We're camped under a leaning pine that creaks like it's gossiping with the wind. Fire's down to coals. My blanket's mostly moss.
Usually, it's me waking up screaming in the middle of the night.
Nightmares are kind of my thing.
I earned them. Thank you, Temple of the Bleeding Heart and all your "clients." Thank you, demon contracts, failed scams, haunted brothels, and that one time I tried opium wine and ended up trying to kiss a mirror because I thought it was my long-lost twin. (Spoiler: not my twin. Just me. Very naked. Very confused.)
But the dragon?
He usually sleeps like ruins.
Like ancient stones carved by forgotten hands, unmoved by time, or rain, or the occasional idiot girl with cold feet who uses his flank as a mattress.
Not lately, though.
Not since the hag.
Not since Aunt Threxaval became part of our immediate future.
Tonight it's the same again.
I'm halfway into a dream about eating roast duck that turns into me eating a wax figurine of Sir Odran (not as satisfying as it sounds) when—
"NO! YOU DO NOT SERVE ME LAVENDER WITH LAMB, YOU INSOLENT WHELP!"
I jolt upright, clutching my dagger like I'm about to duel a goose. Heart pounding. Mouth dry.
The dragon is thrashing in his sleep, tail twitching, claws flexing against the earth. He jerks once, wings half-unfurling with a strangled, muffled snarl.
"Tea… not… clockwise… blood cups go left, left! You know this…"
His voice is cracking, desperate. I swear he sounds like a terrified butler at a royal banquet.
I crawl over.
"Hey," I whisper. "Hey, hey, hey. It's just a dream. It's just tea. Nobody died."
He flinches again. Eyes snap open.
Glowing faintly. Breathing hard. The smell of ozone and old fear seeps out of his scales like sweat.
"Third time this week," I say softly, sitting beside him.
He blinks, slowly. Realizes where he is. With me. Not in a throne room made of bones. Not surrounded by jawbone chairs and screaming choruses.
"…She threw the saucer," he mutters, voice ragged.
"What?"
He shudders. "In the dream. She threw the saucer at my head. Because I used honey. In jasmine."
I stare at him. "Gods."
"She said I had the palate of a peasant mime."
I cover my mouth. Not laughing. Not exactly.
"You want me to keep watch tonight?" I ask.
He closes his eyes again.
"No," he whispers. "Just promise me if she kills me, she does it before dessert."
I nod solemnly. "That's fair."
Then I lean back against his warm side. He's still shaking, just a little. I don't tell him.
Instead, I start humming. Something stupid. A lullaby I once heard in a brothel kitchen.
And eventually, his breathing slows.
Still ancient. Still powerful. Still scared shitless of one terrifying woman who drinks blood-infused mint tea and judges empires based on their canapé selection.
Honestly? I get it.