The grass was gold and green, waving like lazy fire across the hills. I squinted at the ruins—just scattered teeth of stone, stretching one after the other across the land like they'd once meant something. Crumbled towers. Gaps like missing ribs. A broken spine of civilization.
"There should be a wall here," the Dragon muttered, wings tucked in, voice like gravel and old regret.
I blinked at him. "What, like a metaphorical wall? Or, like, an actual one?"
"Actual," he said, sniffing. "Built by fools, abandoned by bigger fools. A grand defense against steppe raids. Financed by every city-state along the Inner Sea. Held together by bribes, incompetence, and mutual resentment. It fell apart before the mortar dried."
I kicked at a stone chunk, half-buried in grass. "Well. It's scenic. Very... historic."
He gave me a look. "It was supposed to hold the line. Civilization. Order. Shared responsibility."
"And now it's a sheep toilet," I said, stepping over a suspiciously warm pile of dung.
He didn't laugh. He just stared into the horizon like he could still see the war banners, the smoke, the charging riders.
I shrugged. "Walls crumble. Legs open. Life moves on."
He made a sound—something between a sigh and a snort. "You're impossible."
I grinned. "Oh please. Like you'd prefer a monument." I twirled once, arms wide. "Besides, I look better than a wall ever did."
The wind caught the hem of my tunic just enough to make my point. The Dragon didn't argue. Just muttered something about idiocy being the true force of entropy and kept walking.
***
The Dragon stared at the ruins like they were ghosts that owed him money. Then he sighed — long and cracked, like an old leather wineskin giving up.
"Those were the days," he murmured. "The old alliance… banners of Lerida, Tanagra, Seebulba. Cities that mattered. Even some that don't exist anymore. Dust now. Ash and vines."
I rolled my eyes. "Here we go."
He didn't stop. "Even Thelveth sent mercenaries. Reluctantly. But they came. I was young then. Eager. My uncle took me flying over the wall for the first time. Gods, the panic when we hit that tower. Screaming warriors. Horses bolting. Stone melting."
I gave a slow sarcastic clap. "Wow. What a heartwarming tale of community spirit."
He ignored me completely. "I remember the firelight on their bronze shields. Like embers scattered in the grass. They thought the wall would protect them. They thought the steppe was the only threat."
"And then came you, big scaly metaphor for failure."
He finally looked at me. There was a faraway glint in his eye. "I was so full of life back then."
I blinked. "What, and now you're what? Full of arthritis?"
"Wisdom," he said smugly.
I snorted. "You mean gout."
He grumbled and started walking. I skipped after him, humming some dumb war tune just to annoy him. The wind rustled through the ruins, whispering secrets of cities that forgot how to matter. I stepped on one, just to feel something. Just to remind the world that I was still here. Alive. Unimportant. But very loud.
***
The Dragon's eyes were on the horizon, but I could tell he wasn't really seeing the grass or the scattered ruins. He was watching ghosts. Ghosts with banners and bronze, all marching toward something that never quite worked.
"It was fear," he said, slow and heavy. "That's what held the alliance together. Not loyalty. Not hope. Fear."
I gave him a look. "Charming."
"Fear of dragons," he went on. "Fear of barbarians sweeping down from the steppe. Fear of the Sisterhood, before they had banners and chants and matching hair dye. Fear of the Vigarian Boar—yes, he still roamed back then. Hooves like millstones. Breath like rot. Ate two princes and a horse in front of their whole retinue."
I blinked. "Charming and delicious."
He didn't laugh. "And fear of what lies beyond. Things older than cities. Monsters too stupid to stay dead. That's what built the wall. That's what made Seebulba and Tanagra shake hands. Even Thelveth sent mercenaries, and they don't get out of bed unless someone's bleeding."
He looked down at the cracked stone underfoot. "Now?"
"Now we've got sheep and ruins," I said. "And a great view."
He snorted. "Now the nomads argue with the Sisterhood over horse dung and who gets to sing louder. The cities of the south… gluttony. Pride. Gold-lined brothels where the wine flows up and the morals flow down. Dancing slave girls spinning in oil-slicked courtyards while merchant lords clap like trained seals."
"And that's bad?" I asked, fluttering my lashes. "Because personally, I wouldn't mind a little oil and applause."
"You wouldn't mind anything that glitters."
"Damn right."
He gave me a long look. "They've forgotten fear. Forgotten why walls were built. Forgotten what waits."
I walked a little ahead, barefoot in the weeds, arms out like wings. "Good. Let them forget. That's how people survive."
"Until they don't."
I turned and grinned at him, sun behind me. "Then lucky them. They'll have us."
He grumbled something about idiots and mortal arrogance, but he started walking again. And I swear—just for a moment—he walked a little lighter.