It wasn't a particularly heroic journey, but it didn't need to be.

Since there were already more tales of heroines fighting through the lairs of dragons than there were pages to write them in, I was happy to accept the dull uniformity of an emergency fire staircase as I climbed the thousands of steps necessary to ascend the interior of a mountain.

Back in the old days, dashing white knights in silver armour and valiant maidens wielding the power of the valkyries would have made their way through via shoulder barging hordes of bloodthirsty minions.

But back in the old days, health and safety laws were also far more lax.

As Marissa and I passed a pair of very large drake guards, who assumed that since we were here it meant we were supposed to be here, I was thankful that the only shoulder barging I had to do was when the expansive door to Oirdan's lair refused to open. And even then, the guards kindly helped.

That was how I was presented with the innermost sanctum of a dragon.

A place of wondrous beauty. Of ceilings etched with dwarven architecture and elven runes. Of walls filled with golden braziers. Of gold and trinkets unending.

A treasure vault.

And also a bedroom.

“Hrwoooom … Hrwooooom … Hrwooom ...”

Within a glittering cave pierced by shafts of magical starlight, a dragon slept atop a mound of treasure so vast that it could even purchase Madame Zaiba's super fluffy omelette sponge recipe. A single step was all it took to be met by silver goblets rolling past my feet, jewellery clinking against the ebb and flow of ancient coins, and gemstones glittering like polished eyes from the shadows.

Here was a history museum as much as a treasure trove, each exhibit forged or minted when the fate of the Ashlands was still a distant prophecy.

And yet none of it compared to the majestic being snoring atop the highest treasure pile.

“Hrwooom … Hrwwrooom … Hrwooom ...”

Oirdan, who within his domain was ruler of both mountain and sky, scratched an itch on his tummy before regally wiping away some drool.

Scales, claws, teeth and wings. Here was a dragon whose body was a kaleidoscope of colour, signifying his centuries of age as he retained pigments of each colour palette he'd possessed. Blades as sharp as honed axes lined the length of his spine, while only the most lucky of adversaries would be able to experience the cutting edge of his claws.

Everyone else met their end with that most famous of a dragon's weapons.

Their fiery breath.

As he snored, puffs of smoke so hot that it visibly distorted the air shot out from his snout. The entire cavern was akin to a rising oven, and I knew immediately that there was a business opportunity to be had. If Oirdan ever decided he lacked for income, then dragon flame coupled with the optimal temperature for proofing bread made this an ideal kitchen for a bakery.

“What a truly wonderful day,” said Marissa, gazing up with both academic interest and childish excitement in her eyes. “Although dragon sightings are an almost daily occurrence with some of my peers, this moment has linked arms with fate to continually elude me. I can say with utmost certainty that the scale models in my … my teacher's home do nothing to convey the grandeur on display.”

I smiled.

“Happy?”

“Yes. I am thoroughly satisfied. I also require a paper bag.”

“Ah.”

I viewed Marissa's slightly green face with concern.

As dragons were the original custodians of magic, they demonstrated it on a level that even the archwitches could not replicate.

It didn't mean that they fully controlled it, though. As the heat from my sword suggested, the magic being continually emitted from the sleeping dragon was a force as great as a sweeping wave. Or to a witch with acute magical senses, something like being grabbed by the ankles and swung around like a house cat in a tornado.

I reached down and picked up a goblet for her.

“Here you are.”

“Thank you.”

The moment Marissa received the goblet, the gentle cascade of coins brushing past our feet rose to a swift tide.

From the highest treasure mound, the master of the lair stirred like a hornet shaken from its nest.

Before Marissa could even begin to ruin her public image, the colossal figure of Oirdan the dragon rose from his stupor with an urgency that belied his sleeping form. A tail whipped against the mounds of gold, sending coins billowing past in every direction, while a great pair of spindly wings unfurled to blast what remained against the walls of the cavern.

Then, a pair of golden eyes snapped to attention.

And the fiery glow of retribution formed in the back of a freshly opened maw.

“Impudence! Who dares to trespass in my sanctum?! Who dares to thieve from the riches of a dragon?!”

Within moments, those golden eyes locked onto us, and the goblet in Marissa’s hands.

The fiery glow ignited into a blazing flame within the Oirdan's throat as he rose on his hind legs. Mighty claws swept up a confetti of coins as he put on full display his stature, his wrath, and the top of his head bumping painfully against the roof of the cave.

“GGWWAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.”

An ear blistering roar echoed within this space.

It was more than a cry of pain. It was a bellow of pure frustration sewn with every fibre of his being. And it was exactly the same roar we'd heard since entering the Ashlands.

A roar filled with hatred and malice for all things.

The kind that could only be born out of stubbing one's toe. Or stepping barefoot on a sharp object. Or banging a head against the ceiling. Repeatedly.

Wincing from the pain, Oirdan let out a breath of draconic flame. It was not directed at us. But rather, the bit of the cave where he'd banged his head.

My sword burned on my back to shield me from the residual heat as the temperature in the cave rapidly rose. Beside me, a refractive bubble surrounded Marissa's form, its outline clear against the hazy air.

“GWWAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR.”

With another earth shattering roar, Oirdan directed a stream of magical fire at a blackened area of the ceiling. It was only after expending himself for a solid thirty seconds that he relented, leaving only smoke and scorched rock in his wake.

I knew from the glassy obsidian that not even a solid minute of dragon fire could create that kind of varnish. He'd been melting through the stone for quite some time. Or attempting to.

“I! Detest! This! Hateful! Ceiling!”

With fresh ire in his golden eyes, Oirdan opened his maws once again.

“Excuse me.” I raised my hand. “Um, would you like assistance?”

Instantly, just as the telltale embers of light began to form yet again in his throat, the dragon's attention snapped towards his pair of guests.

“It's this awful ceiling,” he answered, the light not entirely fading from his throat. “It is too low. It was carved for me when I was but a drake. Now each time I wake, I suffer the indignity of meeting my head against the mountain. It makes me rage.”

Well, that would explain the unrestrained enmity in his roar. I too would be annoyed if I hit my head every time I woke up.

“I see … can't you clear some headroom? I notice your hoard is quite large. Have you considered reducing or removing it altogether?”

A puff of smoke emitted from Oirdan's snout as he proudly raised his head. He just barely stopped himself from meeting the rock again, a look of trained panic in his eyes as he twitched away.

“I am a dragon, not a beggar. I will not remove the bed upon which I rest. Only silver and gold may be my cushion as I ponder and dream.”

I glanced up at the still smoking obsidian.

“Have you considered chiselling away more space?”

“Please. I have twice hired engineers to survey this cavern. The maximum amount of stone has been excavated. The rest is weight bearing and cannot be safely removed without risk of structural collapse.”

“Oh, I see. Then, why not build a new abode altogether?”

“Impossible. That would necessitate moving the door. It is an invaluable example of progressive naturalism in construction. Its frame is built into the surrounding stone, while its jewels are extracted from ore deposits within this very mountain. It is a piece of artwork unto itself, and I will not risk its damage.”

The next moment, Oirdan's golden eyes narrowed.

Then, he remembered why he'd woken up.

“Humans!” roared the dragon, as his eyes swept to the goblet that was no longer in Marissa’s possession. “Who are you to lay your hands on the hoard of a … what is wrong with her?”

He paused, taking in the rather telling way Marissa was swaying. The witch looked up despondently, her face conspicuously no longer just green, but also slightly blue as well.

I raised an eyebrow, then wondered how many spells she knew for wishing away unwanted vomit.

I hoped the dragon wasn't wondering the same thing.

“She has acute magical overload,” I explained to the dragon. “I'm sorry, but could I ask you to turn off your overpowering aura for a little bit?”

Oirdan looked as aghast as a dragon without facial muscles could be. For a moment, his maw opened to explain precisely why he wouldn't be doing that. Then he saw Marissa's face shifting ever more to the blue scale.

The next moment, I felt the temperature in the cave rapidly diminish. The perpetual echo of every word the dragon had spoken faded in my ears. The tremor beneath the ground subsided. And most of all, the colour returned to Marissa's cheeks.

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“Oh, thank goodness,” she said, letting out an exhausted breath. “I thought I was about to have a traumatic memory. My sisters would never let it go if I disgraced myself in front of a dragon.”

Considering that most people ran away screaming at the sight of a dragon, I thought she should be lauded for being able to indulge in her curiosity so far. And I wasn't the only one.

Bravery often came in short supply when it came to being within fireball distance of a dragon. And while that didn't mean it earned any respect from a dragon, it did at least shock them enough that they were willing to hear visitors out before tossing them from their lair.

“Name yourselves,” said Oirdan, golden eyes further narrowing in suspicion even as his tail relaxed around his treasure pile. “How did you gain access to my deepest abode?”

I twisted around. A gentle glow was emanating from my sword, in contrast to the very ungentle heat it was also displaying.

“Elise Rowe. Anointed heroine for the Duchy of Witschblume. This is Marissa Haycroix. She's a delivery witch. Your guards let us in.”

Immediately, a veil of smoke hid Oirdan's expression as he gave a mighty huff. A tail lashed out in anger. Among the sound of scattering coins, the word 'demotions' and 'mop duty' could be heard weaving between the rolling grumbles.

“You. Witch. Step forth.”

Then, Oirdan set his sights on the girl beside me. She answered at once. Her witch's shoes barely brushed against the dry stone as she strode forwards to present a curtsey.

“Salutations, Mr. Oirdan. It's a privilege to be able to take in the sight of your grand visage. The strength and wisdom of your race is legend among the witches. I've awaited the opportunity to spy the lustre of—”

“Yes, yes. My glittering scales and jewelled wings. I didn't pay for the courtesy service. Where is my package?”

Marissa blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“My package.” Oirdan's eyes suddenly hardened. “I presume that is why you're here, escorted by a heroine. You are late.”

Marissa’s blank face was all the answer anyone needed. Even so, she didn't allow it to persist for longer than a few seconds.

Drawing on all her professionalism, she entered delivery mode, conjuring up a sizable book in front of her that flicked through its own pages.

“I apologise. I'm not aware of any package marked for delivery into the Frozen Peaks. Which delivery service did you choose?”

“2nd class.” Oirdan paused. “It was on special promotion.”

“We haven't used a numbered class system for postage in quite a long time. When did you place your delivery?”

Oirdan frowned, letting out a deep hum.

“327 years, 11 months, 15 days ago. My delivery was guaranteed within 2 days.”

Marissa nodded. The book in front of her vanished in a puff of smoke, only to be replaced by a much larger and older one. Its cover was peeling and many pages were falling from the spine. Still, that didn't stop it from enthusiastically flicking itself open.

“Our records show that your delivery was successfully received by a resident at your address.”

“What? Who?”

Marissa squinted her eyes as she leaned in.

“I believe the signatory's name is Underpaid Goblin.”

For the first time, Oirdan could do nothing but blink. It was only after several moments had passed that he rose on his hind legs, flame forming in his throat as he hit his head against the ceiling again.

“GGRRAAAAAAWWWWWWWW.”

Rage poured forth as a billowing line of magical fire, once more directed at the scorched stone.

This time, however, even this outpouring of hatred wasn't enough to quench his grief.

“Impudent wretches! They dare deceive their lord and master! Me who hired them despite their checkered employment history! Underpaid? Death is not enough to safeguard them from my wrath! I will find what is left of their rotting bones and melt them until their souls burn from my fury!”

Marissa and I both patiently waited as the dragon vented his frustration. It was understandable. If my disposable minions were mishandling my mail, I'd be inclined to huff a bit as well.

After a few minutes, the fresh smoke began to dissipate from around his head.

“There will be retribution,” said Oirdan, giving no specifics as he forced a measure of calm on himself. “Much has been explained. To think that I have suffered centuries of betrayal all this time. You have done me a service, witch.”

Marissa offered a professional smile in return. If there was a part of her wondering how the angry dragon would seek revenge against people who by now were dust, she chose not to indulge it.

“The Bewitching Postal Service thanks you for your custom, and regrets the circumstances surrounding your loss of mail. Unfortunately, we cannot assist in matters where criminal activity was involved and where it falls outside our terms of service.”

Oirdan emitted a clearly unimpressed puff of smoke.

“I do not seek a refund. I seek answers. Why do you trespass, if not to explain centuries of poor customer service?”

“Well, I wanted to see a dragon.”

“What? Is that all?”

Marissa looked ponderously to the corner, searching for something enlightening to add.

She couldn't.

“That's all.”

For a moment, it seemed as if the dragon was struck speechless by the ignominy of it all. He stared at the witch, unable in all the ancient and forgotten languages he knew to convey his indignity at being treated like a zoo attraction.

But then—

“Understandable.”

He unfurled his wings, puffed out his chest, and stood as tall as he could without banging his head once more against the ceiling.

Dragons.

“Excuse me, Mr. Oirdan.” I held up my hand. “I think there's been a misunderstanding. I'm not here as an escort. I actually have a few questions I need to ask you relating to matters of worldly conquest.”

Oirdan very, very slowly turned his eyes towards me. It didn't take heroine senses to know that he'd tried particularly hard to ignore my presence, and that he was now considering whether I seemed the type to return after being kicked out.

Unfortunately for him, I was.

“Heroine.” Oirdan's voice was deep with irritableness. “Speak.”

I nodded.

“I'm here regarding reports of an evil aura emanating from your person, brought to me by a concerned member of the dragon community. As per article 7a, subsection 5 of the revised Queensholme Accords, I'm required to make general inquiries as to any aspirations you may have for subjugating all the free races of Ouzelia or beyond under an iron rule.”

Oirdan shifted slightly atop his treasure pile. His tail flicked absently at an impressive armoire half-buried within the coins.

“I thought as much. Very well, heroine. I will answer your questions, truthfully and without omission, as is required of me by contract.”

I clapped my hands together and smiled broadly.

“Excellent! Then, do you have any aspirations for subjugating all the—”

The dragon held up a clawed digit.

“Wait. First, approach. I am old, even by the standards of my kin. For such an important matter, it would be best if I do not mishear.”

I nodded and enthusiastically stepped forwards, immediately finding myself up to my knees in dragon treasure. In no time at all, I was forcing my ankles as though trudging through wet sand.

“Closer.”

I pushed forward until I was no longer walking, but practically wading. As I attempted to climb the hill of treasure, a new sinkhole appeared to absorb me back down.

“There. Right there. Good. Stay right there. Now, what were you asking?”

I smiled above a pile of glittering coins up to my neck.

“Why, I was just asking if you have any aspirations for subjugating all the free races of Ouzelia or beyond under an iron rule.”

Oirdan gave a hum, then craned his head towards me. A shadow the length of a small castle poured over me.

Then, his eyes shone with an enterprising light.

“You wish to know if I seek to follow the wings of my brother. To embody the Last Great Evil as the Next. To sow destruction upon this land. The answer to your questions is that I do not. Such maleficium is beyond my wishes or dreams.”

“Oh, excellent.”

“Which is why I can only apologise.”

“What for?”

Oirdan craned his head even closer.

“For ensuring that remains the case.”

The next moment, his tail, which had been prodding at the armoire, instead flicked the cabinet doors open. A large lever poked out from within.

He promptly pulled it all the way down.

Several seconds passed.

And then, even more seconds.

Instead of a mountainous groan echoing throughout the cavern, or the sounds of chains, cogs and mechanisms grinding at work, there was only silence.

Eventually, it began to build like a cacophony of awkwardness, interrupted only by the rumbling of a certain witch's tummy behind me as nothing of note proceeded to happen.

I blinked up at the dragon.

“Um, Mr. Oirdan, did you just activate a hidden mechanism after revealing nefarious intent?”

“... No … ?”

Dragons did not have sweat glands, and yet I had the distinct impression that if this one did, there would be a small river forming past his brow.

Especially as he continued to tug at the lever.

I frowned.

“Mr. Oirdan, please desist in any and all attempts to harm, murder, remove or otherwise incapacitate me. I've yet to conclude my visit, and I will remind you that it is illegal to actively obstruct the lawful duties of a heroine.”

Oirdan released his tail from the lever, then let out a cough, spewing tiny puffs of flame as he did so.

“A misunderstanding. This was a lever to summon my waiting staff. It is unacceptable to receive such an honoured guest without the proper courtesies being observed. A heroine in my lair is a momentous occasion indeed.”

“I see. Thank you for the consideration, but no formalities are necessary. I'm merely here to ask a few questions. Now, regarding–”

The dragon let out another cough, this time rough and hacking. As he prepared to speak again, he opened his maw to its widest.

“Yes, a heroine has appeared,” he said very loudly, his booming voice blasting past my ears and down the many flights of stairs. “A true heroine, within the heart of my sanctum, wielding with her a sword of heroism stained with the blood of my brood. Alas that I am alone. For if I had, say, an army of minions at my beck and call, surely with overwhelming numerical superiority we could crush this tiny heroine and her witchly companion in a single strike. If all my loyal minions were to rush up immediately, I would reward them each with their choice of invaluable treasure from my hoard.”

Following the direction of his voice, I glanced behind.

A drake guard outside the door peeked his head inside, made eye contact with me, then quickly returned to his post.

Somewhere, I heard whistling.

“Hmm.” Oirdan slowly settled back down on his treasure pile. “Very well. It appears that you cannot even hire good help these days.”

“Mr. Oirdan, this is quite a serious matter. If you intend to conquer the world, we'll need to have a conversation.”

“Indeed. I fully agree. In fact, I believe that this is a matter that should be amicably resolved through civilised discourse.”

Using his tail, Oirdan none-too-discreetly heaved a significant pile of gold towards me.

I looked at it, then the dragon.

“Are you, um, bribing me?”

Oirdan reacted by being very still.

“Yes.”

I raised an eyebrow.

That was as far as the business end of the conversation went. As I prepared to say exactly why bribery was an insult to Madame Zaiba's industry leading waitress pay scale, I was interrupted by the scent of steaming tea leaves.

Turning around, I found Marissa placing a platter of warm cupcakes, fruity pastries and buttered toast down on a wooden table patterned with a floral tablecloth. A generously sized bowl filled with various jams was placed alongside a full tea set.

Marissa looked up from the respectable spread. Then she glanced back down and conjured a vase with orange tulips into existence.

“Tea?” she said, looking between myself and the dragon. “It's my own brew.”

Oirdan's head snapped up with interest.

“Would coffee be possible?”

“Certainly. How do you take yours?”

“Milky, preferably.” Oirdan glanced over the spread of baked food. His deep eyes settled on the buttered toast. “By any chance, has the witchly dimension any freshly poached eggs today?”

Marissa smiled with professional pride.

And before I could so much as wave my arms incoherently, the customer-minded delivery witch accidentally conjured certain doom upon us all.

“Oh!—”

It was to her credit that she realised this. And at the last moment, attempted to sidestep fate by turning the poached eggs into an omelette.

Her hopeful eyes looked up at me.

I looked at the eggs. The jug of coffee. The toast. And all the constituent ingredients required for a prophecy spelled out by a questing minotaur and derived from the surface of a witchly pond.

“Oh dear,” she said. “What should we do?”

I thought for a moment, then went to take a seat at the table.

May as well not let the poached omelette go to waste.