The Dragon blinked slowly, as if hoping the question would disappear if he gave it enough time.
"You stole a swan?"
I licked honey off my fingers and tried not to smile. "It was pretty."
"It was chained to a fountain."
"And now it's not. You're welcome."
He sputtered. Not actual fire this time—just moral outrage. "You—stole—a ceremonial swan—because—it was—pretty?!"
"Well, also…" I tilted my head toward the campfire, where the swan sat, wings folded, glaring like a furious duchess. "...we can eat it."
The Dragon stared at me the way priests stare at brothel receipts.
"Those two things," he said slowly, "exclude each other."
I shrugged. "Why? Plenty of pretty things are edible. Strawberries. Me. That one boy from Delvida with the abs—"
"I meant—morally."
"Oh please. You eat sheep. And poets. I've seen you."
"Poets are fair game. Especially the ones who rhyme moon with poon."
I waggled the skewer at him. "Well, this one's called Moon-Poon now, and I'm roasting its elegant ass unless you tell me otherwise."
The Dragon opened his mouth, probably to quote some ancient swan-related proverb from a lost civilization. Then he looked at the swan again. It honked. He closed his mouth.
He sighed. "Fine. But I'm not plucking it. You stole it. You pluck it."
"Deal. But I want the feathers for a cloak."
"You'll smell like pond."
"Sexy pond."
He groaned and muttered something in Draconic that I'm pretty sure translated to karmic embarrassment incarnate.
I crossed my arms and pouted at the Dragon just as he opened his maw again.
"Wait. We're not eating it. Not yet."
He reared back slightly, nostrils flaring. "What. Do you mean. Not yet."
"I want a pet."
"A pet? You stole a sacred swan from a noble's garden for companionship?"
I tilted my head, blinked sweetly. "She's majestic. And fluffy. And she tried to bite that one guard in the balls. I admire her spirit."
He looked from me to the swan. Then back. "You don't need a pet."
"I do. She completes me."
"You're my pet."
I grinned. "Exactly. So I know how this works. Even pets deserve pets."
He narrowed his eyes. "Are you saying—"
"—I'm saying, if I get a little leash and maybe a sparkly collar, I can walk her around town like one of those stuck-up princesses with monkey butlers."
"She will shit on everything."
"So do you, metaphorically."
He didn't have a comeback for that.
The swan honked, flapped her wings, and waddled indignantly into my lap like she owned the campsite. I beamed.
"See? She likes me. Maybe I'll call her Moon-Poon after all."
He groaned. "You're going to die. And I'm going to be blamed."
"Probably," I cooed, stroking the swan's neck. "But I'll be pretty doing it. With my pet. On a leash."
The Dragon muttered something about karmic recursion and duck-based divine punishment, and flopped down to sulk.
I stroked the swan's neck with one finger. She hissed. I hissed back. It was a start.
"I always wanted a pet, you know," I said, cradling the angry puff of feathers like a toddler with a dagger. "Back in Trample, I had a cockroach."
The Dragon turned his head slowly, like something out of a tragic opera.
"A cockroach."
I nodded. "Big one. Name was Sir Crunchalot. Slept in my boot. Used to crawl up on my face at night and nibble my eyelashes. Adorable."
The Dragon looked physically pained. "That is not a pet. That is a health hazard."
"Love is a health hazard. Anyway, he died. Someone stepped on him. Might've been me. But I mourned."
He didn't say anything. I filled the silence.
"Also, Loma said she had a unicorn."
"Loma also said bees understand poetry."
"She was very convincing."
"She thought unicorns eat pearls."
"Maybe they do. Ever ask one?"
He growled low. "No, Saya. I have never interrogated a unicorn about its dietary habits."
"Exactly. So don't dismiss it."
The swan honked again, louder this time. I cuddled her closer. "She's like a unicorn. But angry. And damp. And she bites."
"Perfect match," he muttered.
I kissed the swan's beak. "You'll like her. Once she stops hating you." Then, under my breath, "Which could take years."
The Dragon buried his snout under his wing. "If she shits on my hoard, I'm roasting both of you."
I smiled. "You'd miss me."
He didn't answer.
But he didn't say no, either.
***
Three days later. I was not sulking.
I was lounging with attitude.
Totally different thing.
The Dragon curled his tail around a rock, watching me from under half-lidded eyes. "You're sulking."
"I am not," I snapped, arms crossed, chin lifted, foot tapping in the dirt like a spoiled duchess denied her sponge cake.
"You're sulking because that fox ate your swan."
"Stuff it," I hissed.
He let out a long, smug breath through his nostrils. "We ate the fox."
"Yes. Revenge was sweet," I said, not looking at him. "Especially with plum sauce."
He waited.
I added, "Still."
"Still?"
"Still would've preferred we ate the swan. It was my swan. I stole it fair and square. I was bonding."
"She tried to strangle you with your own hair."
"That's how swans show affection."
He arched a brow ridge. "By attempting to throttle their mates?"
"Yes," I said flatly. "She was passionate."
He chuckled, low and cruel. "You miss your murder goose."
"She was cute."
"She bit everyone. Even the mule."
I sniffed. "Mule had it coming."
He leaned in. "You called her Moon-Poon."
I closed my eyes. "And now she's gone."
A beat of silence. Then:
"I could get you another cockroach."
I threw a stick at his face.