Right. So we move the hoard.
Which apparently means I move the hoard.
I'm standing at the mouth of the cave with a shovel that looks like it was forged by a drunk peasant who hated symmetry, ankle-deep in coins, bits of chain, dented goblets, somebody's ceremonial helmet, and—oh look—three different currencies that absolutely despise each other. The wind coming off the hills keeps trying to flip my skirt up like it's got opinions.
Behind me, inside the cave, the Dragon is being very still in that pointed, meaningful way that says this spot is mine and I will die here if required. He has not lifted a claw. He has not offered to help. He has, however, commented on "weight distribution" and "historical layering," which is rich coming from a creature whose idea of organization is pile, but angrier.
Why is this my job?
Because, allegedly, dragon claws are "too large for a shovel" and "too delicate for loose coins." Too delicate. This from an animal that once tore a gatehouse in half because it offended him architecturally.
Most of this isn't even my loot. This is his hoard. My share? I spent it. Sensibly. On wine, ointment, shoes, gambling, mistakes, and one truly ill-advised silk tent. Don't look at me like that. Gold is temporary. Regret is eternal.
Anyway. Lerida is cooked. Too many guards, too many wanted notices with my face drawn from memory by people who clearly hate cheekbones. The lands are hot, and not in the fun way. So we move. Which means bagging everything into coarse burlap sacks that itch like they're alive and smell faintly of onions and despair.
I shovel. Coins clatter. Something sharp nicks my toe. I swear. The echo swears back.
"Careful," the Dragon says mildly, not opening his eyes. "That pile predates three minor wars."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," I snap, heaving another load into a sack. "I'll try not to offend its legacy."
The sack slumps, heavy and uncooperative. I tie it off, drag it a foot, and it feels like dragging a dead body that's very into being dead. My arms are burning. My back is screaming. My dignity left hours ago.
I pause, hands on knees, glaring into the cave. "You know," I say, "most partners help."
"I am helping," he replies. "I am supervising."
I spit dust. "If I die under a sack of your sentimental goblets, I'm haunting you."
"That would be redundant."
I go back to shoveling, muttering, because apparently I'm the mouthy one and the labor. Coins, clink. Chains, scrape. Somewhere in the pile, a ring glints at me like it remembers better times.
Fine. Fine. We move the hoard.
But when this is over, I'm stealing something off the top and calling it a handling fee.
He cracks one eye open.
"Quit complaining."
I freeze mid-shovel, bent over a sack like I'm proposing to it. Slowly, I turn my head.
"Oh?"
He flexes one foreclaw, the talons clicking together with that casual, murderous precision he likes to pretend isn't intimidation.
"I will be the one flying," he says, "holding my load in my claws. And you will be on my back. As usual. Shifting. Squirming. Complaining about wind. Or cold. Or how my scales are 'too pokey today.'"
I straighten up, dust clinging to my thighs. "That's called communication."
"It's called noise."
He stretches his neck, joints popping like old furniture. "And it is my fault I refuse to wear a saddle. I acknowledge this. Saddles are undignified. They chafe. They imply ownership."
I point the shovel at him. "You own me when it comes to carrying things, apparently."
A thin smile curls one side of his mouth. Not friendly.
"Keep testing that theory," he says calmly, "and you may discover a new travel arrangement."
I squint. "Oh?"
"You," he continues, "inside a sack. Tied shut. Very efficient. No complaints. No kicking. Much quieter."
I stare at him. He stares back, unblinking.
"…You wouldn't."
"I absolutely would."
I huff, go back to shoveling, harder than necessary. Coins clatter angrily.
"Fine," I mutter. "But if I'm going in a sack, I'm poking air holes. And I'm not sharing with silver. Silver scratches."
"Of course," he says, closing his eye again. "Standards are important."
I shovel faster, jaw tight, grumbling under my breath.
As if the hoard wasn't enough.
There's also the gear.
Because of course there is.
I start a new sack and immediately regret my life choices. Ropes first—three coils, all different thicknesses, all somehow knotted despite me swearing I put them away neatly. A grappling hook with a bent tooth (don't ask), another with a perfect curve I refuse to use because it "feels wrong," and a pouch of iron spikes that jingle like they're mocking me.
Medicinal herbs next. Or what I call medicinal. Dried leaves. Crushed roots. A little waxed bundle that smells like swamp and bad decisions. Half of these cure things. The other half cause hallucinations or diarrhea or enlightenment. Sometimes all three. Labels would help, but that would require reading, and we're not pretending anymore.
I hesitate, then carefully slide my tarot cards into a leather wrap. Corners worn soft. Backs smudged with ash and wine and one questionable stain I'm choosing to call fate. I tap the deck once against the sack for luck. Or defiance. Hard to tell with me.
Clothes. Gods.
Tunics I swear I lost. Cloaks I haven't worn since it rained that one time sideways. A spare sash. Two spare sashes, actually. One silk, one linen, both acquired illegally. Under it all, my jewelry—anklets, bangles, toe rings, necklaces that jingle when I walk and make me feel like my own moving altar. I hesitate again, then dump the whole glittering mess in. Hoard-on-hoard violence.
Makeup kits come last. Little jars. Powders. Charcoal sticks. Oils. The tiny bronze mirror with a dent in one corner that turns my face slightly crooked, which I prefer because it feels honest.
I tie the sack, sit back on my heels, and finally look around the cave.
Three months.
Three godsdamned months.
When did we become this? When did "lying low" turn into an inventory problem? There are stacks where stacks didn't exist before. Hooks on the wall. A cooking stone I dragged in and then never used because cooking is a scam. A place where I always sit. A place where he always coils.
I gesture at the mess with the shovel. "We've been here three months."
"Yes," the Dragon says.
"We came with nothing."
"Also yes."
I wave at the sacks. "Explain."
He opens one eye again, surveys the chaos, the hoard, the gear, me covered in dust and glitter and irritation.
"We are excellent at accumulation," he says mildly.
I snort. "We're hoard-adjacent raccoons."
He considers this. "I don't know what a raccoon is."
"Thieving trash animal. Very charming."
"Then that tracks."
I lean back against a sack, suddenly tired in that deep-bone way. Three months. Junk. Tools. Comforts. Habits. Almost a home, which is illegal and dangerous and absolutely not allowed.
I grab another sack anyway.
Fine.
We move the hoard. We move the junk. We move us.
But if I find one more grappling hook I don't remember stealing, I'm blaming him.