me first?"
He stomped over with deliberate slowness, smoke trailing in his wake. One claw reached out, sliced the ropes like threads.
I collapsed onto the scattered coins with a grunt.
He stared down at me, still seething. "You had one job."
"And I did it!" I snapped. "It's not my fault the village is apparently located on some cursed hero migration route."
He huffed. "The sheep were worth more than this."
I gasped. "Take that back."
He didn't.
The dragon turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over the scattered coins, the broken amphorae, the sanctuary's cracked altar now half-covered in soot and shame. He exhaled, long and low, smoke curling around his fangs like regret.
His wings twitched once. Then he didn't spread them.
Instead, he just... sat.
A heavy, bone-deep settling of scales and sinew, like someone folding under the weight of several centuries.
I tilted my head. "Aren't we going after him?"
He didn't answer right away. Just stared at the horizon where the bastard disappeared.
Then, with a sigh that seemed to echo from some ancient, forgotten cave inside his chest, he said:
"What's the point."
I blinked.
He didn't look at me. "I'm old, Saya."
I snorted. "You're ancient."
"I'm tired." His tail dragged across the stones behind him with a sound like slow erosion. "There was a time when the sky trembled at my roar. When cities trembled. When gold knew its place."
"Beneath your belly?"
He nodded solemnly. "Now? Every idiot knight in mismatched armor thinks he can take a swing. Every village girl with cheekbones thinks she can swindle me. Every harlot—"
I raised an eyebrow.
"—present company included—thinks dragons are just theatrical props in their little scams."
I folded my arms. "We are running a scam."
"Badly!" he snapped, waving a claw at the pathetically diminished pile. "Face it, Saya. We're lousy at this. A real dragon would've roasted the hero. A real con artist would've kept the gold. Instead—what are we? A grumpy lizard with mid-back joint pain and a compulsive liar who gets tied to stakes on purpose."
I opened my mouth.
He cut me off. "Don't give me that 'bait is valuable' nonsense again. The only thing we're baiting is failure."
He slumped, curling his wings tighter.
"I used to be terrifying," he muttered. "Now I'm an anecdote."
There was a long pause.
Then I stepped toward him—knees bruised, rope burns on my wrists, hair still artfully tousled—and said:
"Well. At least we're anecdotes together."
He glanced at me sideways. "That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be."
He groaned, hauled himself upright, and flared his wings with a wince.
"You still want your torque back?" he asked, voice gravelled with resignation.
I dusted off my thighs. "I want everything back."
He muttered something profane in an extinct language, crouched low, and motioned with one claw.
"Then get on, you gold-cursed harlot."
I grinned. "Love you too."