He missed again.
Spectacularly.
The arrow didn't even reach the hay bale this time. It veered off like it had a personal grudge against a nearby shrub, buried itself halfway up a tree trunk, and spooked a squirrel so badly it dropped its nut and fell off a branch.
I clapped anyway. "Excellent! That one had... dramatic flair!"
Mibbs turned around, beaming. His cheeks were flushed, his shaggy hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and he was gripping the bow like it had personally betrayed him. Gods help me, he looked like a wet scarecrow in boots two sizes too big.
"Really?" he said, hope in his eyes like a puppy waiting for praise.
"Absolutely," I lied. "You're already channeling the energy of a true marksman. It's all about confidence, darling."
"Wow," he whispered. Then louder: "Wow!"
He turned back toward the target, wobbling a little as he notched another arrow.
We were camped in a scraggly orchard just outside the village—overgrown, half-wild, full of thorny trees and buzzing insects. A few rusted scarecrows stood like forgotten sentinels, watching as Mibbs waged war against physics and basic coordination.
I swayed over to the Dragon, who was lounging under a tree nearby, polishing a scale with a look that said he'd rather be swallowing his own tail.
"Isn't he promising?" I whispered.
The Dragon didn't even look up. "He's promising a slow and painful death for any allies standing within ten feet of that bow."
I ignored him.
"His form is improving," I insisted.
"He just shot backwards."
"Momentum," I said. "Creative use of space. And anyway, it's about spirit. The journey. The narrative arc."
The Dragon finally looked up. "Saya. He couldn't hit the broad side of a barn if he were inside it."
I leaned in closer and dropped my voice to a conspiratorial purr. "He's pliable. And adorable. And desperate for validation."
"Ah," said the Dragon. "Your usual type."
"Don't be vulgar."
"I wasn't. I was being accurate."
Mibbs let another arrow fly. This one made it halfway before plopping into the dirt like a duck with a concussion.
I cupped my hands around my mouth. "Yes! That's called a warning shot! Very intimidating!"
He gave me a thumbs-up. Then promptly dropped the bowstring on his own fingers and yelped.
The Dragon groaned. "Let me guess. You're planning to dangle vague promises of physical affection as long-term motivation?"
"Oh, I'm doing more than dangling," I smirked.
The Dragon curled his lip. "He's nineteen. He probably faints if someone says 'bosom' too loudly."
"Exactly," I said. "Impressionable. Malnourished. Easily aroused. Perfect raw material."
"For what? A fertility cult?"
I grinned and tilted my head. "A hero, darling. A rustic underdog. The prophecy-fulfilling, bandit-slaying, maiden-saving type. Once I'm done shaping him, people will write ballads."
"They'll write obituaries."
I ignored the doom. I had a vision.
I stepped toward Mibbs, sashaying just enough to make his ears go red. "You know," I said sweetly, "legendary heroes are often rewarded by princesses."
He blinked. "I—uh—I mean—yes m'lady!"
"Sometimes with treasure," I murmured, tracing a lazy circle in the air. "Sometimes with… kisses."
His pupils dilated like he'd just seen the gods. Or boobs.
Then he tripped over his own foot and fell into the bramble patch behind him.
The Dragon let out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a death rattle.
I helped Mibbs up. Brushed twigs off his tunic. Smiled like I wasn't reevaluating my entire life.
"We'll keep practicing," I said. "Tomorrow: swordplay!"
The Dragon snorted.
Mibbs lit up. "Do I get a real sword?"
"Of course," I said. "Eventually. For now, we start with sticks."
"Oh." His voice dropped an octave in disappointment.
I winked. "But I like a man who knows how to use his wood."
He made a noise like a boiling kettle and dropped his stick again.
The Dragon buried his head under one wing. "Just sell me to slavers," he muttered.
But I was undeterred.
Greatness takes time.
And possibly blackmail.
But I would make a hero if it killed me. Or him. Preferably him.
The Dragon rubbed his temples like the mere presence of Mibbs was giving him a migraine. "Alright," he said finally, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. "We've established the boy is myopic and a danger to plant life. Can he do anything heroic?"
I lit up. "I once saw him wrestle a goat."
The Dragon paused. "Oh."
"Not like that." I snapped. "He was separating it from a briar bush. Very chivalrous. Noble, even."
"Ah yes," he said dryly. "The epic of Sir Mibbs and the Thorny Nanny."
I folded my arms. "He's chaste. Pure. Untouched by sin or women. It's rare."
The Dragon tilted his head. "So is competence."
I groaned.
"Can the lad use a sword?"
"He... appreciates swords," I offered vaguely.
"A lance?"
"He's willing to learn."
"A battle axe?"
"Alright, look at him!" I cried. "He's made of knees and good intentions!"
The Dragon narrowed his eyes. "Can he ride a horse?"
I brightened. "He once rode a donkey!"
"Bareback?"
"No, there was a saddle. And… a lot of panicking. But still!"
The Dragon gave me a look that could kill crops.
I held firm. "Heroes come in all shapes."
"Yes," he said flatly. "And some come with hooves."
I turned on the Dragon, hands on hips.
"Oh. Fine. So maybe he's not a natural-born warrior. Big deal." I gestured vaguely in Mibbs's direction—he was currently tangled in his own bowstring like it was a wrestling match he was losing. "But remind me—is Sir Ogdan much of a warrior?"
The Dragon didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"Exactly," I continued, triumphant. "And he's got country wenches throwing themselves at him like he's a fertility rite. Bards write songs about his jawline. Suspicious dwarves buy him ale in every tavern just for the privilege of breathing near his boots."
The Dragon raised one brow, slow as erosion. His expression could've frozen lava.
I felt my enthusiasm wobble. "Okay. Maybe Mibbs isn't exactly… himbo material."
The Dragon said nothing. Just stared. Like a glacier judging a matchstick.
I raised a finger. "But that's the catch! That's the trope! The Chosen One—not some oiled-up barbarian prince with chest hair like wolf fur—no! It's always the unassuming ones! The goat-boy who turns out to be the secret heir of the Sword Kings! The bumbling apprentice who channels ancient magic after tripping into a sacred shrine!"
The Dragon blinked.
"We just need the right backstory," I pressed. "Invent a deity. Something rustic but impressive. Like… Thalzak, the Bleeding Flame. Or Gorba the Moon-Farter. Whatever. Something obscure enough that no one can fact-check it."
He exhaled a small plume of smoke. "You're going to fake a prophecy."
"I'm going to manufacture destiny," I corrected.
Mibbs, meanwhile, had managed to lodge his arrow in the dirt again. He pumped his fist in victory. "It almost hit the hay this time!"
I gave the Dragon a smug grin. "See? He's improving. Soon, people will call him Mibbs the—something. Mibbs the Meek. Mibbs the Mild. Mibbs the... Moon-Blessed."
The Dragon sighed. "I can already hear the epic: Behold, brave Mibbs, bringer of mild inconvenience."
"You laugh now," I said, pointing a dramatic finger. "But once the story spreads—once the name Mibbs starts echoing from taverns to temples—you will eat your words."
He looked at Mibbs, who had somehow managed to tie his bootlaces together and was now hopping in a circle.
"I think I'd rather eat my tail," he muttered.
"Then start chewing, scalypants," I said. "Because destiny is calling."
Mibbs fell flat on his face.
The Dragon gave me a long, slow look.
I grinned. "We'll work on the entrance."
The Dragon stared off into the trees like he was calculating how far he could fly before abandoning us became logistically impossible. Then he muttered, "This will backfire. Spectacularly. Possibly with fire. And pitchforks. And a lynch mob."
"Gods," I said, rolling my eyes. "You're such a pessimist."
"I'm a realist," he replied. "The plan—your plan—relies on our hero looking impressive enough to scare off other would-be champions. No more white-toothed lanceswingers showing up for glory. But this lad"—he gestured toward Mibbs, who was now trying to high-five a squirrel—"couldn't scare away a one-eyed alley cat with mange."
"You know nothing about hero psychology," I snapped. "Listen. If you're a barbarian brute with more bicep than brain, and you see another guy in armor, what's the first thing you do?"
He sighed. "Size him up. Assess the threat."
"Exactly!" I pointed at him. "You calculate: can I take this guy? Will killing him win me glory? Is this a fair fight? Worth the trouble? You think like a predator."
The Dragon nodded slowly. "I am a predator."
"Right. Now imagine this." I swept a hand toward Mibbs, who had gotten his boot stuck in a bucket and was walking in slow, clanging circles. "You see that. What do you think?"
The Dragon's mouth opened. Closed. He blinked. "Pity?"
"No!" I said. "You think—this has to be divine. There's no other explanation! No mortal force would send that mess of limbs and confusion out into the world unless he were protected by some mysterious prophecy. It has to be fate. Why else would he be still standing?"
The Dragon gave me a long, slow stare. "Because no one thinks he's worth the effort to kill?"
"No," I snapped. "Because he's Chosen. He's blessed. There's probably an ancient relic hidden in his underpants."
The Dragon groaned.
I shrugged. "Let them underestimate him. That's half the magic. They see the boy, they lower their guard, and bam, he… uh, trips over a log and I stab them from behind. It's a system."
"A system built entirely on underestimation and goat stink."
"And it's going to work," I said, hands on hips. "You'll see. We just need to sell it. Spread a few rumors. Maybe tattoo a glowing rune on his chest."
I mean—sure, it was mostly bullshit. But maybe… just maybe, if some awkward goat-boy could turn into a legend, it meant the rest of us weren't completely doomed either. Maybe you could fake your way into something better.
Mibbs finally dislodged the bucket and pumped a triumphant fist in the air.
"Behold," I said. "The future of heroism."
The Dragon rested his head against a tree with the deep, exhausted silence of a creature who had lived too long and seen too much.
I patted his flank. "Have a little faith."
"I had faith," he muttered. "Then you spent it on this idiot."
But he didn't fly away.
Which meant he was in.