The forest is close and thick tonight, every shadow dripping with something sharp. I'm moving too fast—hood half-fallen over my eyes, cloak snagging on every branch, linen tunic clinging in all the places predators call appetizing because the night air is damp and my nerves are worse. My feet slap the roots, sandals barely holding together. I can hear things breathing out there. Feel eyes sliding over my skin. Animal eyes. Hungry. And not the fun kind.
I should've been back at camp hours ago. Going into town was my plan—thought I'd sniff out a bit of gossip, maybe catch a rumor or two. Check the pulse of the place. Easy. Quick. Civilized.
And then some market hag mentioned a cock fight behind the granary and—well. That was it. Hook in the mouth. I followed like the gullible little gambling slut I am.
One fight became three, then five, then the kind of streak that makes you think the Goddess of Luck might actually owe you an apology. I lost track of the moon, the path, and, somewhere around the eighth round, my dignity.
Now here I am: alone in the woods after dark, clutching a shredded cloak and the profound realization that cock fights are going to be the death of me, one way or another.
I quicken my pace. Maybe if I look confident, they'll assume I'm not worth the trouble. Which is a lie, of course, but lies are what keep me upright.
I could still feel the scent of cheap wine and rooster blood clinging to me.
"Great work, Saya," I mutter to myself as I stumble over a root. "Brilliant. Alone in the forest at night. Perfect. Truly your finest plan yet. Maybe tomorrow you can juggle knives blindfolded or seduce a bear."
A branch smacks me in the face. I deserve it.
The dark thickens as I go—too quiet, too close. Night forests always have that feeling, like something's out there watching, breathing, waiting.
Maybe it's real. Maybe it's just my idiot brain inventing monsters again.
Hard to tell in places where both are equally likely.
Then—I hear something.
I freeze. Hold my breath. Nothing but my own heartbeat thudding like it's trying to escape my ribs.
"Fuck it, Saya," I mutter. "You think a wolf would let you hear him?"
Great. Scaring myself with facts now.
I press on. What will happen will happen. The only way is forward.
The alternative is curling up in the tree roots like some woodland idiot and letting beetles crawl up my tunic. Hard pass.
Of course, that's when my brain helpfully reminds me of every scary story I've ever heard—witches in hollow logs, corpse-lanterns that follow travelers, wolves that whisper your name before they bite.
"Fantastic," I hiss. "Let's add old wives' nightmares to the mix."
Every step is a snap, a crunch, a clatter. I sound like a drunk mule doing a midsummer dance in a briar patch.
I am probably the noisiest creature in this godsdamn forest.
"Perfect," I mutter. "Come and get me, boys. I'm basically ringing a dinner bell."
The path curls up a little hill and, naturally, that's where they decide to make it official. Two wolves step onto the trail ahead—big, rough things with the kind of eyes that promise disappointment. I stop. Slowly, carefully, like someone who's not panicking. I can feel the others behind, closing the circle. Three, maybe more. My luck: always impeccable.
No weapon except a rock somewhere in my pocket and a mouth that's gotten me out of worse. I think about running. I think about screaming. I settle for neither—just square my shoulders and stare the front wolf down. "You sure about this, boys?" I mutter, voice steady, because if you sound scared you're dinner, and if you sound crazy, sometimes things give you space.
The lead wolf bares its teeth. Eyes gleaming sickly green. Behind me, I hear claws in the dirt. If this is it, I hope someone decent finds my body. Or at least someone with the decency to loot my ankles before the bugs do.
The leader of the pack steps forward and grins, too wide, too many teeth.
Then it speaks, in the high, piping voice, unnatural and childish. A little boy asking for sweets:
"Are you lost, big sister?"
The others answer in perfect, singsong unison, like a nursery rhyme rehearsed in the dark:
"We know a game. It's called open wide."
My skin tries to crawl off my bones. I don't breathe. I don't blink. I don't move because if I do, I'll scream.
Then—wind. Not breeze. Not gust. Wind, capital W, as in: duck or lose your scalp. The trees shudder. Shadows flood the clearing. And there it is: whomp whomp whomp, wings big enough to blot out bad dreams and most of my immediate problems.
He drops out of the sky like a storm that never got the memo to be gentle. The dragon. My dragon, I guess, though he'd protest that and demand royalties. Doesn't land, just hovers—close enough that the wolves get a faceful of hot, ancient breath and rethink their dietary ambitions.
He leans down, voice all silk and poison. "Good evening, gentlemen."
Gods, he loves the drama.
The wolves are smarter than most people I know. They're gone before he finishes grinning. A couple crash through the brush. One tries to look dignified and fails. In a breath, it's just me and the dragon and the sort of silence that feels earned.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. My legs feel like goat cheese. I shove my hood off, glare at him. "Took your sweet time."
He smirks. "You'd have made a decent chew toy."
I flip him off. He just laughs, big and smoky and smug as old sin.
"Come on," he says, lowering a wing. "You're a menace, but you're my menace. Let's not press our luck."
I don't thank him. Not with words. But I step closer anyway, because the dark isn't half as scary as being alone in it. And that's the truth I'll never say out loud.
It pays off to have a dragon for a partner. I mean, sure, he complains, he eats like a plague year, and his idea of subtlety is "should I roast them or just incinerate their ancestors for good measure?" But when you're a bare-legged girl in the woods at midnight and a pack of wolves decides you look like a chew toy, let me tell you—suddenly, all that attitude is worth its weight in hoarded gold.
You can spend your life dodging pimps, priests, and everything with teeth, but nothing clears a path like six tons of flying arrogance with a smoker's breath and a sense of drama. Those wolves didn't even finish their growl. One minute, I'm dinner; the next, I've got front row seats to the "run for your life" ballet.
So yeah. I might whine about the scales in my laundry and the snoring and the way he calls me "chaos on legs." But there are worse fates than having a dragon in your corner. Most of them end with me as a stain in the moss.