Tyrosciol wasn't entirely certain what happened next.
He had expected one of two possibilities.
Either the stranger would leave, or they would fight.
There didn't seem to be many alternatives.
He wasn't a great dragon, but his wings were respectable, his claws reasonably sharp, and his breath extremely poisonous, even if the maybe-not-human was immune to it.
If the stories were to be believed, the great dragons shattered mountains, wrestled with giants, and flew from star to star.
Tyroscoil mostly collected shiny things.
Still, he was a dragon.
If a fight was going to happen, then he would fight.
He puffed himself up to what he believed was a suitably intimidating size.
The stranger regarded him quietly. "I don't think that's a good idea."
They rested both hands atop their stick.
"A fight, I mean. I'm considerably stronger than you."
Tyrosciol snorted out a toxic cloud. That was absurd.
They were tiny, and he was enormous. That was simply how measurements worked.
"I don't think so!" He said.
The stranger sighed.
"I thought you might say that."
They raised their staff. There was no dramatic chanting or glowing circle beneath their feet. Just three sharp flashes.
Bolts of dark violet magic struck Tyrosciol squarely on the shoulder before he really realized what was happening.
He yelped out.
Another bolt struck his foreleg.
He yelped again.
A third bounced harmlessly off one of his horns before exploding into sparks.
He whimpered.
Tyrosciol instinctively curled around his hoard.
His scales weren't pierced.
Nothing had broken, but it stung. Quite a lot.
Like being hit with lightning.
"All right!" He said. "There won't be a fight."
The stranger lowered the staff.
Tyrosciol caressed his shoulder with one claw.
"That was very unpleasant."
"I warned you."
He considered complaining further.
Instead, he decided against it.
"What do you want?" he asked.
The answer came immediately.
"The little shard."
Tyrosciol's claw tightened protectively around it.
"No."
"No?"
"It belongs to me."
"It doesn't."
"But I found it."
"I found it."
"I'm aware."
"I like it."
"I can see that."
Tyrosciol frowned.
"If we aren't fighting..." He searched for the right words. "...then it isn't fair if I simply hand it over. There has to be some sort of conflict."
"Why?"
"Because that's how these things work."
"What things?"
"Dragons."
Tyrosciol nodded with complete confidence.
"Heroes come. They want treasure. Dragon says no. They fight. Usually the dragon wins, but sometimes the hero wins."
He spread his wings proudly.
"It's a very respectable system."
The stranger stared at him for several long seconds.
"I don't particularly want to fight you."
"You already did."
"If you're insisting upon a conflict..."
"I am."
"...then perhaps it doesn't have to be a physical one."
Tyrosciol's ears perked up.
"What else is there?"
"A battle of minds."
"Against a dragon?"
"Yes."
Tyrosciol scratched thoughtfully beneath one horn.
"I've never done one of those."
"You don't have to die."
"That does sound appealing and considerably less painful."
"We'll ask each other riddles."
Tyrosciol stared.
"...Really?"
"If you win, I leave."
"And if you win?"
"You give me the shard."
Tyrosciol looked down at his favorite treasure.
Then back at the stranger.
Then back at the shard.
He considered the proposal very carefully.
Finally, he grunted, "All right."