Silas never mounted me—literally or metaphorically.
My persistent offers:
"Silas! My gallop's butter-smooth now!"
"Tiger-riding: instant prestige boost!"
"Fifty-second trial? Free!"
...all met with glacial refusal.
Stranger still—when I asked in human form (polite three-foot distance observed)—
He'd flinch like a violated maiden.
As if my mere voice stripped him bare.
The crisis peaked during Sunning Hour.
Plump from sect feasts, I sprawled at the courtyard—white belly fur fluffed like dandelion silk.
Novices swarmed.
"Felicity! May I... pet the sacred cloud?"
"Permission granted!"
A blade screeched between paw and hand.
"CONTACT FORBIDDEN." Silas' frost-bitten glare scattered the crowd.
"Stingy ascetic..." whispers trailed.
Alone, I nudged his boot.
"Your exclusive petting rights?"
BOOM. Crimson tsunami engulfed his face.
"Have you NO SHAME?" he choked.
That night, I launched Operation: Dragon Tamer.
Wearing Celia's borrowed crop-top (midriff fully operational).
Calculated risks:
Worst case? Getting tossed like last week's chicken bones.
But why grill pheasants daily if he wants me dead?
Double the pot.
Maybe... I'd bridle him.