Honestly? This might’ve been my boldest plan yet.

  I mean, sure—I’ve faked divine visions, sold counterfeit relics to actual high priests, and once convinced a noble widow that my orgasms could cure gout. But ?

  Joining the siege of Garthuun and signing on with Lord Velimor’s merry band of murderers?

  This was ambition in lingerie.

  Granted, we were also broke and hungry. Well, mostly broke.

  Necessity is the mother of the best ideas.

  The Dragon, of course, got himself enlisted as a glorified flying siege engine—wings, fire, brooding stares, the whole dramatic package. They stuck him on the roster like some exotic war beast.

  And me? I found employment far better suited to my talents: selective whoring, morale boosting, and long-term strategic bedding. I call it vertical networking.

  Getting the old coward even a real war zone took work.

  The siege of Garthuun dragged on like a drunk uncle’s bedtime story. Lord Velimor was in dire need of any miracle weapon that could tip the tide of war.

  And I just had the right candidate, provided that I could convince him to risk his scaly skin even for a split second.

  So there we were.

  Holy city on the horizon. War drums pounding. Mud. Drums. Smoke. The occasional mangled corpse tumbling down the embankment. I sat on a barrel of pitch, legs crossed, dagger tapping against my thigh.

  “The Vault of Suleshan,” I said dreamily, eyes glittering. “Have I told you about it?”

  His head—my dragon’s—lifted slowly, like a man coming out of a hangover and already regretting the sound of my voice. “No. And don’t.”

  I grinned. “They say it sings.”

  “I said .”

  “Sings like a choir of minted angels. Gold piled in perfect acoustics. Coins stacked so high they form . Chalices that weep wine. Chimes made of platinum ribcages—”

  “Stop it.” He clutched his head like I’d put a hex on it. “You what this does to me.”

  I leaned in close and dropped my voice to a whisper. “Jewels in the shape of fruit. Enchanted peaches carved from amber. Sapphire grapes. A diamond fig. A , for gods’ sake.”

  He whimpered. Actually whimpered.

  “I’m not going,” he muttered. “It’s a death trap. You don’t siege a city with real defenses. They’ve got rooftop mages. Temple wards. Guardian spirits. Probably something that farts lightning.”

  “It’s abandoned magic,” I said, shrugging. “Dormant. Dusty. Rusty. Sleeping.”

  “Oh sure. Until a flaps into view. Then everything wakes up screaming and trying to shove divine retribution up my cloaca.”

  I drew a lazy circle in the dirt with my dagger. “They say the vault doors are carved from a fallen star. That they only open if they greed.”

  He twitched. “That’s not fair.”

  I kept going. “And that it’s so dense with treasure, time runs slower inside. You could nap on a bed of coins for a week and wake up younger.”

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  “That’s—not real. That’s temptation. That’s .” He started pacing. “They me to want it. That’s how they get you. That’s how they got Varnithax.”

  “Oh gods, don’t bring up your dead uncle again.”

  “He flew into a sun-temple and never came out!”

  “Because he was gloating mid-flight and forgot to .”

  “His greed killed him.”

  “Your greed would make you .”

  He groaned like he was giving birth to a regret. “Do you know what it to me, Saya? I can feel it. That vault. Humming in my . It I’m out here.”

  I cooed. “It’s calling to you.”

  “It is, the bastard.”

  I leaned forward, voice dripping. “You think some sun-addled priest is going to appreciate it? Melt it down into chalice polish and idol polish, and polish-for-their-polish? That hoard is in the wrong hands.”

  His claws curled. “What if they have relic wards? What if the air is enchanted? What if there’s a curse that turns gold to lead the moment you leave?”

  “This isn’t about curses,” I said, leaning in. “This is about timing.”

  “And legacy,” I added sweetly. “Remember what your dearly departed Uncle Varnithax said that night when he scared us half to death at the ruins? You have twelve months to prove yourself worthy of your hoard. Of your lineage. Or he’d haunt you for eternity and call you a disgrace to your scales.”

  He swallowed. Loudly. “That sanctimonious lizard’s still on the clock?”

  “Ten moons left,” I said, tapping my temple. “Tick tock, tick tock. And you’ve wasted two on soup hoarding and coin-counting.”

  “I was diversifying my assets.”

  “You were hiding in a root cellar sniffing old gold.”

  “It smelled nice,” he muttered.

  “So would the Vault of Suleshan,” I whispered. “If you ever grew the wings to fly into it.”

  He swallowed. Loudly.

  “We help breach the walls,” I murmured, tracing little circles on my thigh with the tip of the dagger. “We let the army do the hard work—bleed, scream, smash the gate, all that heroic nonsense. And when they finally storm in and the city falls…” I grinned. “They’ll get drunk. They get drunk.”

  His pupils dilated like a dragon in heat.

  “And while everyone’s celebrating victory—pissing on frescoes, passing out in wine barrels, humping anything that doesn’t bite—we stroll into that vault and scoop up whatever we can lift. Bags. Buckets. Sacks full of treasure.”

  I leaned so close I could smell his breath hitch.

  “We don’t even have to settle for our ‘rightful share.’ We don’t wait for the division of spoils. We . Grab the choicest bits before dawn and vanish.”

  He stared at me, trembling between horror and arousal.

  I tapped the map. “A whole army too drunk to chase us. A whole city too broken to resist. And a vault too heavy with gold to guard itself. It’s perfect.”

  He made a strangled noise. “That’s—evil.”

  “That’s .”

  “That’s betrayal!”

  “That’s profit.”

  His claws curled so hard they cracked the dirt.

  “Gods,” he whispered, “you’re corrupting me.”

  I kissed the air between us. “Darling. I’m improving you.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “I hate you.”

  “I .”

  He resumed pacing, muttering like a man haunted by beautiful women and better vaults. “No. No. I swore I wouldn’t do this again. Last time I ended up hexed with hiccups and dry-scaled for a month. You the itch.”

  I smirked. “This time we have an army. We’re the side.”

  “That’s what they always say before the final, tragic twist!”

  “It’s the hoard of a lifetime,” I whispered.

  He moaned like I’d kicked him in the dreams. “I need a minute.”

  “Take all the minutes you want,” I said. “But once that wall crumbles, the rush begins. You want the good stuff? You'd better be the first bastard in.”

  He sat down twitching like a cat near a full goblet. “I should stay here. Stay safe. Let the monkeys fight. Wait for the dust to settle.”

  “And get their ?”

  His nostrils flared.

  I grinned. “Varnithax would from the grave.”

  He gasped. “That manipulative, hoard-humping bastard—he , wouldn’t he?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “He’d call me a coward.”

  “Mhm.”

  “He’d say, ‘No true dragon misses a vault like that.’”

  “He say that. You it last time.”

  “I , didn’t I?” He clutched his snout like it had betrayed him. “Gods that glorious bastard.”

  I stood, hands on hips, looking smug as sin. “Well then?”

  He inhaled. Deep. Shuddering. Already regretting everything.

  “I’m going to regret this.”

  “You always do.”

  “If I die,” he snarled, wings flaring, eyes glowing, “I’m haunting you.”

  “You already .”

  He rose like a nightmare reborn, all wings and gleaming rage and treasure-lust, the scent of fire already crackling at the back of his throat.

  “But if I live,” he growled, “that vault is . All of it. Every cursed coin. Every sin-soaked trinket. I’ll roll in it until my scales are scratched raw.”

  “Now the spirit,” I purred.

  And gods help Garthuun.