The arrow did not so much soar as wobble. Then plopped. Belly-first. A full three paces short of the rock where the half-eaten apple sat, slowly browning in the sun.
"I almost had it!" I declare, fingers still clenched on the string like I've just bested a chimera.
"You almost had it the last seven times," the Dragon sighs. "This one lacked even the dignity of a final spasm."
I adjust my bronze belt—it's hanging scandalously low today, not that I mind—and yank the hem of my linen tunic back into place. Not that it helps. The thing's short enough to qualify as a napkin. My thighs are catching sun like they're auditioning for priestly sin.
The Dragon clicks his tongue behind me. "Your stance is wrong."
I spread my feet wider. "This better?"
"Now you look like you're bracing for a bowel movement."
"Such poetry," I mutter. I shift again. Sandals digging into the dry grass. "And anyway, you're one to talk. You don't even have hands."
"I have claws. Hands, but superior. Also, experience. I once taught archery to a one-eyed satyr using a toe loop and sheer spite."
I ignore him. Nock another arrow. I'm sweating, my wrists are jangling like a drunk priestess at a fertility festival, and this stupid string keeps pinching the side of my boob. But I'm not giving up.
"Again," I say.
The Dragon exhales a puff of smoke. "You're bruising yourself."
"Good. Then it's working."
"You've never needed weapons before."
"Well maybe I'm tired of depending on claws and fire and being tied to rocks, hmm?"
He tilts his head. "You seduced your way out of a prison guarded by half a dozen eunuchs armed with crossbows and mistrust. This is not your battlefield."
I plant my feet. Pull the string back with every shaky tendon in my skinny street-rat arms. "Maybe I want it to be."
He's quiet for a beat.
"You're serious."
"Of course I'm serious," I snap. The arrow wiggles in place like it's rethinking its life choices. "I'm not asking to be a hero. I just… want to hit something on purpose for once."
I release.
The arrow flies.
Misses the apple.
But hits the rock.
With a sad little tick, it bounces off and flops to the ground.
But I grin. "Closer."
The Dragon says nothing. Just lowers his big scaly head to my level. "Very well, my little war-nymph. Let us continue your journey to mediocrity."
"Rude."
"Realistic."
But he doesn't stop me. And I don't stop either. Not until my arm is shaking, my tunic is stuck to my back, and the rock has at least one arrow lodged awkwardly in it like it's been personally insulted.
Maybe I'll never be good at this.
But I will get better.
Even if I have to punch every arrow into the target by hand.
I rub my arm and reach for another arrow. The tips are dull, but they still sting if you're dumb enough to jab yourself. Like I just did. Again.
"Did you forget I was conscripted by the Amazons?" I say, squinting down the shaft, setting my feet just so. "I was a Sister of the Red Dawn. Swore the oath. Marched barefoot. Ate lizard jerky. That's real martial training."
The Dragon snorts. "They kicked you out."
"For being a free spirit."
"For being mouthy and insubordinate. And possibly contagious."
I lift my chin. "Also, the battle axe was ridiculously heavy. I'm not a mule."
"You tried to shave your legs with it."
I draw the bowstring again, ignoring his ancient muttering. "Some people just aren't axe girls. I'm a finesse type. A long-range seductress of death."
"You're a hazard to trees, rocks, and the occasional bush."
I adjust my grip. "Don't care. I'm learning. That's the point."
The string creaks. My breath catches. Arms tense. Focus. Focus—
"Careful," the Dragon murmurs, "if your elbow's too low, the string might—"
TWACK.
"YEEEEOWCH!" I scream, staggering back and clutching my chest. "AGAIN?"
"You hit your boob."
"I know I hit my boob!"
"It's just the one, though."
I glare at him. "It's always the left one! What does it want from me?!"
"Revenge, probably."
I sit down hard in the grass, hand stuffed down my tunic, cradling the bruised offender. "I'm going to have to start armoring this specific tit if I keep at this."
The Dragon exhales a slow puff of smoke. "A brassiere of vengeance."
"Don't tempt me," I hiss. "I'll wear one forged from spoons and shame."
He hums thoughtfully. "Spoons might work. With chainmail padding."
We sit in silence for a beat. Then I flop back into the grass, staring at the sky.
"I was born to be a war goddess," I mutter. "Just... still waiting for my body to get the memo."
"I suggest telling it in writing."
"I can't read, remember?"
"Ah, yes. Then perhaps you can seduce a scribe."
I grin despite the throbbing. "I've done worse for less."
"Indeed," he says with a purr of smoke. "Though I must admit, today's performance had a kind of... bruised sincerity."
I waggle a finger in the air. "One day, I will hit that apple."
"I believe you."
"Do you?"
"No. But I enjoy watching you try."
***
"How can they do it?" I say, still rubbing the tender curve of my left boob like it betrayed me on purpose. "The real Amazons. Actual Sisterhood elites. Flying on gryphons. Shooting targets from the air. No armor, no reins. Just muscle, feathers, and fury."
The Dragon hums, unimpressed. "Those bitches?"
"Maybe that's the problem. Maybe the apple's too still. Maybe what I need is… motion."
He tilts his giant scaly head. "You want me to move the apple?"
I grin.
"No."
I toss the bow onto my back and scramble up his foreleg. "I'm serious."
"I know you are. That's what worries me."
"Fly."
He groans. "You know I have gout."
"You have wings."
"I have goutin my wings."
"Fly, you beautiful, scaly coward!"
He rolls his eyes like an exasperated matron, but he crouches anyway. A beat later, he launches into the air with a thunderous flap, scattering grass, petals, and the dignity of nearby squirrels.
I straddle the ridge of his back, bow in hand, hair whipping like a pennant. "This is more like it!"
"I'm regretting everything!" he howls as we bank over the treetops.
"Shut up and hover! Target acquired!"
I start loosing arrows. One sails left. One veers straight into a shrub. Another pings off a rock. Then two in rapid succession jab into a log and a mushroom patch.
"WOOHOO!" I scream. "I am the airborne menace!"
When we finally land, the little meadow we were circling looks like a porcupine rolled in cheap lumber. Arrows sticking from every surface—tree stumps, bushes, two very startled pigeons, and somehow the saddlebag he forgot he was carrying.
He surveys the carnage, nostrils flaring.
"You're… actually effective."
"Told you."
He nods slowly. "With that aim, you could keep a whole Amazon cohort pinned down for hours."
I puff up proudly.
"Because no one would know what the fuck you're aiming at."
I scowl.
He adds, "They'd be too afraid to move. Or breathe. Or sneeze. For fear of catching a stray shaft through the ear."
"War is chaos," I say, dusting off my tunic and striking a pose. "I am chaos."
He bows his head mock-gravely. "A fine addition to the pantheon of unpredictable hazards."
"Make me a banner," I say. "A flying tit-arrow of doom."
"Left one only?"
I wince. "Too soon."