Chapter 73 How to Rob a Dragon King (And Fail Spectacularly)
Bella
The road north winds through the valley—green now instead of white. Birds are back, the air hums with life, and for a few blissful hours, I start to think maybe this journey won’t be so bad after all. I’m sitting in the back of the wagon with Ashlyn, who has commandeered most of the snacks and an entire map that she insists on “interpreting creatively.” Gilfred’s perched on my shoulder, tail flicking lazily in rhythm with the horses. Damien rides ahead, tall and regal, his cloak sweeping behind him like he’s auditioning for “Most Dramatic King Alive.”
“You realise,” Ashlyn says between bites of bread, “if he were a normal man, you’d be in the honeymoon phase right now. Breakfast in bed, soft sheets, not trekking through mud on a ‘curse-busting expedition.’”
I snort. “Oh yes, because normal men definitely come with dragons and existential magic trauma.”
She shrugs. “You’ve got a type.”
Before I can respond, the wagon lurches to a stop, and the horses snort, stamping at the dirt. I lean forward to see Damien raise a hand—a silent signal.
“What is it?” I whisper.
Ashlyn squints ahead. “Well, either that’s a toll booth or a very committed theatre group.”
There are five of them. Hooded, armed, standing in the middle of the road with the overconfidence of people who’ve clearly never robbed a dragon king before. One of them—a man in a green cloak too bright for stealth—steps forward, drawing a bow.
“Good morning, travellers!” he calls. “On behalf of the poor and the oppressed, we humbly request a small donation!”
I blink. “Is he serious?”
Ashlyn’s already grinning. “Oh my gods, it’s happening. I've never been robbed before.”
The man continues, flourishing a bow like it’s a stage prop. “We seek only gold, food, and perhaps a few fine garments for redistribution among the needy!”
Damien dismounts with an expression that promises someone’s imminent regret. “You’re blocking my road.”
The bandit bows dramatically. “Ah, Your Majesty! Then you can surely afford the toll.”
Ashlyn claps her hands. “I love him already.”
“Please don’t encourage the criminals,” I whisper.
“They’re so theatrical!” she hisses back. “I think I’m in love.”
Damien’s dragon hums in my mind, amused. He has courage. Stupidity, but courage.
More stupidity, I agree silently.
Should we burn them? the dragon asks, far too casually. Just a little?
No.
Ashlyn jumps off the wagon, much to my horror, striding right up to the leader with her hands on her hips. “Look, Green Cloak,” she says. “You seem charming, and I adore your commitment to the bit, but robbing a literal dragon king? Not a great career move.”
The man winks. “Dragon king, you say? All the better! We’ll add his scales to the treasure list.”
“Okay,” she says cheerfully, “you’re dumb and suicidal. Good to know.”
I sigh. “Ashlyn—”
But she’s already drawing two tiny daggers from her belt, twirling them idly. “So how do you want to do this, boys? Fair fight, or do you all run home and tell your mothers you tried to rob royalty?”
The dragon chuckles in my mind. I like her.
“You’re not helping,” I hiss aloud.
Damien steps forward, calm and terrifying in equal measure. “You have five seconds to clear the road.”
The bandit laughs. “Or what?”
Damien tilts his head slightly. “Or I stop pretending to be merciful.”
Something in his tone makes even Ashlyn pause. The air thickens—heat radiating from him in invisible waves. His dragon’s power ripples beneath his skin, just enough that the ground trembles.
“Last chance,” Damien says softly.
For one brief, glorious moment, I think the bandits might retreat. Then the idiot in green lets out a war cry and loses an arrow. Big mistake.
Damien catches it midair with his bare hand. The wood smoulders instantly, crumbling to ash.
“Okay,” Ashlyn says brightly. “So fair fight, then!”
Chaos explodes. Two bandits rush her, another heads for me, and Damien doesn’t even bother drawing a sword—he moves, faster than I can blink. A blur of firelight and shadow. One man’s weapon melts in his hand before he can even swing. The one running toward me trips on absolutely nothing (thank you, Gilfred), and faceplants directly into the mud. Ashlyn is a blur of glittering daggers and gleeful profanity. “You picked the wrong princess today, sweetheart!” she yells, ducking under a swing and kicking one squarely between the legs.
I can’t help it, I laugh. Then my magic flares instinctively. The bandit she’d been fighting freezes mid-step—literally. Ice crawls up his legs, locking him in place.
“Nice teamwork!” she calls, twirling. “You freeze ‘em, I stab ‘em!”
“Maybe less stabbing,” I suggest.
“Maybe less freezing!”
The last two bandits finally decide they’ve had enough. They drop their weapons and sprint for the trees, screaming something about demons.
“Rude,” Ashlyn mutters, brushing dirt off her sleeve. “I was enjoying myself.”
Damien stands at the centre of it all, utterly unruffled. His cloak doesn’t even have dust on it. “Are you finished?” he asks dryly.
She beams. “I could go again.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” He crouches, picking something up from the mud. As I approach, I see it's a silver medallion, circular and etched with the same Frostborn sigil we’d seen in the archives.
My smile fades. “That’s…”
He nods. “The witch’s mark. They were carrying it.”
Ashlyn squints. “Wait, so these weren’t just random idiots?”
“Still idiots,” I say quietly. “Just… connected ones.”
Damien tucks the medallion into his belt. “The witch’s influence spreads farther than we thought. Even here.”
For a long moment, the forest feels colder. The laughter, the adrenaline—it all fades, leaving only the rustle of wind through thawed leaves.
Then Ashlyn clears her throat. “Well,” she says brightly, “on the plus side, I robbed the robbers.”
I blink. “You what?”
She grins, holding up a handful of gold coins and a half-eaten pie. “For the poor and oppressed,” she says solemnly.
Damien groans quietly. “Lords above. You're insane.”
“Effective,” she counters, flashing him a wink. “Sound familiar?”
I laugh, the tension breaking. Gilfred chirps approvingly. Even the dragon hums with quiet amusement.
She fits, he murmurs.
“Unfortunately,” Damien mutters.
“Admit it,” I tease. “You like her.”
He glances at me, something soft flickering behind the gold of his eyes. “I like that you’re laughing.”
And just like that, the warmth is back. The danger fades into the background, replaced by something simple and good. We climb back onto the wagon, the road stretching ahead through sunlight and shadow.
Ashlyn bites into her stolen pie and declares, “Right, next stop: adventure, destiny, and hopefully a bath!”
I smile. “Sounds about right.”
Damien clicks his tongue, the horses start forward, and as the wheels roll over damp earth. The frost may be gone, but the fire’s only just begun.