The inn was dim, smoky, and blessedly indifferent to my existence.
I flopped onto a bench in the far corner, tunic still half-crooked, sandals in one hand, dignity bleeding out the other. My feet ached. My brain ached. My everything ached.
The tavern was different — new town, new stains, same watered-down ale.
But he was there.
Same squat silhouette at the edge of the hearth.
Same patched cloak.
Same wide-brimmed hat and permanent frown.
The dwarf.
Looking into the fire like it owed him a life. Mug of ale cradled like a holy relic. Not drinking. Just holding it. Like always.
He didn't look at me.
Didn't move.
Just said, flat as old iron:
"You smell like you shagged a library."
I stopped mid-sit.
"Oh," I said.
Then frowned. "Shut up."
He didn't.
He never did.
Just sipped his ale, eyes still locked on the fire like he saw something moving behind it.
The dwarf didn't look at me. Still staring into the fire. Still nursing that one mug like it held the secrets of the gods.
"I'm telling you," he said, voice low. "He's going to get mad."
I blinked. "Who?"
Now he turned his head just a little. Not enough to look at me. Just enough to let the words hit harder.
"Your dragon."
I frowned. "He's not my dragon."
"Doesn't matter." The dwarf's voice was a flat drop of stone. "Keep digging, girl. Keep poking around his bloodline, his past..."
He finally glanced my way, eyes dark under the brim of his hat.
"…You'll wish it was just that ghost who came knocking."
***
That night at camp, I barely got one sandal off before he exploded.
"What right do you have?" he roared.
I froze mid-hop, half in, half out of my shoe.
"What right," he growled, pacing in that dramatic way he does when he's worked up — tail swishing, wings twitching like he's giving a sermon on betrayal, "do you have to go sniffing around in my past?"
I blinked. "Uh…"
He whirled. "My family, Saya."
I dropped the sandal. "You mean the homicidal ghost uncle?"
"Yes!"
"Well, excuse me for being mildly curious about the ancient murder spirit that tried to have me flambéed!"
He snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils. "You don't understand. You can't understand. We don't have families like you humans do. We have legacies. Bloodlines forged in fire and war and very complicated incest."
I stared.
He waved one claw in the air, agitated. "Dragons don't do small talk. Or forgiveness. Or birthdays. We do vengeance,obligation, and ritualized patricide. It's different!"
"Oh, well, now I feel silly," I deadpanned. "All this time I thought you were just emotionally unavailable. Turns out you're part of a death cult with wings."
He turned his head sharply. "You think this is funny?"
"No. Well, yes. A little."
He growled — not the playful one, the real one, low and gravelly and just shy of murder.
I sobered. A bit.
"You looked scared," I said quietly.
He flinched like I'd stuck a knife between his scales.
Then turned away.
Silent.
Tail curling around his body like a shield.
That got me.
"You always act like nothing can touch you," I said. "Like you're above it all. But when that ghost showed up, you were trembling."
He didn't answer.
Didn't move.
Just kept his back to me, a looming wall of pride and repression.
I sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. Because I'm nothing if not committed to my craft.
"Fine. Be a stubborn, fire-breathing codger," I muttered. "Just don't expect me to sit on my hands while your cursed ancestry tries to roast my nipples off."
Still no response.
"I mean it," I grumbled, flopping down by the fire. "You wanna sulk, go perch on a cliff. I've got better things to do than play therapist to a dragon with unresolved daddy issues."
He twitched slightly.
Which I chose to interpret as a sign of emotional devastation.
But deep down… the knot in my gut didn't go away.
If he wouldn't talk to me, fine.
I'd find my own answers.
Even if I had to blackmail a librarian, bribe a cultist, or seduce a talking skull to do it.
Because something about that ghost chilled me. And if there was a storm coming, I wasn't going to just sit here and toast marshmallows over his repressed trauma.
I'd figure it out.
And until then?
I needed to hit something. Or flirt with danger. Or both.
I was due for another terrible decision anyway.