I stretch. My back cracks in six different places and something definitely bites my ankle. Flea. Probably. Gods. I smell like goat piss and last night's fire smoke. Also my hair is stuck to my cheek. Delightful. But whatever. I lift my head. And yep. There it is.
Screaming.
Like proper, piss-yourself, "oh-gods-eat-the-babies-first" kind of screaming.
Peasant. Male. In ragged shirt and a hat made of some dead rodent. He's just discovered that behind his chicken coop—curled up like a half-cooked croissant—is a dragon.
My dragon.
Scales twitch. He yawns, like the ancient bastard he is, smoke curling from his nose. One chicken flops over dead from sheer terror. I can't blame it. The rest flap around in blind panic, one actually flies into a wall and knocks itself out.
By now, the entire miserable family has spilled out of their hut. Big-eyed, barefoot, clutching each other in a line like they're ready for divine judgment. Which, considering the 12-ton deity currently farting smoke behind their coop, isn't that far off.
I wave lazily. "Morning."
The mother crosses herself. The grandfather tries to crawl back inside. The child pisses himself.
Dragon cracks open one eye, spots the farmer hyperventilating into his turnip patch, and mutters without lifting his head, "Are we doing the prophetess thing again, or is this a robbery?"
I shrug. "Depends what they have. Could be turnips."
He groans like a cathedral roof settling. "Dear gods. Not turnips. I'll take my chances with famine."
I step forward, bare-legged, barefoot, tunic hitched up like I'm about to bless someone or stab them. I smile wide and angelic, which is always a bad sign.
"Do you people happen to have… anything of value? Gold? Jewels? Eggs that aren't cursed? A virgin son you've been saving for marriage?"
The peasant drops to his knees.
"Mercy, Lady! Take the wife!"
I blink. "Ew. No. Keep your wife. She looks stringy."
The wife blinks. I wink at her. "No offense, darling. It's just I don't do pity threesomes before breakfast."
Behind me, the Dragon rumbles a laugh.
The peasants are still trembling like sacrificial jellyfish. Chickens scatter. The sky is clear. The day has barely started. And I'm already half-sure we're going to leave richer. Or at least full of eggs.
Honestly?
Could be worse.
I raise both hands, palms out, like I'm calming a spooked donkey.
"We're just a couple of weary travelers," I say sweetly. "Road was long, night was cold, your hay pile looked inviting. So we crashed here. Didn't even eat your chickens. Yet."
Behind me, the Dragon shifts. A wing stretches lazily and knocks over a fence. Chickens scatter again, squawking their life stories. A goat faints. Or dies. Hard to tell with goats.
The peasant, still kneeling in the dirt, stammers: "But… but… but… the dragon…"
"Yes, darling," I nod patiently, "the dragon. Mine. Mostly tame. Don't worry, he only eats people who scream a lot." I grin. "So, you know. Maybe stop screaming."
The Dragon snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils. He mutters without looking up, "I don't like being referred to as a pet."
I whisper back, "Then stop curling up behind chicken coops like a giant cat."
The peasant gulps, eyes bouncing between me and the mass of claws and scales in his backyard. "Are… are you going to burn the village?"
I blink. "Do I look like I'm wearing fireproof lingerie?"
He doesn't answer.
I sigh. "No. We're not burning anything. Unless you have something valuable hidden and we need a distraction. Do you?"
He shakes his head violently.
"See?" I smile. "No burning. Everyone wins."
There's a silence.
Then the Dragon speaks up, grumbling: "Tell them to bring breakfast. If I'm a houseguest now, I expect eggs. And tea."
I beam. "You heard the lizard. Scrambled. No turnips."
The old man's lips are trembling so much he can barely get the words out. "A-are you h-here to k-kill us? Burn us? E-enslave us?"
I scrunch my nose. "Ugh, no. Gods. So dramatic."
Then I tilt my head, think about it.
"Okay, not really. But I am open to suggestions. Like—if there's a castle nearby with a bloated lord, a lazy guard rotation, and preferably a wine cellar, we could be persuaded to take our apocalypse elsewhere."
The Dragon lifts his head slightly, eyeing the farmer like he's debating whether he's worth toasting. "And a library," he adds. "Not one of those tiny chapels with three moldy scrolls. Proper books. Bound. Alphabetized."
I sigh. "He's obsessed. Don't mind him."
The peasants look at each other. The oldest daughter is crying silently. The middle son might've peed again. I lean closer.
"Look. We're not monsters. Okay he technically is, but only on special occasions. We're just passing through. No treasure? Fine. No gold? Fine. But maybe... maybe you do your patriotic duty as simple villagers and point a couple of weary travelers toward some rich bastards who deserve to be robbed?"
I smile sweetly, like I'm not barefoot, hungover, and still wearing someone else's tunic.
"Tell you what. You help us, we forget about the whole screaming, fainting, soiled-underthings thing. Even throw in a blessing or two. I can do blessings. Kind of. They're sticky but effective."
The Dragon mutters, "I want tea. With honey. And something flaky."
I nod. "You heard him. Tea, flaky things, one noble house to ruin. You've got five minutes."