The stranger continued.
"Twelve."
"Thirteen."
"Fourteen."
Coins moved from one pile to another with slow, methodical precision.
Tyrosciol watched every single one.
He didn't know why.
It wasn't as though counting just one of his many piles would reveal the answer. He had simply made up the number.
His ears drooped.
"Thiry-nine."
This was becoming unbearable.
"...Fifty-one."
He shifted uncomfortably, accidentally sending another small cascade of gold tumbling down the hoard.
The stranger merely incorporated the new coins into an uncounted pile and continued.
"...Sixty-eight."
Tyrosciol let out a long, miserable sigh.
"...Eighty-four."
He looked at the shard. It was such a delight to look at it.
"...Ninety-nine."
The stranger reached for another coin.
"One hundred."
"Stop!"
The stranger did.
They looked up.
Tyrosciol lowered his head.
"I lied. There, I said it. I don't know how many coins there are."
The stranger regarded him.
"It wasn't a very good riddle. It was just a number. I was hoping you wouldn't notice."
"I did," the stranger said.
A silence settled over the cave.
"Then the contest is over."
Tyrosciol already knew what came next.
"You won."
"I did."
"Give me the shard."
Tyrosciol's claw instinctively tightened around the little piece of dark glass. He looked at it with genuine sadness.
"Do I have to?"
"You agreed to the terms of the contest."
"I know!" The dragon said with anguish, and then he settled and sat up. "Can I give you something else?"
He brightened at the idea.
"I have crowns and emeralds. Thrones of gold. I think there's even a ship underneath all this."
"I believe you."
"I have silver and gold and really nice rubies."
Tyrosciol gestured helplessly around the cavern.
"You can take as much as you like."
"I don't want any of it," the stranger said.
That puzzled him more than anything else that had happened today.
He looked around his hoard.
It glittered magnificently.
All things beautiful and of unimaginable wealth.
People usually wanted beautiful things.
They usually wanted them very badly.
Yet this strange, maybe-not-human traveler cared for none of it.
Only for the little shard.
Tyrosciol looked down at it again.
It wasn't shiny. It wasn't especially pretty. It barely looked valuable at all.
"You are strange," he muttered.
He sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day.
He had lost the contest he agreed to.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Tyrosciol lifted his enormous claw. He just looked at the shard.
Then, with surprising gentleness for a creature his size, he nudged it across the treasure toward the stranger.
"There."
His voice had become very small.
"I hope..." He swallowed. "...I hope you look after it."
The stranger bent down and carefully picked the shard up.
Unlike everyone else Tyrosciol had ever seen claim treasure, they didn't smile in triumph.
Instead, they held it like it was a burden, as though it was a responsibility they didn't want rather than claiming a prize.
Maybe it had been for the best. There were other treasures in Tyrosciol's hoard that glittered a lot more and demanded far less of his attention.