The Dragon never told me anything about his family.
Not one flaming thing.
And gods know I tried. I prodded. I teased. I pouted. I even did that thing with my voice — the one that makes grown men confess their darkest secrets just for a chance to brush my ankle.
Didn't work.
I tried jokes. I tried guilt. I tried sitting on his tail and refusing to move until he gave me one ancestral detail.
Nothing.
He'd just get that look — all stone jaw and haunted silence — and stare off into the distance like it was personally responsible for his childhood trauma.
Sometimes he'd growl low, in that don't push me way.
Not the sexy growl. The other one.
The back-off-before-I-torch-something growl.
So I backed off.
But I never forgot.
And now, after that whole ghostly "kill your whore or else" episode, it was eating at me like a splinter in the brain.
Who were these people?
What kind of family needs twelve moons to pass judgment?
And how many of them were still alive?
He wouldn't tell me.
So I was going to find out myself.
There was a town nearby.
Not a big one. Not a particularly clean one. But it had roofs and fences and people who gave me suspicious looks, which meant civilization. And, according to a mildly drunk cobbler I bribed with suggestive winking and half a biscuit…
It had a library.
I had never been in a library before.
But I imagined it smelled like parchment, incense, and disappointment. And that it was full of old men who thought being literate gave them authority over people's thighs.
Perfect.
The building turned out to be a squat little tower on the edge of town, stuck between the undertaker's shed and a carrot merchant. A crooked sign above the door read:
LIBRARY.
(By Appointment or Knock Loudly.)
I knocked loudly.
After a moment, the door creaked open, and there he was.
Robe. Check.
Sandals with mismatched socks. Check.
Thick glasses sliding down nose. Check.
Mop of curly hair that screamed I live with my mother. Check.
He stared at me like I'd just stepped out of his dreams and into his study habits.
"Hi," I said, smiling sweetly. "I'm here to learn."
His jaw moved, but no sound came out.
Then he blinked three times and dropped his quill.
"…Y-you?"
"Me," I nodded, stepping past him before he could recover. "I'm researching dragons."
"Oh," he squeaked. "F-fascinating creatures, dragons. Very… majestic. Powerful. Uh… do you have a specific genus? Chromatic? Metallic? Um… w-would you like tea?"
"I'd like books," I said. "Big ones. Full of ancient family secrets. Preferably scandalous."
His glasses fogged slightly.
He turned and led me inside like a man halfway to heaven and wholly unprepared.
The library smelled like dust, ink, and something herbal that might've once been tea but had since given up and become moss.
I'd expected scrolls. Maybe a grim-looking skull. Instead, there were four shelves, a table, and a dead spider in the corner. The grand sum of human knowledge in this town could probably fit in my underwear drawer.
Still.
Books were books.
And I was about to find out what kind of fire-breathing psychos my traveling companion was hiding from.
I cracked my knuckles.
"Right," I said. "Time to do some damage."
The lad returned from the back room, lugging a book the size of a coffin lid.
"Here it is," he puffed, dropping it onto the table with a thud that made the candle sputter. "Dracontologica Magna. Compiled by the High Scriptorium of Elendereth in the Year of the Burning Prince."
I stared at the cover.
Gold leaf. Faded sigils. Smelled like mildew and judgment.
"Looks promising," I lied.
He opened it reverently, pages crackling like old skin, and turned it toward me.
Chapter heading in red ink:
"Lineages and Distinctions Among the Greater Wyrms."
Underneath, a lot of tiny, angry-looking words.
I frowned at it.
Then squinted.
"Go on," he said encouragingly. "The charts begin on the next page."
"Right," I said, flipping it.
There were no charts.
Just more words.
I leaned closer. Letters danced. Some of them looked like they were wearing hats. One might've been a bird. Or a particularly judgmental G.
"…Do you need help?" he asked.
"No," I said quickly. "I'm just absorbing."
"You've been staring at the title for two minutes."
"Absorbing deeply."
He adjusted his glasses. "Can you read High Script?"
I didn't blink. "Of course I can read High—what do you think I am, some barefoot commoner?"
He looked at my feet. Bare. Dirty. One sandal slightly chewed.
I yanked them under my chair.
"I just prefer to read slowly," I added. "To savor the nuances."
He leaned in gently. "You're holding it upside down."
I flipped the page. Casually. Like I meant to do that.
"I know what I'm doing," I huffed.
He smiled. Kindly. Too kindly. "Do you want me to help you with some of the terms? Wyrm genealogy can be a little dense—"
"Dense is fine," I said, cheeks burning. "Dense is great."
"Okay," he said, still smiling. "So this entry here refers to the Crimson Lineage. It says their ancestral hoards were kept in subterranean vaults marked by—"
"Mmmhmm," I nodded. "Subterranean vaults. Love those. All the best… vault… things are subterranean."
He paused.
I pretended to be very interested in a decorative initial that might've been a dragon or a badly drawn chicken.
"I'll just be… over there," he said finally, gesturing vaguely at a stack of scrolls.
"Perfect," I chirped. "You do your thing. I'll just be here, decoding ancient fire-lizard lore with my flawless literacy."
He walked off, still glancing back like he was afraid I'd accidentally eat the book.
I flipped another page and muttered under my breath.
"…Okay, dragonboy. Let's see what hellspawn nest you hatched from."
I flipped another page.
Slowly. Like the knowledge might leak out faster if I showed it too much enthusiasm.
"'In the… thir… thirteenth Aeon of—'" I paused. "Aeon? Eon? Ay-on?"
I traced the word with my finger. It didn't help. It just made the dust stick under my nail.
"'The Crimson Brood… did… uh… did… des… desecrate?'" I whispered. "That sounds rude. Probably fire-related."
I caught myself murmuring.
"Don't mumble," I hissed at myself. "Mumbling is for witches and halfwits."
I sat up straighter. Glared at the page.
It glared back.
The paragraph wasn't even long. Maybe six lines. And I still hadn't made it past the first one.
I sighed. Loudly. With feeling.
This was work.
My favourite book—now that had been something else entirely.
"The Illustrated Introduction to Whorecraft," I whispered fondly. "That was a book."
Cheeky little pictures in the margins. Bold diagrams. Real clarity in the layout.
Tits and dicks and… more tits. All carefully labelled. Educational.
I learned a lot from that one.
Like how to fold yourself into a position that's illegal in three duchies and a religious theocracy.
But this thing?
This thing had footnotes longer than actual sentences. All in miserable brown ink. Tiny script. And dragons. So many dragons. Curled ones, wingless ones, ancient ones with six legs and questionable morals. Not a single boob in sight.
I flipped another page and pouted.
"Even the margins are boring."
The book said nothing.
Rude.
I tapped the side of it with one finger. "I'm trying to do research, you know."
Still nothing. Just stern rows of angry squiggles and long words that probably meant "burninated entire city" in twelve different languages.
I slumped.
"This is why no one likes libraries."
"Err… miss?"
I jumped. Snapped the book shut on my finger. Nearly bit my tongue in half.
He was standing there again, same robe, same glasses, same helpless little half-smile like I was both a divine revelation and a dangerous pet raccoon.
"I don't mean to intrude," he said, clasping his hands, "but… would you like some help?"
I slumped forward, cheek on parchment, eyes burning from squinting.
"…Yes," I groaned. "Yes, fine. You win. Bring your spectacles and wizard brain."
He brightened immediately. "Splendid!"
I sat up, pushed the book toward him with both hands like I was offering him a corpse.
"I'm trying to learn about a dragon."
His expression didn't even flinch.
"Okay," he said calmly, pulling the tome toward himself. "Any particular kind?"
I hesitated.
"…And his family."
Now he blinked.
Slowly.
"Ah."
"I don't have a name," I added quickly. "Or a… species. Or a… lineage. But he's big. Grumpy. Talks too much. Thinks he's clever. Smells faintly of old pennies and burnt deer."
The apprentice cleared his throat. "That's… remarkably specific."
"He might be red? Or bronze. Or burgundy. Look, I wasn't issued a pamphlet."
He nodded politely. "Any distinct behaviors? Breath weapon? Rituals?"
"Roasts people alive when he's upset."
"So… a dragon."
"Exactly."
He turned a few pages, fingers graceful despite the bulk of the tome. His brows furrowed.
I leaned in, more hopeful than I'd admit.
"I need to know who his family is," I said, voice low. "There was a ghost. Old. Mean. Big talk. All about legacy and bloodlines and…" I waved a hand vaguely, "...murdery excellence."
"Ancestral specters are rare," he murmured. "Usually bound to strong lineage magic. Blood-ties. That kind of thing."
He tapped a symbol on the page.
"Could be a sign he belongs to one of the Prime Broods. They're very… insular. Very proud."
"Yeah," I muttered. "That tracks."
He glanced at me. "Do you know his true name?"
I blinked.
Then grinned.
"Nope," I said cheerfully. "He's very mysterious. And extremely uncooperative."
The apprentice looked faintly alarmed. "Miss… are you, by chance… traveling with this dragon?"
I gave him a slow smile.
"Possibly."
He swallowed.
"This could be… very dangerous."
"Could be?" I giggled sweetly. "Oh sweet boy. I had no idea."
He blinked at me.
Hard.
"Y-you're the one on the posters, aren't you?" he whispered. "The ones at the crossroad? Fornication without license. Devil's consort. The dragon's whore."
I gave him my best blank, innocent stare. The one that made drunks buy me lunch and priests question their vows.
"Huh," I said.
He opened his mouth to press further.
And that's when I caught it.
His eyes.
Definitely not focused on the book.
I tilted my head. "Are you staring at my cleavage?"
His mouth flapped like a beached trout. "No! I mean—yes. I mean—no. I was just—there's a… shadow! There's a crease. Lighting!"
I leaned on the table, arms together, giving him an even better angle.
"Let's make a deal," I said sweetly.
He made a very small squeaking sound.
"You don't rat me out to the city guard," I said. "And you help me dig through this dreary tome of draconic dysfunction…"
He nodded slowly, lips parting.
"…and I'll let you fondle my boobs."
He stopped nodding.
His entire soul left his body and came back wearing a sweatier shirt.
"I—uh—really?" he croaked.
"Really."
He hesitated.
Then, boldness appearing like fungus after a warm rain: "Can I grope your… um… posterior as well?"
I arched an eyebrow.
"Ten seconds," I said. "Over the dress. No squeezing like you're testing fruit."
He nodded too fast.
I leaned back and smirked.
"Welcome to academia," I said. "Now show me the dragon dirt."
About one hour later.
One intense hour later.
I stumbled out into the street like I'd just escaped a hostage situation.
Sun hit my face. I winced. My tunic was halfway off one shoulder, the neckline stretched into something aggressively asymmetrical. My hair looked like I'd lost a knife fight with a mop, and my bare feet slapped against the cobblestones with the dignity of a wet ferret.
Behind me, the library door creaked gently shut.
The dweeb had fainted.
Flat-out. Eyes rolled, knees buckled, dead faint. I didn't even touch his actual skin — just let him get a handful over the dress and counted to ten like I promised. And poof. Gone. Like a nervous goat.
These scholarly types — I swear.
They've got three modes:
Faint dead away.
Get a nosebleed and run into furniture.
Mount you like a cursed jackrabbit and go until one of you sees stars or structural damage.
Never a middle ground.
Honestly, it's exhausting.
Anyway.
I hate libraries.
Dusty. Pretentious. All those books acting like they're better than me. Half of them full of words that don't even want to be understood unless you've taken seven years of monk school and survived an exorcism.
And not a single helpful tit in sight.
I rubbed my temples, heading for the nearest fountain to rinse the sweat off my neck.
The good news?
I'd learned something.
Bad news?
I had no idea what it meant, no plan, and probably a city guard patrol on the way by sundown.
Typical Tuesday.
But if that book was even half right, then the Dragon wasn't just a grumpy hoarder with arthritis and opinions — he was dangerous.
Not the burn-a-town-for-lunch kind of dangerous.
The wrong-bloodline-starts-a-war kind.
And here I was…
Sleeping next to him.
Eating from the same pot.
Maybe falling into something.
Gods help me.
I needed a drink.