Page 44 of The Discount Damsel

“He’s your responsibility,” she interrupted, “not your pet.”

Bradley slammed his fist against the table.

“You think a temper tantrum will frighten me? I’m a princess, Mr. Donmarin. I make temper tantrums an art form.”

“Dirk has no business fighting these Heroes. It’s not safe. It’s not even practical for a luck dragon. He’s literally not built for combat. It goes against his very nature.”

This time, Millie waited to deliver her rebuttal until Bradley had finished signing. “Who are you to determine the business of a dragon?”

“He’s perfect just the way he is! Stop encouraging him to be something he’s not.”

Her gaze narrowed. “And when all the noble-born apprentices at the College told you that very same thing, did you listen to them?”

Bradley’s jaw clenched.

“Oh yes, I know a thing or two about that Prestigious College of Sorcerers, how every attendee for the last three generations have only come from noble houses. But not you.” Millie leaned forward on her elbow, dominating the empty space between them. “So how can you tell Dirk he can’t become what he wants to be?”

“It’s not the same and you know it.” He thrust his finger down at Duchess, who had just wandered into the kitchen with her sniffing nose in the air. “That cat can never become a griffin.”

“But she could become a lion. You’re not even giving Dirk that chance. You don’t trust him to make his own dec⁠—”

“Shut. Up.” Bradley surged upright. “You don’t know anything about him, about me.”

“What’s, uh, going on in here?” Dirk asked, slithering through the window with a shiny sword.

“Coffee?” the apprentice barked.

“I’m good.” The dragon pooled into his chair.

“Oh Master Dirk, what’s wrong?” Millie asked upon hearing the note of disappointment in his voice.

“The sword’s not enchanted.” He slid a paw down the virgin blade, the pad of one toe depressing into the fuller. A large beryl in the pommel sparkled when it caught the sunlight. “I was really hoping for an enchanted sword. Raegon the Rabid has three of them.”

“It’s only your first knight,” she consoled. “Speaking of which.” Her warm sympathy for Dirk cooled to reserved professionalism as she angled herself towards the sorcerer apprentice. “You mentioned that the spells don’t need to be on rice paper?”

Bradley choked for the second time that morning, this time on a bite of caramelized banana that he had to force down with a fist to his chest. When it had cleared, his face darkened with a scowl. “I am not aiding this foolish endeavor.”

“It’s not foolish,” Dirk growled.

“More Heroes are coming,” Millie said tartly, “and since the two of you are obsessed with keeping his identity a secret—” She paused then, waiting for them to reveal the reason, but like before, they divulged nothing. She blew out a sharp sigh. “At least write the spells that hide his mane and tuft, change his color, and give him wings.”

She pushed the plate of remaining pancakes towards the apprentice. “These should suffice, yes?”

“I’ll get the ink.” Dirk leaned his sword against the wall and vanished into the stairwell. He returned less than half a minute later with a quill and a stoppered inkwell labeled “edible” on a piece of beige tape. With a flick of his tail, he levitated Bradley’s plate and mug out of the way—Bradley snatched back his mug—and set the ink in front of him.

The sorcerer apprentice kept both hands firmly clamped around his mug as if it were a lifeline. When he just stared at the pancakes and the quill for over a minute, wrestling with himself, Dirk nudged the inkwell forward with a tap of his claw.

If Bradley wrote the spells, that would just enable Dirk and put him in danger. If he didn’t write the spells, Dirk could be discovered by the Heroes. It hadn’t been as risky when Dirk had just been extorting pig herders and bean farmers. He’d been cautious, stealthy, never frequenting the same place more than once a week. And those seeking revenge never knew where to find him, until now. Until this Major Inconvenience had become their roommate.

He should just sabotage them. He’d break the little dragon’s heart, but it would mend in time, and he would be alive for it to mend. And the world could do with one less pirate, so . . .

Bradley picked up the quill.

“Good morrow, Dragon Dirk,” a deep voice called. “I am Sir Roger Ferris, and I request your presence in battle for the hand of Princess Mildred of Amberly. Show thyself and meet metal with claw.”

Dirk seized his new sword and thrust it into the air. “Battle stations!”

CHAPTER 21