Some hours later, the field had gone quiet. The kind of quiet that hums under your skin. No more horns, no more screams—just wind and the twitching of the recently dead.
Bodies everywhere. The unlucky ones. Limbs tangled like broken marionettes, eyes staring at things they'd never understand. The smell was already thick—bile, blood, hot metal, that sweet-sick rot that comes fast in the sun.
I'm picking my way through it, mud sucking at my ankles, trying not to look too closely at the faces.
"Fuck," I mutter. "He wasn't with the living. I didn't see him retreat. He wasn't there."
The Dragon stands a few paces behind, tail curled neatly like he's posing for some somber portrait. He surveys the scene with a kind of reluctant admiration, nostrils flaring.
"Mmm," he rumbles. "Efficient. A bit heavy on the cavalry, but—points for spectacle." A pause. Then a smirk. "I should cauterise the place. Save them the trouble of burying."
I whirl on him. "Do not."
He shrugs, all scales and smug. "I'm just saying. Fire solves things."
I turn back, scanning again. Ogden's not the sort to go quietly. He'd be waving a banner, bleeding dramatically, shouting about honor while making sure someone was painting it.
Unless he couldn't.
I push past a heap of bodies—some still breathing, most not—and catch something glinting in the dirt. A bit of gold, tangled in a broken chain around a snapped neck. I crouch, tug it free. Lion engraving. Not his. Too much teeth. Still—shiny.
"Oh. Nice," I murmur, slipping it into my pouch. "Finders keepers."
Behind me, the Dragon exhales sharply. "Do you have no shame?"
I glance over my shoulder, smirking. "Misplaced it somewhere between Seebulba and that orgy in Toemacha."
A grunt. "Remind me to never die near you."
"Oh please. If you die, I'm wearing your bones like jewelry."
He was slumped against a shattered shield, guts half-out and eyes already glassing over. Breath ragged, shallow. The kind of dying that leaves no room for dignity, just blood and piss and maybe a few last delusions.
As I crouched beside him, his gaze fluttered toward me, unfocused. A twitch of a smile under the blood crusting his lips.
"Are you…" he whispered, "an angel…? A Valkyrie…?"
I smiled softly, even brushed some hair from his brow. "No, sweetie," I said gently. "I'm the one who robs your corpse of anything shiny."
His breath hitched. A blink. Maybe disappointment. Maybe not.
"But…" I added, patting his cheek, "if it'll make you feel better—yes. You fought gloriously. Truly. Songs will be sung. Maidens will weep. Statues with impressive jawlines."
He gave the smallest chuckle, or maybe it was a death rattle.
I leaned in and kissed his forehead, gentle as a breeze. His eyes drifted shut with that stupid, peaceful look men get when they think dying in battle actually means something.
Then I slid the ring off his finger.
Bit it.
Clink. Crunch.
I spat.
"Ugh. Gold-plated lead? Really?" I muttered. "Cheap bastard."
I stood, wiping my mouth. "Die like a hero, dressed like a king… and accessorized like a peasant."
I tossed the ring into the mud.
Somewhere behind me, the Dragon chuckled.
Then—just as I'm about to rob the next corpse for its rings—a sound.
A voice, weak and cracked, like some dying troubadour trying to sing through a collapsed lung.
"S… Saya…"
I freeze. Slowly straighten. The Dragon lifts his head too, ears twitching.
"Ssaaaayaaa…" the voice wails again, absolutely dripping with heroic agony. "Oh gods… is that you…?"
I follow the moaning to its source and—there he is. Sir Godsdamned Ogden. Flat on his back in a shallow trench, half-covered by the corpse of a warhorse. Not his horse, mind you. Just some unfortunate beast that died inconveniently across his legs.
He's got one hand outstretched toward the sky like he's in a tragic opera, the other dramatically clutching his perfectly intact abdomen.
"Oh there you are," I say, stepping over a mangled shield to loom over him. "You bastard. Thought we wouldn't track you down?"
He blinks up at me, eyes wet, lips parted like he's about to recite his own eulogy.
"Saya… I'm dying."
I squint. "Your armor doesn't even have a scratch."
"I'm pinned."
"You're being mildly inconvenienced by a dead horse."
"I can feel the light fading," he gasps, hand flopping against his brow. "Tell the Duke… I fought bravely…"
I squat beside him, poke his side. "Where's our cut of the loot?"
He flinches. "What?"
"The loot, Ogden. You know, the treasure? Spoils of war? Heroic reward? The part you promised us?"
The Dragon peers down over my shoulder, expression halfway between amusement and contempt.
"Your boyfriend appears un-martyred," he says flatly. "Tragic."
"He's not my—ugh, never mind." I slap Ogden's chestplate. "Start talking, drama prince, or I'm selling you to a sausage vendor."
Ogden whimpers. Actually whimpers.
"Please," he croaks, squirming uselessly under the horse. "Just—just get it off me, Saya. I think my spine's shattered. I may never walk again. I can't feel my toes—"
"You're wearing sabatons, you idiot," I snap. "Of course you can't feel your toes."
The Dragon lets out a long, bored sigh. "Should I just eat him?"
"No," I say, rummaging in my pouch. "He might still be useful. Might."
Ogden gives me a hopeful look, mistaking that for mercy.
So I hand him a crumpled bit of parchment and a charred twig from some poor bastard's broken standard.
"Here."
He blinks. "What—what is this?"
"A map, Ogden."
"I—what?"
"Draw a map." I lean down, smile sweetly. "Draw where you hid the treasure."
He stares up at me like I've kicked him in the soul. "Saya—"
"You thought you could vanish into this band of mercenaries, wag that shiny blue banner, grab your little slice of glory and ditch us? Hide the loot, hope we wouldn't follow?" I slap the horse carcass for emphasis. It makes a lovely wet thump. "Well, tough titties, sweet prince. The wyrm and I want our cut."
Ogden groans. "I was going to share—"
"Uh-huh." I twirl the twig. "Draw first, then we can talk about lifting you out of this muck. Or, y'know… not."
The Dragon peers closer. "Make it legible. I don't read hero."
Ogden looks between us, utterly betrayed, completely miserable, and very much pinned. He takes the twig.
"Fine," he mutters. "But I want hazard pay."
I smile. "Oh, you'll get plenty of hazards."