Okay. So. Here's the thing.
I may have spent our last five silver suns and two kiss-marked trade tokens on a "genuine magical carpet of Eastern Soaring." But in my defense… it had tassels. Purple tassels. And the merchant swore on his second wife's honor it could fly.
Now I'm standing on it. Barefoot. Arms out. Hair sticking to my sweaty boobs. Screaming, "Ascend, bitch!" at a woven rectangle.
Nothing happens.
The Dragon lands with a puff of sand and a noise that's half snort, half wheeze. He's in his "judgmental antique" mood.
"Explain this absurdity."
"I bought it," I say proudly.
"Why?"
"Because it flies."
"So do I."
I fold my arms. "Yeah, but you're a man. With wings."
"I'm a dragon."
"Same difference. This is about independence, okay? Maybe I don't wanna ride your scaly back every time I wanna go somewhere."
"You ride it gladly when drunk."
"That's not transport. That's bonding."
The carpet remains very flat and very grounded. I kick it. It doesn't flinch.
"Did you at least ask how it works?"
"Yes." (Pause.) "Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"I asked enough questions."
"Like…?"
I hesitate. "Like… whether the tassels come in other colors."
He stares. I pout.
"Fine. I forgot to ask the actual controls part. But it's magic, how hard can it be?"
"Did it demonstrate flight? At any point? Even hover?"
I narrow my eyes. "He said it needed to bond with the user. Emotional connection and such."
"You got sold a floor mat."
"It is not a floor mat!"
I stamp my foot. The carpet flops slightly under my weight. The corner rises... and immediately sags again.
I try to crouch. Whisper to it.
"Come on, baby. Just a little woosh. A hop. A twitch."
Nothing.
The Dragon snorts smoke. "You're talking to upholstery."
I flip him off without looking.
He groans. Loudly. "Can we please leave before the sun fries what's left of your brain cells?"
"One more try!" I climb on properly. Feet centered. Palms forward. I close my eyes, focus real hard, and yell:
"Tally-ho!"
Nothing.
"Wingardium carpet-osa!"
Still nothing.
"BY THE MOTHER FLAME, I SWEAR I'LL WASH YOU!"
The carpet trembles.
The Dragon squints. "Did it just twitch?"
"It twitched."
"You twitched."
"I felt it twitch, dammit!"
Silence.
A breeze picks up. A tiny sand devil dances nearby.
The carpet lifts—no, flaps—about half an inch, dumps me on my ass, and slaps me in the face with a tassel.
The Dragon wheezes. Literally wheezes. He's on his side, shaking with wheezy ancient-lizard laughter.
I lie on the sand. Dignity somewhere near the camels.
"…It's still bonding," I mumble.
"With your face, apparently."
"Shut up."
He offers a claw. I don't take it.
He lifts me anyway and mutters, "We're getting a refund."
I cling to the rug like a guilty toddler.
"No. It's mine. We're gonna figure it out. I just need a manual. Or an emotional breakthrough."
The Dragon sighs, flaps, and lifts us both into the air. Carpet flapping along behind like a sullen puppy tied to his tail.
"Just admit it's broken," the Dragon sighs, lounging on a rock like a judgmental sunbathing lizard. "Or at least accept you were swindled by a man wearing a fake turban and a cock ring shaped like a cobra."
"I felt it twitch!" I shout, hunched over the damn thing like it's a sacred beast, coaxing it with the sensual grace of a deranged snake charmer. "It wants to fly. It yearns to fly. It just needs… encouragement."
"It needs a ritual burning and a buyer with brain cells."
"Do you have a better idea, scaled sarcasm?"
The Dragon sighs through his nose. Smoke comes out.
"Say the word 'Zurvahn'."
"…Zurvahn?"
The carpet doesn't just rise.
It explodes.
One moment I'm yelling at it, the next—WHOOSH—my ass is five meters in the air and clenching for dear life. No warning. No stability. Just air, screaming wind, and a possessed patch of embroidery that hates straight lines.
"AAAAAAAAGH!"
"Oh good," the Dragon shouts up. "You got the model with personality!"
The carpet surges forward like it's chasing unpaid taxes. My braid whips my face. I scream. It twirls. Full spin. I nearly vomit my last three dates and half a boiled egg.
"MAKE IT STOP!"
"SAY 'ZURV—'"
"ZURVAHN!"
It does a barrel roll.
I scream like a banshee being waxed alive. My legs flail. One sandal flies off like a cursed discus.
"ZURVAHN ZURVAHN ZURVAAAAAAAAAA—"
CRASH.
We plough into the side of a dune like a sack of potatoes hurled by a trebuchet. Sand everywhere. Mouth. Eyes. Places sand should never be.
I lie there twitching, the carpet fluttering like a smug moth beneath me.
Dragon walks over. Doesn't even bother hiding the grin.
"Well. Technically it flew."
I spit sand. "Technically, I survived syphilis once too. Doesn't mean I wanna repeat the experience."
"You said you wanted independence."
"I wanted options, not aerial assault."
He pats my head. Patronizingly. I growl.
"Shall I carry you?"
"Touch me and I vomit in your ear."
He just nods, turns around, and mutters, "Next time, buy a mule."
I glare at the carpet.
It twitches. Innocently.
Oh, we are not done, you psychotic rug. We are so not done.