Some ways off now—far enough from the village and far enough from the altar to not catch any accidental retribution lightning—we make camp in a hollow where the grass smells like goat piss and regret.
The girl, now wrapped in one of my old tunics that barely covers her knees, is shivering in the evening chill. She's curled near the fire like a nervous puppy, arms around her legs, teeth chattering so hard it sounds like tambourine music.
I roll my eyes, fish out the ratty old blanket from the bottom of the saddlebag—it smells faintly of mildew and stolen incense—and toss it over her shoulders.
She jumps like I've hit her.
"Calm down," I mutter. "Not gonna eat you. Not unless you start snoring."
Then I dig into the loot sack, rummage past the prickly idol and a temple hairpin shaped like a blessed vulva, and yank out what I was looking for: a thick chain of gold coins, strung together like a ceremonial belt or something. Heavy. Tacky. Perfect.
I slap it into her lap.
"Here," I say. "Your share."
She just stares at it. Then at me. Like I handed her a dragon's tooth or a baby. "What is this?"
"Your share of the loot," I say, already annoyed that I have to repeat myself.
Behind us, the Dragon makes that sharp little tsk sound with his tongue, the one that means "you're being impulsive again and I disapprove but can't stop you because I'm too tired for this bullshit."
I whip around. "What?"
He raises a scaly brow. "Just saying, she didn't do anything."
"She got chained bare-assed to a rock and offered to a double-headed death lizard," I snap. "That's contribution enough in my book. Little tart earned it."
He rolls his eyes with the kind of ancient theatricality only a being thousands of years old can manage, then turns away and begins arranging his coils into a sulking bed pile.
I sit back down beside the girl, who is now holding the coin chain like it might bite her.
"You can stay the night," I say, jabbing a thumb toward the fire. "One night. After that—scram."
She blinks. "But where would I—"
"Not my problem," I say, stretching out. "Congratulations on surviving. Welcome to life after sacrifice. It sucks, but at least you've got pocket change."
The girl starts stuttering, her voice cracking with that pathetic sincerity that hits you right in the guilt.
"But… but what about the village?" she says, clutching the coin chain like it'll ward off flame. "That black dragon—he'll come back. And when he sees the altar's empty and there's no gold—he'll think we cheated him."
She's trembling again. "He'll burn everything. He'll watch my mum scream. And the goats—my little brothers and sisters—my pet hedgehog…"
I throw my hands up. "Oh come on! Don't give me that story, sister."
But she keeps going. "He only has three legs! He limps! We call him Hoppie—"
"Gods dammit," I mutter, already feeling the guilt chew at my gut like bad oysters.
The Dragon makes a sound. A long, theatrical eye-roll kind of sound. "Here we go again."
I whip around. "What? Are you seriously saying the Efrafax brothers won't touch the village?"
He snorts. "Aethrafax. With an A-E. And no, they absolutely will touch it. They'll touch it with fire. And tail. And probably poetry."
I stare at him.
He shifts, suddenly nervous. "But don't even think about it."
I raise one eyebrow.
He sees it. Panics instantly.
"Oh no. No. We are not doing this. I am not fighting those twin brutes. Nope."
"You're scared."
"Yes. And with reason!" He flails one claw. "One of them breathes blackfire. The other sings dirges while he eats people. Together. You want that in stereo?"
The girl sniffles again. I hear the word Hoppie and something about his birthday being tomorrow.
I groan, bury my face in my hands, and seriously contemplate dying right here to avoid what's coming next.
The Dragon watches me with that smug, infuriating calm of someone who thinks they've already won the argument.
"You're soft," he says, voice like smoke curling around a dagger.
I snort. "And you're a coward."
"I am a coward," he says without missing a beat. "Cowardice is the better part of caution. And caution, dear girl, is the better part of bravery."
I whip around to glare at him. "Oh shut up with your philosophical horseshit."
He lifts his brows, mock-wounded. "Quoting wisdom now is horseshit?"
I throw up my arms. "Fine! Let's leave the little tartlet to her fate! Let her get burned alive while her hedgehog screams and her goats boil! Let's let the two-headed acid gargler do a puppet show with her intestines!"
The girl gasps behind me.
I don't look at her.
I keep my eyes on the Dragon. "Fine, Mr High and Mighty. Let's do it your way. Let's fly off with our sack of shiny baubles and forget the girl with the chain bruises and frostbitten toes and three-legged rodent backstory."
He flinches. Just a little.
"Don't be like that…" he murmurs.
I cross my arms. "Like what, exactly? Like someone who doesn't sleep so well after hearing screaming in her dreams? Like someone who knows exactly what it feels like to be tied down and offered up like leftovers?"
He sighs. Deep. Heavy. His wings droop just slightly.
I know that sigh.
I know that sag of his spine, the way he stops pretending to be ancient and wise and just becomes old and tired.
And gods help me, I feel it too.
This stupid girl.
This dumb wide-eyed goat herder with tear-streaked cheeks and a damn hedgehog named Hoppie.
I turn away before my face does something embarrassing like soften.
Behind me, he grumbles, "We'll need a distraction. And a decoy. And you owe me a whole month of shoulder rubs."
I smirk.
Victory. Sort of.