I am absolutely going to murder the Dragon.
Not right now, obviously. Right now I am naked, star-shaped like a disgruntled starfish, strapped to a freezing stone floor by iron cuffs, in the middle of a chalked pentagram that smells like goat blood, incense, and very bad decisions. There are candles. So many candles. Romantic, if you ignore the part where everyone in the room is a naked lunatic in black hooded cloaks holding knives.
This wasn‘t supposed to be like this.
This was supposed to be the usual con. I do the trembly virgin routine, the Dragon does the “oh no a fearsome monster” thing, they cough up their shiny goods, we split it, I buy jewelry and pastries, maybe seduce someone actually cute, and we leave rich and smug.
Instead, we got… this.
“Hey,” I croak, because the air is cold and my teeth are doing a little funeral march. “Quick question. Is this the ’please leave our town, oh mighty dragon‘ ritual… or the ’stab the pretty girl and summon ultimate evil‘ one?”
No one answers.
They do that cult thing where they all hum ominously in slightly different keys so it sounds like bees arguing in a graveyard. Knives glint. The old one in front raises his hands and chants in dramatic, echo-y voice, like someone who definitely yells at waitresses for insufficient doom in their tone.
I yank my hands.
The chains do absolutely nothing.
Of course they don‘t. The irons are thick and cold and definitely not the fun bedroom kind with silk ribbon and “stop if I sneeze twice” rules. These are “shut up, lie still, and please bleed in a decorative way” irons.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “So. Lesson learned. Maybe don‘t trust secluded countryside weirdos with too many candles.”
One of the hooded women leans over me, breathing like she‘s deeply moved by my imminent tragic sacrifice.
I smile sweetly.
“I‘m billing you for trauma.”
She hisses like a kettle.
The chanting gets louder. Drum beats start. Someone rattles bones in a tin cup. There‘s a smell like burnt honey and dead frog. I try to breathe through it. I try to stay calm. Because if I panic now, they‘ll win. And Saya of Absolutely Terrible Judgment does not give cultists the satisfaction.
Besides.
He‘s coming.
He always does. Late. With complaints. Probably with gout.
I close my eyes just for a heartbeat, shackles biting my skin, candles flickering shadows over me like claws.
“Dragon,” I whisper to the ceiling. “If you don‘t get here fast, I am going to haunt you naked forever.”
She leans down so close I can feel her breath on my ear—hot, damp, smelling of herbs and someone who hasn‘t brushed since the last eclipse.
“Be still, little sister,” she whispers.
Oh good. Pet names. That‘s never terrifying in a murder circle.
“You are blessed,” she goes on, voice trembling with religious excitement. “Chosen vessel. Flesh gate. The sky-beast shall wear you.”
…Excuse me?
My eyes snap open.
“What?” I hiss back. “No. No wearing. Nobody wears me. I‘m not a bloody cloak.”
Her hood tilts. I catch a glimpse of pale lips stretched in a smile like a slit throat.
“He will descend,” she breathes. “Into you. Through you. With you. We have called him many names across the centuries. Devourer. Storm Lord. The Serpent That Judges. The Winged Sin. The Great Sky Father of Fire.”
There‘s a special, bone-deep moment in life where stupidity and doom collide so hard your brain just… stops.
Because it hits me.
They‘re trying to summon him.
My dragon.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically.
Literally.
They think this whole naked chalk graffiti and kitchen-knife séance is going to yank my grumpy, arthritic, overly dramatic, gout-ridden gay lizard out of the sky and slam him into my body like an ill-advised hat.
Oh gods.
Oh… gods.
This isn‘t just cult nonsense. This is practical cult nonsense. With a target.
They want my dragon.
They want to stuff my dragon into me.
Somewhere, far above the mountains, I know he‘s on his way, muttering to himself about “imbecilic humans” and “why is it always ceremonies with candles,” wings creaking, joints popping like old furniture, already composing a speech about how this is entirely my fault.
And these idiots?
They‘re about to scream a spell right into his face.
“Okay,” I say quickly, smiling in that pleasant, cheerful way you do when a mule is about to step on your throat. “Small correction. He doesn‘t enter people. Not like that. He‘s very private. Sensitive. You‘d hate it.”
Another knife gleams.
The chanting swells.
The woman presses her forehead to mine like we‘re sharing some sacred sisterly moment, and whispers:
“Be honored, vessel. Tonight you are doorway, altar, and bride.”
I laugh.
It comes out high, hysterical, and very, very not okay.
“Oh,” I say. “Fantastic. Just what I wanted. To get married to airborne apocalypse while chained to a floor.”
Above us, somewhere in the black sky beyond the ceiling, a distant, familiar roar trembles the air.
Every candle flickers.
Every hood jerks up.
Every knife hand shakes.
And I grin like a lunatic.
“Oh,” I whisper. “You girls are going to love what you summoned.”
***
The ceiling doesn‘t explode.
That‘s the first clue this is going to be a conversation, not an apocalypse.
Stone groans. Dust rains. Candles gutter sideways like they‘re trying to flee. Something enormous settles above me with the sound of old leather, grinding joints, and a very offended huff.
Then his head lowers into view.
One eye. One huge, gold-flecked, judgmental eye.
“What,” the Dragon says slowly, precisely, “in the holy, molten, tax-exempt hell is this.”
Relief hits me so hard I almost sob.
“Hi,” I say. “Before you comment on the décor, please unchain me.”
The cultists lose their minds.
They drop to their knees in synchronized ecstasy, knives clattering, foreheads smashing stone.
“THE SKY BEAST SPEAKS,” someone shrieks.
“THE VESSEL IS OPENED,” wails another.
“BLESSED BRIDE OF FIRE,” moans a third, which—no. Just no.
The Dragon squints at them, then at me.
“…They can hear me.”
“Yes,” I say. “That‘s the problem.”
He looks back at the cult. Tilts his head.
“They appear… delighted.”
“Oh they think this is working,” I say. “They think you‘re here to crawl inside me or something. Please don‘t comment on that part.”
The chanting intensifies. Hands stretch toward me. Toward him. Toward everything.
“Should I incinerate them,” the Dragon asks mildly. “Just a little. For tone.”
“No!” I hiss. “No torching. Just—scare them. Do your thing. Loom. Be ominous. Puff. Drama.”
He sighs. Deep. Long-suffering. The sigh of a creature who has lived three thousand years and is so tired of idiots.
“Very well,” he says. “Minimal apocalypse.”
He inhales.
The air pulls tight. Candles bend inward. The pentagram starts smoking like it regrets existing.
Then he exhales a small, neat fireball.
Not a blast. Not a wave.
Just a perfect, humming orb of living flame that hangs in the air between us, close enough that I can feel my skin warm.
The cultists scream.
Every single one of them flings themselves flat to the ground like dropped laundry. Chanting dies instantly. Knives scatter. Someone sobs. Someone pisses themselves. The dramatic old man crawls backward, whispering apologies to at least four different gods.
The fireball pops.
Silence.
The Dragon looks down at me again.
“Acceptable?” he asks.
I grin up at him, naked, chained, victorious.
“Oh,” I say. “Absolutely terrifying. Ten out of ten. Now please get me out of the ritual murder star before they regain confidence.”