We were camped on a knoll in the kind of forest that doesn't like company.
Not the cheerful kind with birdsong and berries. No. This one had trees that leaned a little too close together, like they were whispering. Like they knew things. Big, old bastards with bark like cracked leather and knots that looked like snarling faces if you stared too long.
The Dragon was out cold—curled up with a grumble and a twitch, half-buried in pine needles. Probably dreaming of dramatic opera arson or that twink bard with the tight pants. I was under two blankets and a bear skin, cocooned in wool and fur, breath fogging up in front of me like a ghost's sigh. It was cold. Witching-hour cold. The kind that gets in your bones and makes you question all your life choices. Including the one where you travel with a giant, gay lizard who snores like a funeral drum.
And then I felt it.
Not a sound. Not a breeze. Just a shift.
Something too still. Too quiet.
My eyelids cracked open. Not all the way—just enough to see the edge of the fire had gone to ash. Just enough to register that my skin was prickling like it does when someone stares too long. That awful creeping sensation down your spine like fingers hovering just above it.
I held my breath.
Was I dreaming?
Maybe.
But in my dreams, I usually have tits out and wine in hand. This… this was something else.
A whisper. Not words. Just… murmurs. Wet leaves shifting without wind. The faintest brush of breath against the nape of my neck.
I didn't move. I never move first.
My fingers crept toward the dagger under my blanket. My good one. Bone handle. Still sticky with whatever that last guy had in his pockets.
Another whisper.
This time closer.
Eyes. I could feel them in the dark. Watching.
Not human eyes.
Not animal.
Not Dragon either.
Something else.
The smell came first—wet fur and blood-spit. Not fresh blood. Old. Rancid. The kind that sticks to teeth and never washes out.
And then the voices.
High-pitched. Wrong. Like children imitating adults. Like nursery rhymes hummed backward.
"Little sister…"
"Oh, little pretty sister, are you awake?"
"You look so warm. So soft. So alone."
No footfalls. No growls. Just the voices slinking through the trees. They knew how to circle without sound.
My hand clenched the dagger.
"You must feel so brave. Curled next to your big, scaly bodyguard."
"He sleeps so soundly. Maybe he's dreaming of fire. Of flying away."
"What happens when he's not there, sister?"
"What will they do to a little stray bitch like you, hmm?"
I sat up slowly, wool blanket still clinging to my shoulders like a shroud. The fire was just embers now, barely glowing, like it too was scared.
I saw them. Glints first. Too many eyes for too few shapes. Their forms were wrong. Loping shadows, jaws too long, fur matted in places that didn't make sense. Wolves, maybe, once. Now something else. Something twisted. Possessed.
They moved like smoke and spoke like playmates.
"You sleep beside power, but it's not yours, is it?"
"What happens when he leaves you behind?"
"What happens when you're old, little sister? When you're ugly? When your tricks don't work anymore?"
My breath caught in my throat.
They knew. The worst parts. The ones I never say out loud. The ones I bury under silk and moans and shiny things.
They knew.
I stood.
Barefoot.
Frozen earth biting my soles.
Teeth chattering, not from cold this time.
The Dragon stirred, maybe. A grunt. A twitch of his tail. But no rescue. Not yet.
"Will you beg?"
"Will you cry?"
"Will you scream for him like a baby?"
"We've heard your screams, sister. We like them."
Something slithered through the undergrowth behind me. Close. Close enough I could feel breath. I spun, blade out. Nothing there.
Laughter. All around.
That same sick, childish giggling.
"One day, little Saya..."
"One day the big lizard won't come."
"And then we'll play with you as long as we want."
"Play with me?" I hissed, low and vicious. "Sweeties, you wouldn't last five minutes. One taste and you'd be howling for mercy."
That made them pause.
I heard it. That twitch in their rhythm. That flicker of hesitation in their footless dance.
"Go on then," I said, stepping past the last embers of the fire. "Come take a bite, pups. I've been chewed on by worse than you and came twice before stabbing them in the balls."
Laughter again. Edged now. Uncertain.
I smiled. Teeth bare. Fingers tight on the bone hilt.
"And you think I'm alone?" I nodded toward the mountain of scales curled behind me. "You know what he really does to things that sneak up on me in the night?"
"He sleeps so deep…"
"So tired, so old…"
"Then make your move," I whispered. "Let's find out just how old he has to be to still turn you into fucking ash."
For a heartbeat, they stopped laughing.
Then, from somewhere in the dark:
"…not tonight."
That's when he stirred.
A single low growl, deep in his chest like thunder stuck in tar. His tail shifted in the pine needles. One eye cracked open—gleaming gold, slit-pupiled, full of murder.
The shadows vanished.
No running. No sound. Just—gone.
The forest breathed again. Like something had been holding it in.
The Dragon snorted, rolled over, muttered something about "ghastly moss pudding" in his sleep, and settled again.
Gods.
Should I tell him?
Should I nudge his stupid, ancient ribs and say "Hey, by the way, some demon-wolves whispered my fears back to me in rhyme just now"?
No.
He'd just wave it off. Call it "low-level haunting," or "provincial blood-curse nonsense." He's so bloody unbothered by lesser evils. Unless they steal his gold or insult his poetic meter, he doesn't care.
But I care.
I stayed up.
Eyes wide.
Blanket pulled over my knees.
Blade still in hand.
The fire hissed itself to death, and I didn't sleep. Not until the first filthy grey light of dawn crawled over the trees and turned monsters back into shadows.
He didn't even snore the rest of the night.
Bastard probably knew.
And just didn't say a word.