Dust.
In my nose. In my teeth. In places that had no business hosting soil.
We were marching. Again.
Barefoot. Again.
Up and down the same godsdamn slope with a big godsdamn rock in our arms like penitent idiots reenacting a very dry parable.
A pair of zealots marched just ahead of me—wide-eyed true believers, practically skipping under their burdens like the goddess herself had farted enlightenment into their lungs. One had her hair in elaborate braids shaped like flaming torches. The other kept shouting slogans between gasps like she was trying to convert the gravel.
"Pain is progress!"
"Suffering cleanses!"
"Steel is sister, doubt is treason!"
I wanted to trip them.
I wanted to feed them their own rocks.
Instead, I muttered, "Steel is stupid. Doubt is natural. And you both smell like goat."
Neither of them reacted. Probably thought I was channeling rage into spiritual growth.
Idiots.
The sun was directly overhead, glaring like it hated me personally. My thighs burned. My shoulders ached. The rock dug into my forearms, and I was pretty sure I'd inhaled enough sand to shite a brick.
And then, of course—
She started crying.
Loud, ragged, full-bodied sobs from somewhere behind me. Followed by a whimpering moan and a sniffle that might've been theatrical if it weren't so wet.
"Oh gods," she wailed. "My father will hear of this! You'll all be sorry! I'm Princess Loma of Tanagra!"
I didn't even turn. "No, you're not."
"I am!" she sniffed. "And when he hears what you did to me—"
"He won't hear anything," I said flatly. "Because the King of Tanagra is dead."
There was a soft hiccup. Then: "No, he's not."
"Shuffled off this mortal coil."
"Shut up."
"Joined the choir eternal."
"Lies!"
"Kicked the royal bucket. Croaked. Gone to the big gilded throne in the sky. May his tax collectors rot."
"You're lying!"
"I was in Tanagra last season. Huge funeral pyre. You could see the smoke from miles away. There was a parade. Not a great one. Mostly goats."
"You're vile."
"And you're loud. Now quit crying and hold the damn—"
Her rock hit the dirt with a puff of dust and a thud. A second later, mine followed, because apparently her flailing elbow had perfect comic timing.
Zealots pounced like hawks. Three of them. One had a whistle. One had a baton. The third had that glint in her eye—the kind that meant oh good, something punishable.
"Who dropped formation?"
Nobody answered.
"Who. Dropped. Formation?"
I sighed. "Does it count if it was gravity's fault?"
"Punishment stump," she barked.
I looked at the rocks, then at Loma, then at the gods. They didn't answer either.
So.
Here we go.
The punishment stump was older than sin and twice as splintery.
I stood on one foot, arms spread like a broken weather vane, a clay pot balanced on my head. It was half-full of water. Allegedly. Could've been tears, sweat, or liquefied shame by now. I wasn't checking.
Next to me, Princess Tanagra Blubberfest was sniveling into her own pot like it owed her sympathy.
"This is barbaric," she whined. "I have sensitive arches. My spine isn't designed for this sort of—"
"Shut. Up." I hissed, barely moving my lips. "You twitch, you spill, we get lashed."
"But I—"
"Try me."
She sniffled louder, visibly wobbling, and I braced myself for splashback. Gods, if she—
Whomp.
A gust of wind slammed through the clearing. Branches bowed. Dust whipped into our eyes. I grinned.
Oh hell yes.
Wings.
Big ones.
He'd come. My grumpy scaly bastard. He'd finally grown a spine, overcome his Amazon-phobia, and come to rescue me with fire and dramatics.
A triumphant smile curled on my face as I tilted my eyes skyward—
—and froze.
That was not my dragon.
Too sleek. Too small. Turquoise-tinged scales and overcompensating wingbeats. Showy little shit from Chapter Seven. The one with the poetry hobby and boundary issues. I recognized him, that bastard, that licked me whole before my Dragon chased him away.
"Wait—what—"
The not-my-dragon swooped low. The clay pot shattered off Loma's head as she shrieked like a boiled cat. Talons grabbed her with surprising precision. A gust of wind knocked me clean off the stump.
By the time I scrambled upright, brushing pottery shards off my tunic, they were airborne. Princess Loudmouth flailing in the air, still wailing.
"Help meeeeee!"
I stared up.
Mouth open.
Brain stalled.
Then: "What the actual fuck."