Iron sky. Ashes in the wind. Smoke still curling from the bones of what used to be a nomadic war camp.
And me, standing in nude except for fur boots and a singed sable coat that smells like soup, sex, and disappointment. The wind tries to pry it open. I clutch it tighter. My thighs are freezing. My temper is volcanic.
"You absolute idiot!"
The Dragon lands with a whoosh that scatters the last of the cooking pots across the mud. He looks smug. Or proud. It's hard to tell with him. Everything he does has an air of, you're welcome, mortals.
"Was this—was this supposed to be heroic?" I wave my arm at the smoldering wreckage. "Was this your big entrance? Your dramatic rescue?"
He sniffs. "I incinerated twenty-three tents with a single sweep."
"I know!" I scream. "That one had a hot bath in it!"
He blinks.
"Also, a silk robe I just got broken in. And a boy who rubbed my feet without being told to."
"Your ankle was chained."
"It was decorative!"
He folds his wings slowly. "Saya. He owned you."
"I owned him!" I point at the charred lump that used to be Lord Artag's throne. "He literally called me his moon goddess. I was this close to getting a golden bathtub. With steps."
The wind shrieks through the ruins. The fur coat flaps. I bare a leg, curse the sky, adjust my toga-wrap with unnecessary drama.
"You could've waited until spring!" I go on. "We had salted meats. Wool. A heater rock. He made me soup!"
"You hate soup."
"I hate your soup. His was seasoned."
"I saw the collar."
"And?"
"And I thought you were in danger."
I stare at him. "I am always in danger. That's not an excuse. You have to use context."
He looks genuinely puzzled. "You were kneeling beside him."
"I was curled up, you lizard-brained fool. It's called lounging. Gods, for someone who's a thousand years old, you're emotionally fourteen."
He huffs smoke. "He was going to tattoo his name on your back."
"Small price for hot wine and regular orgasms."
He mutters something about dignity.
"Oh, now we care about dignity? You once posed as a sky deity and demanded a temple full of virgins hand-feed you figs. Don't talk to me about moral high ground."
He glares.
I spit a lock of hair out of my mouth and stomp through the ash, coat flapping, boots sinking into the soot. My thighs are freezing. My soul is furious.
"Do you even have a plan?" I snap. "Or are we just gonna find a nice glacier to sleep under while my nipples fall off?"
"I thought you'd be grateful."
"Grateful?! You just torched my winter fuck-nest and dumped me back in arctic misery! I had throw pillows!"
He flaps his wings halfheartedly. "We can find another village."
"Oh yes, let's go fleece the next starving mud pit full of goat-herders and frostbite. Lovely. I'll just seduce the local blacksmith in a coat that smells like roasted chieftain."
We stare at each other. The wind howls again. A piece of tent canvas flaps pathetically past us like a dying flag.
Finally, I mutter, "You're such a stupid, sweet, possessive bastard."
He says nothing.
I sigh. Tighten the coat. "Next time, bring the bathtub."
He doesn't say anything. Just stands there, wings tucked, eyes flickering with whatever passes for guilt in an ancient fire-breathing hoarder with intimacy issues.
So I add, quieter now, "I thought you were hibernating."
He exhales, smoke curling past his nostrils. "I couldn't sleep."
I blink. "Why not?"
His voice is low. "Because you were out here. Alone. Wandering through snow and cannibal witches and frozen warlords. I kept thinking—what if you slipped? What if they caught you again? What if…"
He trails off.
The wind hisses between us.
I look away. My coat suddenly doesn't feel quite as warm.
"You left me to fend for myself," I mutter.
"I know," he says. "It was cruel."
A beat.
He adds, gently, "Next time… I stay with you. Winter or not."
I don't say anything. I just tug the coat tighter, and for once, I don't ruin the moment.
Because gods help me, I think I might cry.
So instead, I sniff, wipe soot from my cheek, and say,
"Well, you still owe me a bathtub. With steps."
He nods. "Golden ones."
"Good."
I start walking. "And velvet towels."
"I draw the line at scented candles."
"Coward."