I was chained to a stone pillar again.
Different village, same kink.
Only this time, I had company.
On my left was a petite blonde with milkmaid curves and enough freckles to count her sins. Hair like spun barley, skin a touch too pink from weeping. She was called Lela or Leela—hard to tell with the gag. On my right, a darker-skinned beauty named Marela, tall and willowy with hips like a prayer and hair in a long, lush braid that probably took an entire auntie-council to maintain. Her eyes darted wildly as if she expected to be eaten before lunch.
Both were gagged. Apparently, screaming was disruptive to the ritual. I was gagged because I made sarcastic comments about the cheese plate.
Which, to be fair, was exquisite.
In front of each of us stood a neat little arrangement: a bronze goblet of something vaguely wine-like (decent, not impressive), a bowl of myrrh (trying very hard to look sacred), and an actual gods-damned cheese board. Crumbly goat's milk wedge, some hard-aged something or other with veins of blue mold, a bit of dried fruit arranged artfully like a concubine's fan.
The presentation was nice. Tasteful. Mediocre. Not the kind of tribute that says "please don't reduce our village to ash." More like, "we hope this mildly inconveniences your wrath."
I looked at the platter in front of me.
Then at the other two.
Then at the sky.
"You're going to be pissed," I thought. "But at least the cheese is good."
The village elders stood a safe distance away, watching like farmers who'd overwatered a very problematic crop. A fat priest mumbled something from a scroll. Lots of thees and thous and oh-great-wyrm-who-bringeth-scourge-upon-the-unworthy.
Marela whimpered beside me.
Lela or Leela farted nervously.
I sighed through my nose.
This wasn't the plan. I hadn't seduced anyone this time. Hadn't even robbed the tavern. I was just there when the dragon sightings started, and some superstitious hag pointed her gnarled finger in my direction. One thing led to another, and now I was naked, gagged, and shackled between two virgins whose biggest concern was dying with their hair unbrushed.
The sun hung low. Clouds loomed. The wind shifted.
I could feel it.
The waiting.
The dread.
And somewhere in the far-off sky…
Trouble.
The wind dropped like a stone.
And then he arrived.
With a thunderclap of wings and a gout of offended smoke, my dragon landed in a swirl of dust and judgment. His scales shimmered like oil on blood. His horns caught the dying sunlight. His talons clicked against the stone in that overly theatrical way he does when he's already mad.
He didn't speak.
Didn't roar.
Just stood there.
Looking.
And then slowly—ever so slowly—he turned his enormous head toward me. One brow ridge arched with the gravity of divine disappointment.
I could already see the frown.
Here we go, I thought.
His eyes flicked to Leela. Then to Marela. Then back to me.
His nostrils flared.
Virgins.
I knew how he felt about virgins. Especially the ones that couldn't cook.
Though, to be fair, Leela looked like she might actually know how to bake. She had that pie-faced wholesomeness, the kind that screamed cinnamon scones and a moral backbone.
The other one, Marela—taller, stiffer—had the unfortunate air of a girl who'd been saving herself for marriage and still thought dowries were a thing.
And notably absent.
From this entire ritual.
He didn't even address the villagers. Just fixed his golden gaze on me and muttered:
"You had one job."
I mumbled something eloquent and deeply apologetic into the gag.
"Oh, right," he said, dry as dragonbone. "The gag."
With a flick of one talon, the strip of cloth fell from my mouth.
"I can explain!" I blurted, the words tumbling out like drunk acrobats. "They weren't part of the plan. The elder said it'd look more sincere if there were three. Rule of threes. Also symmetry. And technically, I'm not allowed to object once I'm manacled—"
He sighed. One of those long, theatrical exhales that steamed the grass and told you exactly how close he was to snapping.
"But the cheese is actually really good," I added, trying to deflect. "I mean, surprisingly aged. Nutty. Possibly imported."
His eye twitched.
"You know I'm lactose intolerant."
"Well, it might be feta?" I said hopefully. "Goat-based? Sometimes that's okay, right?"
He looked at the platter. Then at me. Then at the virgins.
Marela whimpered.
Leela crossed her legs instinctively.
He turned to them and, with a muttered, "For the love of—" began slicing through their bindings.
"What in blazes," he hissed, "am I supposed to do with myrrh… and two naked virgins?"
"Sell them?" I offered, cheerful. "Downriver to Toemacha or maybe Sabrabena? That last brothel we passed had vacancies."
He stared.
I plowed on. "Or we could take them upstream. Tanagra has that nice silk market. Lots of coin. Good clientele. I mean, they might even thank us later."
His mouth opened.
Then closed.
Then opened again, as if the sheer scale of the suggestion required a full system reboot.
"You want to sell the sacrificial offerings?" he asked slowly, like maybe he'd misheard or suffered a minor stroke.
"Better than eating them," I shrugged.
He looked at the girls. They both blinked up at him with equal parts terror and dawning curiosity.
"I can braid hair," Leela mumbled.
Marela nodded. "I… I sew. And churn butter."
There was a long pause.
The dragon looked at me. "Saya."
"Yes?"
"We are not running a traveling bordello."
"Of course not," I said quickly. "Just a mobile redistribution platform for underappreciated talent."
His eyelid twitched again.
And far below us, the villagers began to pray.
Probably for a quick death.
Or possibly for a refund.
He pinched the bridge of his snout the way a man pinches the bridge of his nose when he feels a migraine coming on. Except his claws were large and slightly smoking, and the gesture sent a small puff of steam out of his tear ducts.
"I am," he muttered, "a respectable member of the Draconage."
"Sure you are," I said, deadpan. "Esteemed lineage, venerable heritage, gout-ridden hips—"
He ignored me.
"I do not traffic in flesh. I do not participate in despicable slave trades. I do not—" he paused, sniffed— "smell like cheese."
"You're being dramatic," I said. "I'm just being sensible. Look at them."
He did.
Both girls had wrapped themselves modestly in what little ceremonial drapery had survived the manacle experience. They looked like a pair of altar-themed cupcakes. Pink-cheeked. Big-eyed. Prime rural export material.
"They're plump," I pointed out helpfully. "Healthy country stock. The pervs down in Seebulba drool over that kind of thing. Good money to be made."
He groaned.
"Or," I continued brightly, "we rent them out to a pleasure house. Passive income. Diversify our portfolio. You're always talking about inflation—"
"I was referring to coin. Not concubines."
The girls, however, perked up at the word Seebulba like dogs hearing the rattle of a food tin.
"Is it true," Leela whispered, eyes wide, "that the whores there wear silk?"
"Real footwear too," Marela added breathlessly. "Sandals. With actual soles."
"And perfumes!" Leela said. "Do they really bathe you before clients?"
I nodded sagely. "Hot water. Rose oil. They scrub you head to toe with something called a loofah."
Marela clutched her hands to her chest. "And is it true—do men actually pay there? For fornication?"
I arched an eyebrow. "What, you mean not just promise marriage under a tree during harvest festival?"
Both girls nodded vigorously.
"The lads here only want ass," Marela said, matter-of-factly. "But pay only in lies and promises."
The dragon slowly turned his massive head toward them. His expression was something between "mild disgust" and "existential resignation."
"They're not even virgins," he said, flatly.
I shrugged. "Define virgins."
He groaned again.
The girls beamed.
"Please sell us, Mr. Dragon!" they chirped in unison.
There was a long pause.
A stillness.
Then—
"BACK TO THE BARN, YOU TWO!" he roared, his voice shaking leaves loose from the trees and frightening every bird within two leagues.
The girls squealed with delight and scampered off down the hill, clutching their cheese plates like sacred relics.
I stood there, grinning.
He looked at me.
"Don't," he warned.
I didn't say anything.
He growled low in his throat. "You were about to say something."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
I tried to look innocent. "Just... admiring your moral compass."
He narrowed his eyes. "You're incorrigible."
"Efficient," I corrected.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, like he was debating whether today was a burn down the village kind of day.
And the sky, above it all, remained mercilessly blue.