Okay. So. Shockingly…
The plan worked.
At least the first part.
I'm tied to a big stone pillar in the middle of what looks like a ruined amphitheater, sunken halfway into the earth and littered with broken statues, bird shit, and moonshine barrels. The ropes are itchy, I'm cold, and my left tit is catching a draft—but gods above and below, it's working.
Around me: chaos.
Glorious chaos.
Several barrels—no, dozens—lie shattered across the cracked stone floor. The whole place reeks like fermented horse piss and old peaches. And there, sprawled across a pile of bones and coins, are the Aethrafax brothers themselves. Two heads. One body. Zero coordination.
The left head—Snarls or Gronch or whatever—snores. Loudly. Loud enough to shake the pillar I'm tied to. His tongue is lolling out, eyes rolling in opposite directions, and at one point he tries to nuzzle a mossy boulder like it's a sheep.
The right head—Screeches or maybe Edric, I don't care—is absolutely fuming.
"Wake UP you insufferable WART!" he bellows, smacking the limp left head with a claw he has partial control over. "You drank seven barrels! You couldn't hold one! Do you know what you've DONE?!"
The drunk head burps. Loudly. The tail twitches.
"GODS! You absolute sponge of shame! You will RUIN our reputation! You will DISGRACE the bloodline! I should've strangled you in the egg!"
He slaps again.
The drunk one giggles. Or chokes. Hard to tell.
And I?
I giggle too.
I can't help it.
I bite my lip, but it bursts out anyway. A snort. A snicker. A full-on undignified snort-laugh.
Because I'm tied to a pillar like some virgin offering from a bawdy temple play, and these two oversized disasters are slap-fighting themselves in the middle of a hoard that smells like wet socks and regret.
"Oh my gods," I whisper through the giggles. "This is better than the flaming sheep."
The smart head snaps toward me, eyes gleaming. "You! You're behind this, aren't you?! With your wretched face and your trampy giggle!"
I blink innocently. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I was just brought here. Something about tribute. Or virtue. Or whatever."
He growls, pacing now in tight circles, dragging the flailing drunk head behind like a broken marionette.
The whole body staggers, tail swinging, one wing limp and dragging like a cape.
And me?
I keep giggling.
Because now… now we just wait for part two.
And the Dragon better be in position.
Just as the smarter head starts pacing again—ranting about betrayal and honor and bloodlines and something about devouring my "insolent ovaries"—the sky cracks open.
Something huge whistles through the air.
I glance up.
"Oh shi—"
WHAM.
A boulder the size of a carriage slams into the ground five feet to the left of the twin dragons, sending up a wave of shattered stone and flying moonshine shards. The whole damn amphitheater shakes.
The drunk head blinks once and groans, "Was that my stomach?"
The smart head whips around to the heavens and screams.
From above, a familiar voice roars down with all the grace of a panicked opera diva:
"I DROPPED IT TOO EARLY!"
I squint up and there he is—my Dragon, wings wide, claws twitching, circling like an arthritic vulture.
"YOU THINK?!" I bellow back. "YOU MISSED BY A WHOLE GOAT FIELD!"
"It was too heavy!" he yells. "I lost the grip! Also they're wiggling too much! I told you this wouldn't work from this height!"
The smart head turns toward the sky, eyes glowing with ancient rage.
"COWARDLY SON OF A SYPHILITIC WYRM!" he roars. "COME DOWN HERE AND I'LL ROAST YOUR BONES TO ASH!"
The Dragon circles again, grumbling like a pensioner with bad knees. "I don't see you carrying granite mid-flight, you shrieking conjoined catastrophe!"
Down below, the twin dragon is struggling. The drunk half is now fully horizontal, tail wrapped around a moonshine barrel like it's his childhood blanket. The smart half is trying to stand but can only drag the entire dead weight of his brother in jerking, clumsy hops.
It's… not dignified.
I'm tied to a pillar, watching this circus of doom unfold, and I can't help it.
I start cackling.
"Wiggling too much," I wheeze. "Gods save me, this is how I die. Tied to a rock in a slapstick dragon duel."
Another shadow flickers overhead.
The Dragon screams down, "INCOMING!"
I brace.
CRASH. Another boulder lands—this time on the other side of the twins. Closer. Still not close enough.
Chunks of stone rain down. A flaming sheep carcass from the earlier chaos tumbles past me like a divine omen.
"WILL YOU STOP MISSING?!" I shriek.
"STOP MOVING THEM!" he shrieks back.
"I'M TIED TO A ROCK!"
The smart head is seething.
His tail lashes. His wings flare.
He roars to the heavens, full of fury and toxic masculinity: "YOU DODDERING LIZARD PRINCESS! FACE ME LIKE A TRUE WYRM!"
And the Dragon—bless him—mutters under his breath just loud enough for me to hear:
"Gods damn it. Now I have to aim."
The sky whistles again.
Third time's the charm.
The shadow looms massive. The angle—finally—is right. The twin dragon's smart head is mid-roar, fangs bared, eyes blazing with righteous, theatrical fury.
And then—
THOOOOOM.
The final boulder slams straight down onto the smart head like the angry fist of a vengeful god, snapping neck, jaw, and any lingering thoughts of monologue. The whole fused body shudders, knees buckling.
He doesn't roar.
He doesn't whimper.
He just… stops.
Stone cracks beneath him. Dust kicks up in a ring. One claw twitches once and goes still.
Silence.
The only sound left is the gentle bubbling of the drunk head snoring face-down in a puddle of moonshine and goat piss.
I stare. Mouth open. Chest heaving.
"Well," I mutter. "That… worked."
The Dragon lands with an unceremonious thud beside me, wings folding like a grumpy cloak. He winces as he lowers himself, one paw gripping his lower back.
"Gonna need a week of hot compresses," he mutters, then starts biting through the rope with exaggerated fuss.
I wrinkle my nose. "Couldn't you just claw it off?"
"I could," he snaps, "but nooo, someone insisted on double knots."
He yanks the last strand free, and I finally collapse forward with a groan, arms trembling. My whole body's numb. My face hurts from laughing.
And then—
From the shadows, the girl bursts into view, barefoot and frantic.
"You did it! You did it!" she cries, flinging herself at me, arms thrown wide.
I flinch like she's about to tackle me, but she just grabs my hands and squeezes them, eyes shining. "You saved us. You're a hero!"
"Oh no," I mutter. "Don't you dare use the H-word. I was bait, you little turnip. Bait!"
But she's hugging me anyway, crying into my hair like I'm a blessed saint and not someone who suggested flaming sheep an hour ago.
Behind us, the Dragon exhales loudly.
"Well, fine," he says. "We've committed dracocide. Wasted three perfectly good boulders. And saved some stinking village full of peasants who'll probably name a festival after her and forget to offer me so much as a thigh massage."
He looks at the dead heap of dragon meat, snorts once, then glares at the sky like it personally offended him.
"Can we please fly off now?"
I pat the girl's back. "You heard the lizard. Time to go before someone asks us to pose for a fresco."
"Or a ballad," the Dragon mutters. "If someone sings, I swear I'll torch a bard."