I hate being tied to things.
Not in principle, mind you — there are situations, taverns, and certain rope enthusiasts where it's practically a perk. But this? This is cold stone, itchy garlands, and villagers too cheap to spring for silk. I'm strapped to a cracked altar rock with a linen veil thinner than soup, nipples hard enough to poke through parchment, and just enough ankle chain slack to wiggle for effect. Somewhere nearby, a goat bleats nervously. At least someone understands the stakes.
The torches flicker all around me, circling the offering site like a firelit moat. The whole village — and I mean the whole damn village, from toothless grandmas to sticky-fingered kids — is gathered just outside the ritual fence, whispering like hens before a storm. All of them clutching charms and rosaries, praying for salvation and preparing to witness divine intervention.
I shift slightly, just enough to make the garlands shimmy on my thighs. A few murmurs go hushed. Good. Let them believe the virgin sacrifice is serene, noble, and absolutely not gritting her teeth through a wedgie.
Next to me, on a stone plinth they called "The Ancient Podium of Balance" (it's a garden table with moss), sits a small chest — and beside it, an assortment of glittery desperation. A handful of gold coins, sure, but also: two silver goblets (tarnished), a pearl necklace with half the pearls missing, a child-sized circlet "blessed by monks," and — I kid you not — the ceremonial dagger of Mayor Varn, still sticky from a sausage feast.
They even threw in a carved jade frog. No one knows what it does. It just looks magical.
So yes — it's more than I expected. Maybe fifty gold in total, if you count emotional value and pretend the frog's enchanted. Still not a hoard, but enough for the Dragon to play interested. Enough for the villagers to believe they're buying salvation.
And oh, have I sold it.
"The Chosen One will come," I had told them. Voice low. Eyes teary. "The Dragon shall test him with fire, and he shall triumph not by strength, but by purity."
They bought every word. Ate it like honeyed bread. Even added extra garlands. One kid offered me a drawing of the Chosen One slaying the beast. I didn't have the heart to tell him the hero in the picture had better hair than the real thing.
Poor sweet Mibbs.
Last I saw, he was getting strapped into armor three sizes too big, muttering mantras to keep from wetting himself. He still thinks this is his moment — his destiny, his calling, his heroic chapter one.
I call it Thursday.
Up in the sky, the Dragon is already circling. Wide loops. Keeping the crowd tense. Flames flicker from his jaws just enough to remind them who's boss. His wings catch the torchlight in flashes. He's playing his role to the hilt — the terrifying beast, the sky demon, the primal force.
He's going to want a bigger cut of the gold just for that performance.
I shift again, rattling the chains for dramatic emphasis, and give the villagers a dreamy, far-off gaze. They flinch, awed. Some cry. A priest starts humming. Mibbs better show up soon or I swear I'll start reciting erotic poetry just to shake things up.
Any minute now.
Any second.
Any—
Clank.
There it is. The sound of a hero.
I close my eyes.
Take a slow breath. In through the nose, out through the gag reflex.
"Come on, Mibbs," I whisper under my breath. "Just once. Just this once. Don't fuck it up."
The crowd murmurs. The torches sway. The Dragon lets out a low rumble from the sky — just enough to make the ground shiver. My chains rattle with the vibration.
And then—
Clank. Clank. Thud. Clank.
He's here.
Sir Mibbs the Hopeful stumbles into the clearing, sword drawn, armor gleaming awkwardly in the torchlight. The villagers part for him like soup around a dropped meatball. His plume is slightly singed, helmet crooked, one gauntlet clearly on the wrong hand.
But he's standing tall.
Sort of.
Gasps. Cries of "The Chosen One!" ripple through the crowd. Someone faints. A girl presses daisies to her lips in reverence.
Mibbs strides forward, shoulders square. He raises his sword. "Fear not!" he bellows, voice cracking like an adolescent rooster. "I shall defeat the beast and save the maiden!"
I smile. Saints be praised. Maybe—just maybe—he's going to—
He stops.
Freezes mid-stride.
His eyes land on me: chained, barely veiled, sweaty, nipples erect, hair tousled for dramatic impact, one leg slightly raised just like we rehearsed.
He blinks.
Wavers.
His lip trembles.
"I—I can't…"
No.
He lowers the sword. Looks around at the villagers. At me. At the Dragon circling above.
His voice cracks.
"I'm sorry!" he chokes out. "She made me do it!"
The crowd goes dead silent.
Mibbs stumbles forward, armor rattling. He thrusts a trembling finger toward me.
"It was her! Saya! She said we could trick you — fake a dragon attack, steal your gold, pretend I was some chosen hero!" He spins to face the villagers, wild-eyed. "She tied herself to the rock! She made up the prophecy! She's in league with the beast!"
Gasps. Hushed curses. One old woman drops her prayer beads.
Mibbs's words tumble out now, cracking under their own weight. "I didn't want to lie! She said it was just a show! That I'd look brave, say the lines, take the gold — that no one would get hurt!"
He's crying now. Loud, ugly sobs. "I'm not a hero! I faint at the sight of blood! I didn't even want the kiss at the end!"
My jaw drops.
"What. The. Fuck."
Also "There was a kiss?"
Now it's a storm.
Gasps. Screams. Someone shouts "Witch!" Another yells "Whore!" A third throws a turnip that hits Mibbs square in the back and bounces into my ribs. I snarl.
The priest holds up a holy symbol and begins chanting furiously. A woman with a ladle runs for the altar. A boy pulls out a kitchen knife.
Mibbs is crying now. Snot. Tears. Sweat. The works. "I didn't want to lie! I didn't want to steal! I just wanted to be a hero!"
Another rock hits the ground near my feet.
I rattle the chains. "Dragon!"
No answer.
I tug harder. "Dragon!"
A crossbow is raised.
And then—FWOOOM.
A deafening roar shatters the air as the Dragon dives like vengeance incarnate, wings spread wide, fire trailing behind him like the sun's fury. The crowd shrieks and scatters. Mibbs screams and ducks.
The Dragon slams into the clearing like a meteor, wings snapping loud as thunder, tail sweeping aside a chicken coop and flattening two ceremonial statues.
He lands hard, claws gouging the dirt, and for a moment — just a heartbeat — he hesitates.
His eyes flick to me, still chained to the altar stone, then to the small chest of gold glittering beside the offerings.
Smoke curls from his nostrils.
I stare at him. "Don't you fucking dare."
I see it all in his face: the twitch of his jaw, the tremor in his claws. He's torn — somewhere between loyalty and lizard-brain greed, caught in that ancient dragon curse of shiny things versus stupid humans they've grown attached to.
"DRAGON!"
With a grunt, he lunges forward and tears the entire slab I'm chained to out of the ground — roots, moss, and all — lifts it like it weighs nothing. I shriek as the garlands fly off and the chain bites into my wrist.
Then, with his other claw, he snatches the chest of gold, ignoring the trinkets, frogs, and fancy spoons.
Villagers scream and scatter. Mibbs curls into a sobbing ball.
The Dragon beats his wings once, twice — and we're airborne, the cracked altar stone clutched in one claw, the chest in the other, me swearing profusely through the wind.
He growls, "You weigh more than the gold."
I hiss, "You left the jade frog."
"Ugly little thing."
The wind howls past us. My hair's a tangled whip across my face. I'm still chained to the altar slab clutched in the dragon's left claw, jostling like cargo in a storm.
He grunts. "This thing is heavy."
I'm bouncing like a ragdoll. "Don't you fucking dare drop me!"
He flaps harder, breath hissing through his teeth. "Why did they carve these out of solid granite? What kind of savage religion uses solid granite?"
I can't even answer. I'm too busy trying not to bite off my tongue.
We crest the tree line and dive, banking hard. He finds a patch of bare rock in a clearing just beyond the forest's edge, out of sight from the villagers. With a grunt, he drops the altar stone like a bad idea, and I bounce painfully on impact.
"OW!"
He lands beside it, panting.
"Break the chains!" I shout.
"I'm thinking about it."
"NOW!"
With a hiss and swipe, he slices through the manacles. The iron snaps and I yank my arms free, rubbing my wrists.
We both whirl on each other at once.
"That was your stupidest plan yet!" he snarls. "Fake prophecy? Virgin sacrifice? A half-trained, half-witted sidekick with a guilt complex?!"
"You hesitated!" I shout back. "You stood there thinking about the gold! I saw it! That little twitch in your snout!"
"I'm a dragon! I'm wired to want shiny things! I've been hoarding since before you learned to walk!"
"You were going to let them roast me for a pile of pocket change!"
"You tied yourself to a boulder and trusted a man who cried during firewood collection!"
We're both breathing hard now. I'm naked, bruised, and still half-covered in garlands. He's singed, twitchy, and glaring down at me like I personally offended ten generations of dragons.
Silence.
Finally, I cross my arms. "I'm glad you chose me over the gold."
He grunts.
Then, with the faintest curl of a smile: "I did grab a little bit."
I look down. There, clutched delicately in one claw, is the small chest from the offering table. A few coins jingle inside as he shakes it smugly.
I groan. "You're insufferable."
He rumbles. "You're reckless."
We both sit.
The forest crackles in the distance.