You think this is easy?
Seriously, do you have any idea how much prep goes into a good old-fashioned virgin sacrifice scam?
Like, sure, you just see the part where I'm tied to a rock with wind in my hair and strategically placed garlands—but the logistics? Exhausting. First, you need a suitably backwater village—superstitious enough to believe in dragons, dumb enough not to ask why I have hip piercings and a sun tattoo on my ass. Then you have to actually scout the altar site. I mean physically scout it. I'm not getting chained to just any mossy slab. No. It has to be photogenic. Elevated. Good angles for dramatic shadows.
So that's what we're doing now. Reconnaissance. Me and the big scaly diva.
He says there's an old altar above this forest ridge, used back in the pre-sandal age or whatever. Sounds perfect. Isolated, eerie, probably crawling with ticks. We fly out in the morning—he groaning about his joints and me clinging to his horns because SOMEONE refuses to get a saddle because he's "not livestock."
The climb is steep. My thighs hurt. I'm sweaty, braless, and mosquito-bitten. But I am a professional. I'm envisioning the scene: dusk light, a few candles, some trembling virgin routine. I can already hear the clink of gold coins being offered. That's the dream.
But when we get there—
Oh.
Oh no.
There's already a girl on the altar.
Like, full setup.
She's chained down naked-naked, not just show-skin-suggestive like me. Hands above her head, ankles spread, proper dramatic posture. She's got flowers tangled in her hair. There's even two clay pots brimming with shiny offerings—coins, silver bangles, a tiny idol shaped like a bulging fertility god.
I turn to the Dragon, mouth open.
He just stares. Then mutters, "Well that's awkward."
We both stand there, dumbstruck.
"Did we miss a flyer?" I hiss.
Because this? This is my gig. And someone's stealing it.
And worse?
She looks prettier than me.
We fly in low. Classic swoop, wings flared, wind howling, leaves scattering like frightened virgins.
There she is.
Tied up. Spread out. Glistening. Trembling.
"Mr Dragon," she whimpers, voice like crushed sugar, "please devour me first… before you deflower me."
The Dragon nearly falls out of the sky.
We land. I hop off. Fury in my heels, sass in my hips, murder in my mood.
Hands on my waist. One foot forward. My very best who-the-fuck-do-you-think-you-are pose.
She looks at me—big wet eyes, tear-streaked face, lip trembling like she's auditioning for a tragic ballad.
"Oh," she breathes. Just that. Oh.
Damn right oh.
"What," I snarl, "do you think you're doing, you little tramp?"
The Dragon groans behind me. I hear the distinct thud of him lying down dramatically to watch the show.
The girl stammers. "I—I…"
"Oh don't you 'I' me," I cut in. "You think you can just waltz in here with your tits out and your altar-ready ankles and steal my act? This is my routine. My gig. My scam. You even have the props—who gave you those clay pots, huh? Did you bring your own coins too?"
She blinks like a kicked bunny. "N-no. The villagers—"
I stomp closer. "Stop pretending."
"I'm not pretending!" she cries, voice cracking now. "I was chosen. This morning. By the priest and the mayor and the village council. I didn't want this. They— they said it was my destiny!"
"Pfft," I scoff. "Please. Destiny doesn't come with exfoliated thighs and incense in your hair. You oiled up for this, didn't you? Tell me the truth. Are you trying to get in on the hero circuit? You hoping some paladin shows up and sweeps you off this rock like a bard's fever dream?"
"I don't even know what that means!"
She's full-on crying now, ugly, hiccupping sobs. "I don't want to be deflowered or devoured or anything—I just wanted to go back to my goats!"
Oh.
Well, shit.
She actually is a sacrifice.
Real deal.
Villagers probably panicked over a drought or a bad horoscrope and decided the solution was tying up the prettiest girl on a hill with a side of jewelry. Classic.
I glance back at the Dragon. He raises one scaly brow. No help there.
So I sigh. Loudly. Theatrically. Like a saint. Or a woman once again forced to clean up other people's hysterical mistakes.
"Well," I mutter, "this is a mess."
The Dragon's tail coils tighter behind me. His voice drops, dry and precise, the way it always does when he smells bullshit—or danger.
"So," he says, "who exactly were they offering you to? A troll? A giant with culinary ambitions?"
The girl, still sniffling, shakes her head. "No…"
"No?" he repeats, voice rising hopefully. "A hydra? A thunderbird? Ooh, a flesh djinn?"
"No… a dragon."
His wings twitch. "A what?"
"A dragon," she says again, blinking like it should be obvious.
He squints. "That can't be right. We only arrived this morning. No one saw us. No one even knows—"
"Not you," the girl cuts in softly. "The other dragon."
Silence.
Utter, soul-sucking silence.
He stares at her. I stare at him. The girl just shivers like she's about to pee from terror and cold.
The Dragon finally speaks. His voice is very calm in that way that means someone is going to die soon. "Describe. This. Dragon."
She gulps. "Black. Big. Two heads. One hisses all the time. The other kind of… mumbles. They argue. A lot."
He exhales like someone just insulted his genealogy.
"Oh gods no," he says. "It's the Aethrafax brothers."
I raise an eyebrow. "The what brothers?"
He doesn't even look at me. Just flicks his tail with that urgent, clipped precision he only uses when death is about to fly in on leathery wings.
"Unchain her. Now."
I yank an empty burlap sack from my satchel and start shoveling coins out of the clay pots. Silver bangles, temple rings, even a tiny carved cock-and-balls idol—straight into the sack.
The girl watches, slack-jawed. "W-what are you doing?"
I don't even look up. "What does it look like?"
She blinks. "Are you… robbing the offering?"
I sigh so hard I practically deflate. "Sweetheart. We're looting. There's a difference. This is what's called redistribution of wealth. From the fearful rural masses… to us."
The Dragon snorts behind me. "Mostly her, let's be honest."
The girl still looks completely lost. "But aren't you going to… eat me?"
I glance at her. "No, sweaty. We're just here for the goods."
I lean over and undo the last shackle around her wrist. She winces, rubs her bruised skin. Still confused as a cow in a temple orgy.
The girl just stands there, mouth half-open, still trying to process her rapidly derailed religious experience.
"So…" she says, slow and hopeful, "you're not… with the village?"
I give her a look. "No, sweetheart. I'm with me."
She frowns. "But why would you untie me? Aren't you the dragon's priestess or cult wife or something?"
I laugh. Loud and delighted. "Oh gods, no. Listen carefully now. I'm a professional virgin sacrifice."
Her face does a little collapse.
"That's not a—" she starts.
"It is now," I say. "Look, here's how it usually goes. Villagers freak out over drought or sick goats or a three-headed calf, whatever. Big bad dragon shows up. They panic. I get 'chosen.' Dramatic ceremony. Chains. Virginal wailing. Then just as the poor dear is about to be devoured—bam! Hero shows up. Sword drawn. Muscles flexed. Hero gets distracted by tits—mine, obviously—Dragon swoops in, does his thing, we take the loot and fly off into the sunset."
She blinks. "But I didn't do any of that."
I gesture to the offering pots. "Exactly. You saved us the boring half. No speeches, no sobbing relatives, no village bard composing sad lute ballads. We skip straight to the good part."
The Dragon clears his throat pointedly. "If we could perhaps finish the good part sometime before dusk? I smell something large and disagreeable headed this way."
The girl goes pale. "What about me? I can't go back to the village. They'll think I escaped. They'll say I cursed the offering. They'll burn me for sure."
She grabs my arm. "And if that other dragon comes and finds me here, with no gold—"
"Right," I say, turning to the big scaly one. "Can you lift both of us?"
He eyes her. Then me. Then the increasingly bulging sack of loot.
He groans. "Oh, dear. If I throw my back out again, I'm blaming you. I'll need a shoulder rub. And probably ointment."
I pat his flank. "I'll use the fancy oil. The cinnamon one."
He sighs like a martyr preparing for sainthood. "Fine. But she rides in the front. I'm not having two pairs of thighs bouncing on my spine."