It's dry. Stupidly dry. The kind of dry where your thighs start chafing halfway up a hill and every pine needle crunch underfoot sounds like it's personally mocking you. The sun is overhead, arrogant and rude, and I'm sweating in places I didn't even know could sweat.
We're walking. Or rather, I'm walking. The Dragon is doing that smug float-glide-hover thing that means his gout's acting up and he's not in the mood to "waste his majestic paws on terrestrial abrasiveness." Whatever. I'm the one hoofing it like a peasant with sand in her shoe.
That's when I spot it.
A fat, dripping hive nestled in the crook of a twisted pine, halfway up the slope. Bees swarming lazily in and out. Golden. Glorious. Wild honey. The good stuff. Probably tastes like sun and sin and a little bit of sap. I can almost smell it.
And apparently so can the Dragon.
"Oh no," he says flatly, without even looking at me. "Absolutely not. Saya. Don't."
I tilt my head. Bat my eyes. "Don't what?"
"You're thinking about it."
"I'm observing nature."
"You're drooling on yourself."
"It's sweat. And possibly a bit of anticipatory salivation. That hive is beautiful."
"It's full of bees."
"I've had worse in my mouth."
He makes a sound like he's about to retch molten lava. "Saya, your skin bruises if someone looks at you funny. You cried last week because a squirrel threw an acorn at your shin."
"It was a vicious squirrel!"
"You are not climbing that tree."
"I'm not climbing," I say, already circling the base like a cat eyeing a birdcage. "I'm strategizing. There's a difference."
"There's a difference between courage and idiocy too, but you always seem to miss the nuance."
I ignore him. He'll come around. He always does. Eventually. After the screaming. Possibly after the stings.
I'm already mapping it in my head. Step one: skirt around the sharp rocks. Step two: use that leaning trunk to boost up. Step three: hope the bees are having a lazy day and not in full murder-swarm mode. And step four: honey in my mouth, dripping down my chin, sweet as sin and worth every welt.
The Dragon sighs. "This is going to end in screaming, tears, or nudity. Possibly all three."
"Don't be dramatic," I grin, rolling up my sleeves.
"I'm a dragon, being dramatic is my baseline."
I turn to him with what I think is a reasonable suggestion.
"Okay, so what if you chase them off with fire? Just a little puff. Not full immolation. Like… toast them politely."
He lifts one eyebrow ridge like a scorned diva. "I can torch the entire tree down, certainly. That'll clear the bees."
"Collaborate a little, godsdammit."
"You're already in a sugar high and you haven't even tasted the honey yet."
"That's called manifesting," I snap.
He grumbles something about huffing overripe peaches and self-destructive street urchins, but I ignore him because I am now officially in Plan Mode.
"What about smoke?" I say, pacing now, eyes locked on the hive like it owes me money. "You could just… puff a little. Isn't that how bee people do it? Smoke them out?"
He narrows his eyes. "I am not a chimney."
"No, you're a collaborator in a dynamic and evolving forest-based honey extraction operation."
"Spoken like a madwoman who once licked syrup off a centaur's abs and called it 'market research.'"
"That was cultural exploration." I wave him off. "Okay, so. Smoke. Climbing. Possible basket. Maybe a stick. Maybe a long tunic tied to a stick."
He stares at me. "You own one tunic. It's currently acting as your loincloth."
"We work with what we've got," I say, already untying the hem. "This is a precision heist. You're on smoke duty. I'm on retrieval. If things go wrong, we reconvene at that rock that looks like a goat's ass."
He sighs deeply, like centuries of boredom just condensed into this one exact moment. "Just once," he says, "I'd like to pass through a forest without violating the laws of nature and common sense."
I grin at him. "You knew what I was when you picked me up, lizard."
He mutters, "Mistake I'll be paying for until my scales fall off."
"Smoke, please. Minimum effort. Maximum glory."
He exhales. A little puff curls from his nostrils, singes a pinecone. It smells like toasted bark and burnt sarcasm.
I tighten my hair, squint at the hive, and think: gods, I want that honey. And if I die from this, I better at least get a sticky, glorious funeral.
***
Okay, fine. I may have underestimated the bees.
The tree seemed shorter when I was planning this from the ground. Now that I'm halfway up, my thighs scraped, my hands sticky with sap, and my tunic bunched around my hips in a way that screams "free show," I'm starting to reconsider a few life choices. Just a few.
Below me, the Dragon watches with the passive disdain of a cat watching someone step on a rake. "You're going to fall. Or get stung. Or both. And I'm going to pretend to care very convincingly."
"Hush," I hiss, clinging to the branch like it's my last sugar daddy. "You're on puff-duty. I need smoke. Friendly, bee-repelling smoke. Not sarcasm."
He snorts. A lazy curl of smoke drifts up toward the hive, which sways gently, bloated with promise and very much still full of bees.
"More," I say.
"This is how forest fires start," he mutters, but obliges with another puff. It smells like smoldering cinnamon and his bad attitude.
The bees stir.
"Good," I whisper. "Yes. Leave. Flee. Your goddess comes for your bounty."
"They're bees, not acolytes."
"Same thing when they make something that golden."
I inch closer. I'm maybe three handspans away now. The hive oozes with thick amber honey. I can taste it already. I stretch out with my pouch, trying to scoop a bit without jostling anything.
And then the branch creaks.
And then the hive jiggles.
And then the humming starts.
"Oh no," says the Dragon below, already taking a step back. "Nope. I want it on record that I advised against this."
I freeze. "They're just… buzzing. Bees buzz."
"They're buzzing in unison, Saya. That's a war chant."
And then—chaos.
A black cloud erupts from the hive like I kicked over a tiny, furious temple. I scream. I flail. I lose the pouch. I definitely lose my dignity. I let go of the branch and drop like a stunned squirrel, legs flailing, tunic halfway over my head.
"CATCH ME!" I shriek.
"Define 'catch,'" the Dragon says as he lazily sidesteps.
I hit the ground with a whomp that knocks the breath out of me. My ankle rolls, my elbow hits something sharp, and a bee—godsdammit—gets inside my top.
"GET IT OUT!" I'm shrieking now, flailing like I'm on fire.
"Which one? The bee or your entire sense of self-worth?"
I tear my tunic down, exposing one boob, slap myself in the ribs, and finally squish the little bastard.
Above us, the bees are still swarming.
Dragon sighs, then puffs. Once. A controlled gout of fire hits the base of the tree. It blackens instantly. The hive slumps, smolders, and begins to drip. Melted gold oozes down the bark like a pagan sacrament.
I limp over, swatting at the last bees. My arm is already swelling. I scoop honey into my hands like a starving urchin and smear it on my face. It's divine. Sweet. Warm. Slightly smoky. And utterly not worth it.
But I grin anyway, cheeks smeared and eyes bloodshot. "Told you it'd work."
Dragon stares at me, aghast. "You look like a feral child trying to suckle a burnt tree."
I stick my tongue out at him, covered in sap and triumph. "And yet… delicious."
The bees regroup somewhere behind us. I'm sure they're planning revenge. A hit swarm, maybe.
Worth it. So worth it.
***
I'm perched on a sun-warmed rock like a mad forest nymph halfway through a breakdown. My hair is a wasps' nest of twigs, soot, and what might be bee guts. My left cheek is swollen. My right boob has a welt the size of a cherry. My tunic looks like I lost a fight with a bad-tempered hedge—which, in fairness, I did when I fell.
And I am grinning like an idiot.
Because I have honeycomb.
It's still warm. Slightly singed around the edges. Bits of ash stick to it, and there's a dead bee leg poking out of one cell, but I don't care. I bite in. It explodes in my mouth like sunlight and childhood and everything good I was never allowed to have.
Dragon makes a face like he's watching someone lick a sewer grate.
"Are you… enjoying that?" he says, nose wrinkled.
I hum through a mouthful of sticky gold. "Mhm. It's smoky. Artisanally so."
"You look rabid."
I grin wider, honey dribbling down my chin. "That's just the swelling."
He paces nearby, tail swishing like a fussy cat. "You know, in some cultures, that counts as self-sabotage."
"In this culture, it's called 'lunch.'" I lift the honeycomb like a goblet. "Victory tastes like caramelized pain."
He stops. Stares. Says, "You've been stung on the lip."
"Do I look sexy and tragic?"
"You look like a drunk noble's attempt at abstract sculpture."
I snort. Then wince. Snorting stretches the sting. "Totally worth it," I mumble, still chewing.
He lowers himself beside me with an exaggerated groan, like he's aged another century just from witnessing this disaster. "One day, Saya, one day you're going to do something calm. Rational. Quiet."
"Boring."
"Safe."
"Boring."
He sighs. "And I will mourn that day deeply. Possibly with wine and silence."
I offer him a chunk of comb. "Want some?"
He stares at it like I've handed him a dung-smeared sock. "Absolutely not."
"More for me."
I shove the rest in my mouth and lean back against the rock, sticky, aching, slightly delirious from the stings—and weirdly happy.
Hot sun. Warm stone. Charred pine scent. And a dragon at my side, pretending he doesn't care. But he's still here. And he didn't let the bees eat me.
That counts for something.
Maybe everything.