I was standing on a grassy knoll with the kind of posture that screamed, "I didn't mean to and I'm sorry in advance."
Toes in the dirt. Shoulders hunched. Eyes fixed on absolutely anything that wasn't a six-ton flying lizard glaring at me like I'd just pawned his favorite claw file.
I drew a little circle in the soil with my toe. Then another. Then a heart.
He hadn't said anything yet, which was worse.
"Okay," I began softly, "so this might be nothing. A misunderstanding. A casual little oopsie. But there's a teensy chance—tiny, really—that I may have… inadvertently… mentioned the Amazon thing."
Silence.
Not the nice kind. The kind that usually comes right before something explodes.
He froze mid-step, wings half-unfurled, staring at me like he'd just heard his eulogy read aloud.
"You did what?"
"Not directly!" I blurted. "It wasn't like I stood on a table and announced it! I just… may have mentioned it… in conversation. With people. While drinking. In a bath."
His eyes bulged. "Saya… do… do… do you understand what you've done?"
I chewed my lip. "Technically, no."
"It's the Sisterhood," he hissed. "The Sisterhood of Amazons! You remember the one with the gold armor and the arms like siege towers? The one you helped me roast?"
"In my defense," I said quickly, "she started it. And she did call me a 'sad-eyed strumpet of the patriarchy.'"
"She was one of theirs!"
"I didn't know that at the time!"
He was pacing now—tail lashing, grass catching fire in tiny offended bursts.
"Do you have any idea how bad this is? These aren't drunk mercenaries or angry widows. These are militant celibate vengeance nuns with javelins and grudges! They don't write letters. They send squadrons!"
"Okay," I offered. "That sounds… bad. But maybe they won't care?"
"They killed my grand-uncle, Saya!" he roared. "And my aunt's third cousin! They have a hall! A grand hall, like a museum, filled with dragon taxidermy displays!"
I blinked. "What?"
He leaned close, eyes wild. "Yes! Stuffed dragons! Mounted! Posed mid-snarl with plaques that say 'Extinct — Not Missed.' For fuck's sake, Saya, they've tamed griffons!"
I frowned. "You're bigger than a griffon."
He turned, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Have you ever tried to fight off a flock of angry griffons?"
"…Oh."
"Yes. Oh."
"Like… more than two?"
"Twenty-seven. Coordinated. Screaming in harmony. Talons like scimitars." His voice dropped to a whisper. "One of them stole my horn tip and wore it as a hat."
"Gods."
"They chirp in formation, Saya. They chirp in Latin."
"Well, that's just showing off."
He collapsed onto his haunches, despair pooling around him like smoke. "They'll find us. They always do. The moment some Amazon smells a hint of dragon smoke, she'll whistle and the skies will darken."
I tried to look hopeful. "Maybe she liked me enough not to tell?"
He gave me a stare so flat it could've pressed parchment. "You told her during pillow talk. Pillow talk is recorded, Saya. They carve that stuff into marble before breakfast."
I winced. "Okay, in my defense—"
"There is no defense. Not against griffons."
He began pacing again, muttering under his breath. "We'll have to move. Again. Change our names. I'll dye my scales."
"I've always liked you in emerald."
"They'll smell me."
"…Mauve?"
He made a strangled noise. "I need a cave. A deep one. Or a crypt."
"Or a drink," I said.
He froze mid-turn. "Explain," he demanded, voice trembling. "How. Did. This. Happen."
I sighed. "Well… there was a bath."
"A bath?"
"Hot bath," I clarified. "Steam. Candles. Good lighting. She walked in like some battle-sculpted goddess. Honestly, she was gorgeous."
He closed his eyes. "No."
"Yes. Muscles everywhere. And that kind of voice that sounds like it's judging your life choices."
"Stop."
"She sat next to me. I poured wine. Or mead. Possibly brandywine."
He covered his face. "Gods preserve me."
"There was some smooching," I admitted. "Okay, not light smooching. There was—"
"Stop talking."
"—some fornication."
He flailed his wings. "I said stop talking!"
"She was really good!" I blurted. "And then, during the pillow talk, she said she was an Amazon and I said, 'Oh, that's funny, my partner and I just roasted one of those a fortnight ago.'"
The dragon froze. "You confessed to Amazon-murder in bed?!"
"She was very persuasive! And I was tipsy!"
He buried his face in both claws. "This is how we die."
"She laughed!" I said quickly. "At first."
He peeked through his claws. "At first?"
"Then she got quiet. Then she said 'interesting.'"
He groaned like the sky itself was pressing on him. "That's not laughter, Saya. That's the sound of vengeance being scheduled."
"Well, then she kissed me again, so I thought it was fine!"
He dragged one claw down his snout. "Oh, it's never fine when an Amazon says 'interesting.' They probably embroidered it on a war banner by now."
I looked toward the horizon. "Maybe she won't find us?"
He snorted. "They have griffons. They always find you. They have maps, compasses, and grudges that outlive empires."
He began muttering again, pacing, flaring his wings. "This is it. They'll come for me. Mount my hide in their Grand Hall of Hubris."
I crossed my arms. "You're sure this hall exists? Because you've never actually seen it."
He hesitated. "I've… heard stories."
"From who?"
"From… reliable sources."
"Other dragons?"
He coughed. "By osmosis."
"Osmosis?"
"Things… seep through the ecosystem. Word of mouth. Birdsong. Posthumous pollen gossip."
I just stared.
"Fine," he admitted sheepishly. "Maybe I'm… extrapolating."
"A bit?"
"Seventy-five percent."
"So there's no museum?"
"Oh, there's definitely a museum," he said quickly. "But the animatronic dragon exhibit might've been an artistic flourish."
I groaned. "You absolute drama queen."
He sniffed. "Excuse me for having a vivid sense of danger."
"Excuse me for thinking we weren't about to be feather-flogged to death by griffons trained in Latin."
He lifted his snout. "They really do speak Latin."
I sighed. "You're exaggerating."
He looked wounded. "Maybe a little."
I patted his foreleg. "There, there."
He deflated with a long smoky sigh. "Still," he said softly, "we're in mortal danger. Even if they don't stuff us and label us 'Cautionary Hussy and Her Geriatric Mount', they'll hunt us. They never forget."
We sat there a while. The grass rustled. Somewhere, a goat bleated, suspiciously prophetic.
Finally, I said, "So. We run?"
He nodded grimly. "We run."
"And if they catch us?"
He paused. "We improvise."
"Good plan."
He stared at me for a long time, then muttered, "This is why I prefer solitude."
I grinned. "And yet, here we are."
He gave me a side-eye that could scorch crops.
And just like that, we both looked toward the horizon — blue, quiet, deceptively peaceful — and listened for the sound of distant wings.