I was in trouble.
Big, gold-melting, wing-snapping trouble.
The kind of trouble that has claws and a memory and a specific tone of voice that says, "You did what with my loot?"
The path back up the hill was slick with last night's rain. My sandals squelched. My cloak clung. My thighs were sore. And not in the fun way.
I clutched the money pouch tighter. It was empty now. But once upon a time, earlier today, It was heavy. Full of lovely, hard-earned coin.
I did sell that idiot wizard's staff. The one that tried to kidnap me but run off screaming as me and Gregory the demon decided to rekindle some of that hellfire.
I even haggled. Properly. Didn't let the shopkeeper sweet-talk me into store credit or a cursed dagger. Took coin. Walked away. Like a grown-up.
But then—
Well.
It was market day.
Color everywhere. Sizzling food. Spices in the air. Women shouting over bolts of cloth. Men eyeing me like I was for sale—which, honestly, fair guess.
But I resisted.
No bangles. No sandals. No ridiculous tunics with slits all the way up to your virtue.
I was strong.
Right up until I saw the pit.
And the fox.
Gods damn that fox.
Sleek little beast. Rust-red fur. Yellow ribbon tied to its tail like someone's pet—or a bribe to fate. It was doing the toss. Tossing pitch tiles at stacked clay jugs. Five rows high. Winner takes the pot.
Gambling. Glorious, stupid, rigged gambling.
But that fox? It was a shoe-in. It cleared the bottom row like a natural. Tail flick. Tile flies. Smash. Crowd cheers.
I told myself just one coin. Just a taste.
The fox cleared the second row. Then the third. I was up. People were shouting. I was shouting.
The fourth row went down like virgin defenses.
And then—
That fifth row. Just one fox left. My fox. One sleek, rust-red little demon with a yellow ribbon around its tail like it owned the place.
The handlers reset the sling.
The crowd leaned in.
The fox twitched.
And then—
WHEEEEEEEEEEEE—
Up it went.
Launched skyward in a perfect arc, tail streaming behind it like a festive accusation.
Paws flailed. The ribbon fluttered.
The fox rotated. Slowly. Majestically.
Like a drunk comet reconsidering its life choices.
And then it came down.
Not on the measuring line.
Not on the padded target.
Right onto the spice merchant's groin.
He shrieked, folded like bad laundry, and the crowd exploded into chaos.
Bets vanished. Purses evaporated.
The fox hit the dirt running.
And so did I.
Now here I was, trudging through mud, purse lighter, conscience heavier, and absolutely certain that when I got back to that cave, the Dragon would know. He always knows. He'll sniff me. Squint. Say something awful like "You smell like failure and turmeric."
Because I do.
I smell like market shame and crushed dreams and very expensive bad decisions.
And I still have to explain why his precious "irreplaceable relic" is now probably hanging in some blacksmith's window like a discount trophy.
I'm so dead.
The cave was too quiet.
That was my first clue. No smoky muttering. No bones cracking under claw. No ancient dragon flatulence reverberating through the stone like the death rattle of gods.
Just... silence.
I crept in. Softly. Like shame on tiptoe.
The fire was still smoldering. A few embers blinked at me like judgmental old men.
He was there.
Curled around the hoard. Not even snoring. Just... awake.
Waiting.
"Hi," I tried, all cheer and innocence and don't-bite-me energy. "You're up early."
He didn't respond. Just shifted slightly. One golden eye slid open and fixed on me with the weary, resigned glare of someone who'd already imagined murdering me five different ways and settled on the most poetic.
"So," he said, voice low, slow, cold as cavewater. "How did the sale go?"
"Oh, amazing," I said too quickly. "Top coin. The hilt was gold filigree. They practically fought over it."
A pause.
"And?"
"And...?"
He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just watched me.
I cracked.
"Okay fine," I huffed, dumping the coin pouch onto a rock. "I may have slightly reduced our collective liquidity in the name of patriotic market participation."
Silence.
"I gambled."
He closed his eyes. Inhaled. Slowly. Like he was tasting the air for lies and cooking up a migraine.
"And?"
"I lost."
Another breath. Deep. Pained. Possibly rehearsed.
"Was it a man?" he asked finally.
"What? No. It was a fox."
That earned me a second eye. Both now open. Both full of disbelief and disappointment so dense I could practically hear my self-worth sliding down the cave wall.
"You lost a priceless enchanted sword," he said, "to a fox."
"I didn't lose it to the fox. I sold it. Then I lost the coin to the fox."
He looked at me. Just looked. Like someone trying to decide whether I was a tragic accident or divine punishment.
"It was wearing a ribbon," I added.
"Of course it was."
"Yellow. Really cute."
He exhaled a little smoke. "You are the only person I know," he muttered, "who could weaponize stupidity."
"Hey," I said, folding my arms, "I made us money first."
"And then undid it with the efficiency of a collapsing empire."
"Well sorry I'm not a hoarding lizard with arthritis and commitment issues."
He growled. Low and gravelly. "Say that again."
I opened my mouth. Thought better of it. Closed it. Sat down with a huff. Kicked off my muddy sandals.
"I still have half the coin," I offered, trying to sound helpful.
He didn't answer.
He just rolled over. Tail flopping heavily against the stone with a sigh that could have collapsed lesser women.
"Disappointed" didn't even begin to cover it.
"Look," I said, softer now. "I messed up, okay? But I'll fix it."
"How?" he asked, not turning around.
"I'll win it back."
He snorted. "With what? Your charm?"
I grinned, even though he couldn't see it.
"Exactly."
And gods help me, I meant it.
He didn't roar. Didn't growl. Didn't even call me a cretin.
Worse.
He sighed.
Not dramatic this time. Just tired. Like the last bit of warmth leaking out of a dying hearth.
"Saya… girl…" he said, in that patient, disappointed tone that made my stomach turn to cold porridge, "do you think I'm doing this just for myself?"
I blinked. "Yes?"
"Okay, yes," he admitted. "Obviously. I like gold. I like not dying. I like the smell of terrified villagers in the morning. But also—listen."
I sat down. Because this was going to be one of those speeches.
"I'm very old," he continued. "Old enough to remember when humans walked around naked and prayed to rocks. I've seen centuries of you people—bright, horny little sparks, burning through life like you're allergic to planning."
He looked at me. Really looked. The way a jeweler looks at a cracked gem.
"You're lucky you're cute," he said, "and strangely... alluring in your sweaty, disheveled, mammalian way. But girl—the way you spend coin?"
He shook his head.
"Like it's cursed. Like it burns. Like if you don't unload it immediately it'll sprout legs and insult your shoes."
I opened my mouth.
"No," he said, raising one claw. "You need to start thinking ahead. Your golden age, Saya. Your retirement."
"I'm twenty."
"And you spend like a concubine with six months to live."
He stood, slowly. His joints popped like wet firewood.
"One day, you'll get old. Yes. Even you. Your bones will ache. Your back will crook. Your charms will droop. And then what?"
I shrugged. "Flatter some widower. Scam a temple."
He narrowed his eyes.
"You'll need gold. A hoard. To warm yourself by. To nest in. To cling to when your hips stop lying and your knees start forecasting weather. You'll want a cushion of coins, Saya. A mattress made of security. That's what gold is."
I blinked. "You sleep on rocks."
"I'm a dragon. You're made of meat and bad choices. You'll want padding."
He paced.
"I've seen your kind at the end. Once-proud seductresses hawking love potions and soup. Trying to trade advice for bread. Don't be that. Be better. Start now."
I muttered, "I'm not buying soup."
He turned on me. "You were betting on a fox, Saya."
"It was a bet!"
"With our savings!"
I looked down at the pouch.
"Okay," I said. "Next time… no foxes."
He sat again with a groan. "Next time, no gambling. No shoes. No feathers. No buying jewelry from a man with three teeth and a goat named Destiny."
"Her name was Desiree."
He looked at me like the gods had failed him.
"I'm serious," he said. "You want to live long? Build a hoard. Sleep on it. Guard it. Don't spend it on ribboned rodents and shiny trousers."
I huffed. "Fine."
"Say it."
"I'll be more careful with money."
"Louder."
I groaned. "I'll stop living like there's no tomorrow."
He stared.
"And start hoarding for my golden years," I added.
He blinked. "Was that so hard?"
"Yes."
He flopped back down and wrapped his tail around the coin pouch.
"Good. I'll keep it safe. For your future."
I scowled. "That's my half."
"It's your pension now," he said flatly.
I glared.
He smiled. Smug. Lazy. Warm.
And just like that, I was broke. Again.