The pile of ash didn't look like much. Just a faint grey smear on the cracked marble. A little scorch mark. A few glittering flecks from the Archduke's ridiculous night robe.
No fangs. No bones. Just dust and the faint smell of roasted regret.
Mid-morning sun crept over the garden wall. Warm. Honest. Unforgiving.
Loma stood beside me, arms limp at her sides, staring at the spot where His Pallid Grace had spontaneously combusted at dawn.
She sniffled. "He really… turned to ashes."
I squinted at the pile. "Guess the legends weren't just bard gossip."
Behind us, the Dragon exhaled through his nose — a long, theatrical roll of smoke and sarcasm.
Loma turned to me, tears brimming. "This is all your fault."
I blinked. "What?"
"The harem vampires. The undead sex cult. The burning palace. You're a chaos magnet, Saya!"
"Oh please," I muttered, rubbing ash off my arm. "I saved your life."
She rounded on me, voice cracking. "So what if they were vampires?! I was part of something! I had a place! A real harem! Silk! Pillows! Influence! Immortality!"
I raised an eyebrow. "You wanted to be one of the undead fangs-and-fetish wives?"
She jabbed a finger at the ash pile. "I could've lived forever in luxury! Eternal beauty! Infinite bath oil! And now look at me."
She swept her arms wide, face twisting into something between grief and rage.
"Standing in dirt. With a dragon who thinks he's clever and a garlic-rubbed street rat!"
Oof.
She stared at me for a beat, lips trembling.
Then she turned.
And stomped off.
Through the ruined gate. Past the broken pillars. Into the dust and sunlight. Her back straight, her cheeks red, her fists clenched.
The Dragon stepped up beside me, squinting after her.
"Well," he muttered, "that went well."
I sighed. "She'll come back."
"She usually does."
We both looked down at the ash.
A gust of wind picked up.
And scattered the Archduke to the roses.