It'd been hours of pounding by then. The Dervan ram—a hulking iron monstrosity shaped like a cock and twice as unsubtle—had been hammering the southern gate so long it sounded like the gods were knocking from underground. The stone was spiderwebbing. The next few hits would crack it.
I elbowed the dragon where he lay curled in the dirt like an anxious garden ornament.
"Get up."
He grunted.
"Up, you scaled coward. The wall's about to fall."
He didn't move. Just let out a low, miserable groan, tail twitching.
I was already on my feet, yanking my belt tight. "If we don't go now, we miss the rush. Miss the rush, we miss the plunder. Miss the plunder, we get stuck with crusty goblets and half-burnt hymnals."
He blinked. "Maybe the ram will fail."
I pointed. Boom. The next strike hit. Stone dust billowed. One corner of the gate visibly buckled.
"They are one hit away from cracking that thing open like a crab claw," I shouted. "You want to be the second dragon to miss a once-in-a-century temple hoard? Because Varnithax is already shrieking in the afterlife."
He whimpered.
"Move. Now. This is the part where we earn our coin and then steal it back with interest."
He let out a strangled hiss and rose, wings snapping open like thunderclaps.
Then he took to the air—finally, gloriously—like a greedy curse launched straight from my mouth.
I ran after him, heart thundering, eyes locked on the smoke-choked skyline.
Time to make history.
And then rob it blind.
He soared over the siege lines, wings slicing the sky, jaws lit with orange fury. His roar rolled over the camp, sending soldiers into a frenzy of whoops and panic-pissing. He angled up—paused like a damn theater diva—and then—
FWOOOOM.
A perfect arch of dragonfire painted across the sky and smashed into the already crumbling wall.
The masonry exploded. Smell of sulfur and pulverized masonry. Stone and fire and men all went up together. The ram crew—poor bastards—got flattened under their own momentum as the wall caved in on them. The defenders screamed. The mercs screamed louder, and then they surged.
I followed. Of course, I followed.
I slipped through the smoke, past bleeding men and gurgling priests, skirts tucked into my belt, daggers out, one heel already snapped. Someone threw up on a relic. A flag bearer caught fire. I stepped over a severed hand gripping a coin purse and tucked it into my own.
Then I saw it: the temple.
White and gold, cracked and bleeding from the quake, still clutching its dignity under a rain of ash. And perched on its domed roof, wings folded, tail lashing, was my dragon.
I scrambled up the broken stairs, through what used to be a choir loft and now resembled a butcher's shop, and kicked in the doors to the inner sanctum.
The vault stood open.
Inside was a single brazier, a half-mad priest rocking on his heels, and a pile of coins so pathetic it would've made a street juggler sob. Maybe thirty coins. Mostly bronze. One silver cup with a dent in it.
My dragon sat beside it, slack-jawed and stunned.
The silence in the vault stretched just long enough for my brain to catch up to the insult.
"I…" he rasped, blinking slowly. "I burned a city for this?"
The priest looked up, pupils the size of saucers. "The high priest took it. Years ago. Invested in wine futures. And... a bathhouse."
"A bathhouse?" I screamed.
"He said the water would be divine," the priest whimpered.
I turned to my dragon. "You idiot. You flamboyant, gold-star idiot."
"You talked me into this!" he roared, voice cracking.
"You wanted it! You sniffed the vault! You moaned in your sleep!"
He looked back at the tiny pile. "That cup is tin-plated."
"You crisped a hundred men for a tin cup!"
The priest giggled. "Marketing. Very effective."
I drew my dagger. "I'm going to carve 'hoax' into your goddamn forehead."
"Please do," the priest said brightly. "They'll never believe me anyway."
Dragon slumped. "I need a drink."
I stared at the pile. "Me too."
There was a pause. A long, miserable pause.
Then I grabbed the silver cup.
"Well. At least I'm getting paid."
I turned to the priest—bald, twitchy, sweat-matted robe clinging to his ribs like wet parchment—and drew my dagger.
"Alright," I said, voice tight. "Take off your sandals."
He blinked. "I—what?"
"I'm robbing you," I snarled. "Strip."
Dragon groaned behind me. "Saya…"
"You stay out of this."
I jabbed the tip toward the priest's foot. "The sandals. Those look fancy. Gold stitching? Velvet soles? Off. Now."
The priest, still high on smoke or trauma or divine humiliation, obeyed without a word. They slapped wetly onto the floor.
"Those earrings too."
He clutched his ears. "They're iron!"
"They're yours. That makes them valuable. Sentimental is a premium in some markets."
Saya's inner voice: There's always a buyer for guilt-drenched relics. Always.
Dragon gagged behind me. "Please don't tell me you're serious."
"Oh, I'm way past serious." I circled the priest like a starving magpie. "The nose ring. Hand it over."
"It's pierced—"
"Then twist it out."
The dragon muttered something about infection and tetanus and losing what little was left of his appetite.
"Armbands," I snapped. "All of them. And the necklace. Gods, is that ivory? Bastard's walking around like a treasure chest."
"I'm just a humble servant—" the priest tried.
"And now you're a naked humble servant," I hissed, eyes wild. "If you're wearing gilded underclothes, I will take them. I swear on my last toe ring."
"Saya," the dragon rumbled, finally slinking off the smashed altar, "this is not a good look."
"I'll make it a look," I snapped. "I'll invent a fashion line. 'Post-apocalyptic ascetic chic.' I'll sell his underpants to a pervert duke in Lolika for a gold bar and a jar of honeyed figs!"
The priest was trembling now, clutching his loincloth like a last prayer.
I took a step forward.
The dragon's claw hooked around my middle and yanked me off the ground like a misbehaving kitten.
"Let it go, Saya."
"No!"
He tucked me under his arm like stolen luggage.
"There's nothing left here."
"There's still his socks!"
"They're damp!"
"I've stolen worse!"
The vault door slammed behind us as he carried me into the ash-blown ruin of a once-proud city.
I wriggled in his grip, clutching the silver cup like a consolation prize, my pride tattered but stubbornly intact.
"I should've at least taken the ring," I muttered.
"You need a hoard of your own," he grumbled.
"I was building one. Then you burned it under the Dervans."
"Collateral damage."
"You're collateral damage."
He sighed. "Next city."
I perked up. "You think they'll have better priests?"
"I'm not letting you rob another holy man."
"I'll be gentler. Maybe just the sandals next time."
"Gods help us."
"Don't bring them into this. They owe me money too."