I was not looking for a revolution.
I was looking for a shortcut.
The path I took was supposed to lead to a logging spur and then back toward the road. Instead it opened into a clearing that used to be a timber lodging camp and now looked like someone had decided to overthrow feudalism with decorative enthusiasm.
The longhouse had been scrubbed. Fresh cloth hung over the old merchant insignia carved above the door. Red and black banners stitched with a wolf's head snapped between pine trunks. Crates stacked into a makeshift stage. Spears planted in the earth like someone had read about uprisings but never actually participated in one.
There were maybe fifty people gathered.
Mountain folk I recognized by posture alone. Thick wrists. Muddy boots. The way they stood slightly apart from each other, as if already accounting for the moon.
And then the others.
Silk cloaks dyed forest green. Braids too neat. Boots too new. A wolfhead pendants polished bright against carefully torn tunics.
The fashionable wolves.
Ah.
In the middle of it all stood a young man atop a crate, hair tied back with a strip of red cloth like he was auditioning to be executed later for symbolic reasons.
He threw his arms wide.
"Brothers!" he cried.
Oh no.
"Brothers, countrymen, companions of fang and flesh!"
Someone in the back howled. A bit early. Overeager.
"We gather not as beasts!" he continued, voice climbing beautifully up the trees. "Not as hunted animals skulking in cellars and barns—"
A few mountain faces tightened at that.
"—but as sovereign children of this mountain!"
He pointed toward the ridgeline as if it might salute.
"For too long," he thundered, "the towers have encroached upon our forests! For too long have baronial lords drawn lines upon maps that never felt the frost of these valleys!"
Murmurs. Some nodding. Some not.
"They tax your timber!" he went on. "They take your sap! They sell you painted iron and call it salvation!"
That earned real noise.
I folded my arms and leaned against a tree.
He paced the crate, boots thudding with rehearsed urgency.
"They call us cursed!" he shouted. "They demand we chain ourselves lest we threaten their delicate order!"
He slammed a fist into his chest.
"I say no!"
The silk-cloaked youths echoed him louder than anyone.
"We are not shame!" he roared. "We are not plague! We are not a mistake to be hidden when the moon rises!"
He lifted a spear like he was about to stab the concept of taxation.
"We are history in motion! We are the living dialect—"
He paused, savoring it.
"—the living dialectic between man and wolf!"
I mouthed it silently.
Dia-leek-trick.
Good word. Expensive word.
He leaned forward now, voice rich with pathos.
"Brothers! Sisters! Countrymen of claw and conscience! Lend me your ears. The time has come to cast off the tyranny of inheritance! The time has come to reclaim the forest from feudal rot!"
There it was.
Inheritance.
Several of the silk cloaks straightened proudly.
"We will not apologize for the moon!" he cried. "We will not chain ourselves to appease those who profit from our fear! We will stand together as pack—human and wolf, native and initiate!"
That word landed like a pebble in still water.
Initiate.
Some of the mountain folk glanced sideways at that.
"We choose the burden of the beast!" he declared. "We embrace it not as curse, but as banner! Let the towers tremble! Let the baronies learn that this mountain cannot be owned!"
The fashionable wolves howled on cue.
It was very synchronized.
Impressive diaphragm control.
The locals? Mixed.
One old timber man stood with arms folded, expression carved from bark. A woman near me shifted her weight but did not cheer. A boy looked at the ground.
The young orator finished with both arms raised.
"Brothers!" he shouted one last time. "The revolution of fang begins here!"
Applause broke out. Loudest from the soft hands.
I glanced at the longhouse.
It had once housed seasonal loggers. Now its windows were barred — iron on the inside.
Not decorative.
Practical.
Behind the stage, stacked neatly against the wall, I spotted something that did not match the banners.
Chains.
Coiled carefully.
Oiled.
Used.
The young wolf jumped down from his crate, immediately embraced by admirers who smelled faintly of imported wine and moral certainty.
A mountain woman beside me muttered under her breath.
"He won't be here when patrols come."
I tilted my head.
"Don't you want the revolution?"
She didn't look at me.
"I want my door to hold," she said.
On stage, someone was already adjusting the banner so the wolf's head faced the best angle for symbolism.
I watched them and felt a strange tug in my chest.
The words were big. The energy was intoxicating. Brothers, countrymen, freedom, forest.
It had a rhythm to it.
But the chains by the wall had weight.
And those did not rhyme with anything at all.
***
I burst into the cave like a tax audit.
"Dragon," I said breathlessly, "what does 'Republic' mean?"
There was a long pause from the shadows.
A single golden eye opened.
"Oh dear," he muttered. "Here we go."
He shifted slightly, coins sliding under his flank with a familiar, comforting sound.
"What," he said flatly, "did you attend."
I flopped down on a warm patch of rock, glowing.
"A gathering," I said. "A commu—comune. A republi—republi—republican uprising of fang."
He closed his eye again.
"Of course it was."
I leaned forward, hands animated.
"You should have heard him."
"I am certain I would have preferred deafness."
"No, no," I insisted. "He stood on a crate. A crate, Dragon. Like history."
"That is not what history stands on."
"He said—" I squinted, trying to recall it properly. "He said we are the living dia—dialek—dialect-ick between man and wolf."
"Dialectic."
"That," I snapped. "Between flesh and free—free-dom."
Dragon made a low noise in his throat.
"Saya."
"And he said the time has come to cast off the tyranny of in-he-ri-tance!" I rushed on, glee practically dripping out of me. "That the forest cannot be owned! That we are sovereign children of the mountain!"
The Dragon slowly lifted his head.
"You are smitten."
"I am intellectually stimulated," I corrected primly.
"You are smitten."
"He was very impassioned."
"He was standing on a crate."
"He had conviction!"
"He had an audience."
I scooted closer to the edge of his hoard, eyes bright.
"He said the baronies are feudal carcasses feeding on the labor of the oppressed!"
Dragon blinked at me.
"Carcasses."
"Yes! Car-casses. Rotting. And the towers creeping like disease across the land."
He gave me a look.
"I have burned towers. They do not creep. They collapse."
I waved that away.
"That's not the point. The point is the whole system is rotten."
Dragon's tail twitched faintly.
"Oh?"
"Yes." I folded my arms. "It is struc—struc-tural explo—explo—exploit-a-tion."
"Exploitation."
"That. And we are complicit in its perpetu—perpetua—continuing."
He stared at me.
"You have been to one forest speech."
"It was very moving."
"And now you wish to abolish feudalism."
"I didn't say abolish."
"You said burn."
"Well, yes," I said impatiently. "It should be burnt to the ground."
He rolled one eye upward so dramatically I thought it might dislocate.
"Saya," he said slowly, "you and I make a living by terrorizing villages into voluntary tribute."
"That's different."
"How."
"We are freelance."
He let out a long, smoky sigh.
"And this young wolf—"
"He was not young, he was seasoned."
"He had silk on his shoulders."
"That is not a crime."
"It is an indicator."
"He said the moon is not our shame but our banner!"
Dragon squinted at me.
"You do not even turn into a wolf."
"That's irrelevant."
"He wants to tear down inheritance. I have an inheritance," Dragon said, flicking a claw meaningfully toward the gold beneath him.
"That's hoarding."
"That is survival."
"He said hoarding is internalized scarcity trauma."
Dragon went still.
"He said what."
I brightened again.
"And that dragons are arche—archi—archetypes of feudal patri—patri-arky."
There was silence.
Deep, volcanic silence.
Then:
"I have never been anyone's father," Dragon said coldly.
"It's metaphorical."
"I despise metaphors."
I leaned back on my hands, still glowing.
"He had this way of saying brothers and countrymen and comrades of fang. It felt…" I searched for the word. "Republi-can."
"That is not how that word works."
"Well excuse me," I snapped suddenly, heat rising in my chest, "for thinking that maybe he's right."
Dragon's eye narrowed.
"About what."
"That the whole thing is rotten!" I shot back. "Baronies hunting villagers. Selling fake silver. Forcing people to chain themselves. Pretending the system is order when it's just fear."
The cave echoed slightly with my voice.
Dragon watched me carefully now.
"And your solution," he said, dry as bone, "is to join a theatrical crate-based insurrection."
I crossed my arms harder.
"My solution is that maybe someone should set it all on fire."
His tail flicked.
"You already attempt that with me on a regular basis."
"That's tactical," I said sharply. "This would be… ideological."
He groaned softly.
"Gods preserve me from ideological arson."
I glared at him.
"You didn't hear him."
"I have heard centuries of him," Dragon muttered. "Different face. Same crate."
I hesitated.
"He was different."
"They always are," Dragon said.
I huffed and turned away slightly, staring at the cave wall.
"He had very strong forearms," I muttered.
The Dragon sighed.
Not theatrically.
Deeply.
The kind of sigh that comes from centuries of watching humans reinvent the same mistake with better slogans.
"Very well," he said at last. "I am entirely amenable to burning things to the ground. I am, as you have noted, a dragon."
I perked up.
"See?"
"I have no moral objection to towers collapsing," he continued. "Or systems rotting. Or feudal carcasses smoldering attractively in the dusk."
"Exactly."
He shifted slightly, the gold beneath him chiming.
"But," he added, "what of the gold."
I blinked.
"What of it?"
"And the silver," he went on patiently. "And the duke's misplaced treasury. And Ogden's little pile of ill-gotten optimism."
I paused.
"…Oh."
"Yes," he said softly.
"Well," I began carefully, "the young wolf did address that."
Dragon went very still.
"Did he."
"Yes."
"And."
"He said," I recited proudly, "that riches belong to the revolution."
There was a silence so complete I could hear a pebble settle somewhere deep in the cave.
The Dragon turned his head slowly.
"Revolution," he repeated.
"Yes."
"And who," he asked with surgical calm, "is going to hold on to that revolution loot."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
"Collectively?" I ventured.
"Ah."
He blinked once.
"And which collective claw, precisely, will be safeguarding it."
"Well," I said defensively, "that's not the point."
"It is very much the point."
"He said wealth must be redistributed."
"To whom."
"To the oppressed."
Dragon's tail twitched.
"And who determines oppression."
"The people."
"Which people."
"The—" I faltered. "The… republi—"
"Republic."
"Yes. That."
He stared at me.
"Saya. Gold does not vaporize when declared communal. It merely changes pockets."
I bristled.
"You don't understand."
"I understand hoards," he said.
"You're trying to confuse me."
"I am trying to follow the coin."
I stood up abruptly.
"You always follow the coin."
"Yes."
"That's the problem!" I snapped. "That's exactly what he said. That you—dragons—are arche—arche-ty… symbols of feudal accumulation!"
He closed his eyes.
"I am not a symbol."
"You are a system."
He opened one eye again, incredulous.
"I am a reptile."
"You're being deliberately obtuse."
"I am being practical."
I paced now, energy crackling in my chest.
"You don't see it because you're invested in the status quo."
"I am invested in solvency."
"The whole thing is rotten!" I insisted. "Baronies, towers, fake silver, chains in cellars! The mountain folk locking themselves up like criminals!"
"And your solution," he said evenly, "is to hand all available treasure to a young man with strong forearms and a banner."
"That's not fair."
"It is precisely fair."
I whirled on him.
"He awakened my class consciousness."
Dragon's head tilted slowly.
"…Your what."
"My class con-shun—conshuns—my awareness," I said impatiently. "That I have been exploited by structures of power!"
He stared at me.
"You realized that at fourteen."
"That was personal," I shot back. "This is systemic."
He made a low, despairing noise.
"Saya."
"What."
"You have always known the system was rotten."
"Yes."
"You have always known you were born at the bottom of it."
"Yes."
"You have always survived by climbing it sideways."
"Yes."
"And now you wish to burn it."
"Yes!"
"And keep none of the treasure."
I hesitated.
"Well—"
He leaned forward slightly.
"And Ogden's silver."
I faltered again.
"…That's different."
"How."
"That's ours."
"Ah."
He closed his eyes once more.
"So revolution is acceptable until it touches our ledger."
"That's not what I said."
"That is precisely what you said."
I glared at him.
"You're twisting my words."
"I am arranging them in order."
"You just don't like that someone is questioning your hoard."
"My hoard," he said flatly, "keeps knights motivated to stay away."
"It also keeps you small."
He froze.
"Excuse me."
"Clutching gold and muttering about scarcity while the world rots!" I said, gesturing wildly. "Maybe burning it all would be cleansing."
Dragon inhaled.
Slowly.
Deeply.
"Cleansing," he repeated.
"Yes."
"And when the ashes cool," he asked softly, "who will own what remains."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
"See?" he murmured. "Follow the coin."
I stamped a foot.
"You're just trying to confuse me now that I've found my class con-sha—conscious—whatever."
"Class consciousness."
"That!"
He groaned, long and suffering.
"Of all the things to awaken in this cave," he muttered, "why could it not have been restraint."