Great ivory towers reduced to smoking rubble, vanished along the horizon as the Princess Erianthe hurtled through the sky in a scaled grip. Golden claws, a sharp contrast to the pitch black scales, locked around her in a sort of crib. It was actually quite loose; the princess imagined she could wiggle out easily. If she chose a thousand meter fall over whatever fate the dragon had in store.

A shiver ran up her spine. A dragon. She was being kidnapped, had been kidnapped, by an honest to the gods dragon. Erianthe knew the stories of course, but they could not compare to the reality. Minutes ago it had been any other day, she had been preparing for her daily ride, and then the walls of her bedchamber were gone in a hurricane of noise. The  dragon’s broad form, almost man-like at the shoulder, had concealed the sky near as well as the stone. Oh, and the flames! It had turned its head away from her when it breathed destruction down into the courtyard, searing the the ground to glass, and she still felt the heat on her skin  like standing in a forge. The king’s men-at-arms had halted before the fire, but her brave knights had pushed through. They hurled themselves at the dragon with superhuman agility, holy blades drawn and shining with power. A sinuous tail swatted them away like insects.

Erianthe had always imagined there was supposed to be some banter between the wicked dragon and the charming princess, but she had hardly been able to breathe and the beast had scooped her up without so much as a hiss!

The princess stared down at the land, her kingdom, racing away a thousand meters below. One positive, her indignation was a welcome buffer against the mind-shattering terror.

She did not know how many hours had passed when she felt her monstrous captor bank, doing unpleasant things to her guts. Erianthe did not trust her sense of time-it had hardly seemed long at all, but her father’s vast kingdom had disappeared so fast. It had been morning when the dragon came for her and the sun had yet to set, but the idea the farthest borders of the world she had known could be crossed in mere hours was more shocking than the sight of her mighty protectors knocked aside like play pins.

The dragon slowed, and for a moment the force of the wind on her body was like being driven into a wall. Finally, she worked her head to the side and saw the dragon’s lair. It, at least, fit the stories: a fearsome mountain of dark stones and jagged peaks standing sentinel over miles of barren desert. Her captor  glided lower rather than take her to the volcanic rim tainting the air black with smoke, but she was willing to let that one slide.

A wing beat like cracking thunder, and the dragon alighted upon one outreaching plateau that lead into a suitably abyssal cavern. The beast stopped well short of the entrance and…set her down quite gently before preceding to walk the rest of the way. Dumbfounded, she could only stare at the creature’s retreating back, serpentine and ridged, its impossibly large wings pulled close to its body. Distantly, she heard a sound almost like growling, but far too quiet to come from her titanic captor. The dragon stopped, its many horned head dipping low, and a proper draconic rumbling shook the air. Then it continued into the cavern a ways before laying down and curling up for a nap.

“Ah, ‘ello!” Her eyes gave up the futile task of burning a hole through dragon scale, and turned at the sound of a voice-a human voice. The princess blinked. A small boy raced toward her with the familiar polite trot of a hurried servant. His ragged hair was as dark as the dragon’s scales, or perhaps merely as soot-stained as the many peasant’s rags rolled around his frame, but otherwise he hardly would have stood out from any ragamuffin. “Greetin’s yer ‘Ighness.” The boy came to a stop at a respectful distance and bowed with apt decorum.

“Wh-wh-what-t-t-t.” Erianthe’s teeth chattered around the word, and some part of her that had broken off during the day bitterly commented she could not even have her surprise. The rest of her realized she was freezing.

The boy’s face pinched, and his dark little eyes turned searching. “Blood biscuits,” he said, biting off short vowels. “M’Lord took ye’ up too ‘igh, didn’t ‘e?” He crossed the respectful distance in a blink and a half, taking her by the hand. Vaguely, she noted his small fingers were very callused and warm. “Ah keep tellin’ ‘im ta be more careful, Ah do, but he don’t listen. Follow me, ‘Ighness, we’ll get ye’ fixed up.”

The princess found herself being led a short distance, away from the dragon and its cave, and down a rough path curling around the mountainside. Around the curve, she walked right into a billow of steam. It was hot, tingling painfully on her chilled skin, and the princess spluttered. “Sorry ’bout that.” Blinking the steam from her eyes, she could see it’s source: a great, bubbling hot spring. Her chilled bones ached at the sight of it. Then, however, she was turned away from it and the searing clouds of steam. “Ye’ gotta warm up a bit first, ‘Ighness,” the boy said, sitting her down on a large rock. It was round and mostly flat, but softened only by a few rags. “Changin’ temper’ture too fast’ll mess a ‘uman up pretty good.” He piled more rags on top of her, and shoved a bowl of something in her hands before she could object.

Erianthe stared blankly at the bowl of what looked like stew while the boy worked away over a lump of black at her feet. “Ah put some medicine in it,” he said, barely looking up. It was a timely warning, and the only reason the princess managed a mouthful of the bitter stuff. She shuddered as it went down, but a comfortable wave rose back out from her stomach and through her limbs. Already, some of the fuzz that riddled her thoughts was sheared away. Hesitantly, she brought the bowl to her lips for a second swallow when the black lump-coal, she realized-burst into flame. Years of  training as a lady at court was all that kept the princess’ frayed nerves together and prevented a bowlful of stew from going up her nose. The boy seemed blissfully unaware, clapping his hands clean(ish) of black dust. Erianthe might have said something sharp, but the warmth of the fire was wonderful, even  through the extra layers she had been bundled with.

“Once ye’ finish the stew, it should be fine to take a bath,” he said. “Ah’ll get it  set up, ‘n get outta yer way, ‘Ighness.” The boy slipped from her view, but the princess could not bring herself to worry. At this point, it seemed unlikely that the  dragon would turn around and tie her to a rock for dinner. Behind her, she heard a shifting of cloth on stone followed by a little grunt.  Then a loud clang that might have startled her any other day. Right now, she took another long drink of stew. The last billows of steam ceased. A minute later the boy scurried past. “There we go, ‘Igness. Holler if ye’ need anythin’.” She hummed absently as he disappeared around the corner, the same comfortable indifference she held with the hundred unnamed servants of her castle. A chuckle at the thought of it escaped her, and she finished her meal. Her mind was clear, her flesh warm and feeling, but she certainly ached. A hot bath sounded lovely, even on the edge of a dread mountain. Especially on the edge of a dread mountain. She chuckled again, then caught herself. Erianthe set her bowl down, gently, and rose from her seat.

The sight behind her, blocking the spring, brought her up short. A worn halberd dug blade first into a notch in the stone, great reams of mismatched cloth hung from it like a bathing curtain. A bathing curtain that looked suspiciously like it was sewn together from the scrapped dresses of other princesses, she tried not to notice. A high, too-sharp giggle escaped her. Then another, and another.

Around the corner, the young boy politely ignored the hysterical laughter while he prepared a change of warm clothes.

Princess Erianthe emerged again sometime later, wits gathered under the comfort of the spring, clad in a new dress slipped through the curtain. She resisted picking at it. The dress was not a bad fit, but it was a thick wool piece. Better for wearing on a windy mountain ledge, she supposed. Still, her own dress was filthy with sweat and terribly scuffed from her manhandling on the way here.

And it was currently being mended by an even dirtier little boy. How he was not getting soot all over it, working a needle and thread through the cloth, was a mystery. Erianthe watched him for a time. Really, it was the exact kind of ‘background noise’ she had hardly noticed in years. Back in the castle, that is. Here, in this nightmare, it was somehow more baffling than actually being kidnapped  by the dragon. “Who are you?”

He looked up from his needlework, regarding her with big eyes. “Eh? Uh, Ah’m just Mills, yer ‘Ighness.”

Mills. Erianthe wasn’t sure if the normality was comforting or not. “I mean, ‘who is Mills?'” she tried again. “Are you… also the dragon’s captive?”

“Oh, no,” the boy replied. He looked back to the threading, but continued. “Ah’m, well, the actual word don’t translate well, but ye’ could say Ah’m M’Lord’s servant.” It took the princess a moment to parse his brutal and pattern-less mangling of vowels–what accent was that, anyway–and she gleaned at least two things from it.

“You call the dragon your lord.” This was a statement. Mills nodded along while he worked , like this was a conversation he was used to having. “And you understand the draconic tongue?” It was known the creatures could speak, that they bore an intelligence alien but equal to man, yet their language was a growling, indecipherable cant.

“Yep,” he replied. Mills eyeballed a particular stitch. “Ah speak it better’n Common, if ye’ ask most folks.”

She couldn’t stop the image: this little round-faced boy, growling and barking at a dragon. Erianthe fought down the smile, because of the  fairly terrifying implications. She took a discreet step backward when Mill looked suitably absorbed mending her clothes. “Are you the dragon’s familiar, then?” A dark creature bound in servitude by magic, and all the more capricious for it. Changing shape was common among fey and other inhuman spirits, her tutors had said. But what they could deceive in form, they could not in word-

“Nah,” Mill replied. He met Erianthe’s startled expression, only briefing looking up again. “Ah’m ‘uman, too, by the way.” The princess suddenly felt very silly, a girl jumping at shadows, which she insisted was unfair for entirely justifiable caution in the wake of being kidnapped by a dragon.

Rather than shuffle quietly away or violently explode, Erianthe took a deep, calming breath. “Right of course, why wouldn’t you be.” The boy nodded along, in that manner servants had, and -“Oh would you stop that!” Should have taken another breath.

The needle froze, and Mills looked up again. “‘Ighness?” he asked carefully.

She waved a hand wildly in his direction. “That! Acting so-so…normal! It is entirely unfitting for…for…” Erianthe trailed off. For what? The story? Was she still expecting a script at some point?

“Do ye’ need to sit down, yer ‘Igness?” Mill’s voice broke off her line of thinking. “Ah can fetch a cushion for ye’, if ye’d like.”

“No.” Erianthe took a deep breath. “I will stand, thank-you.” Time to take control. “I would know for what purpose…your lord…has abducted me.” Her gaze drifted toward the cavern, where somewhere the dragon lay in the shadows. But she did not waver, and her words were no feeble question.

Mills finally stopped working. Idly he looked to one side, humming, as if pondering something. “Well, it ‘as been awhile since the Princess Mareina went free, so Ah spose it was ’bout time.”

A small voice in the back of Erianthe’s head noted he enunciated that name very carefully, in the manner of a boy scolded time and time again for it. The rest of her tried very hard to stay focused.

“‘About time’?” she repeated. “Am I to take that to mean this dragon regularly kidnaps princesses?”

“Not necessar’ly jest princesses, strictly speakin’, but yeah,” he replied, easy as could be.

Erianthe brought her hands to her face. “Why?” came out from between her fingers.

“‘E’s a dragon,” Mills said. “Attack a kingdom, take the princess, fight the knights. ‘S ‘ow it goes.”

“That,” she paused, slowly drawing her hands back to her sides, “That is not an answer. Why is that, ‘how it goes?'” Mills sighed. The princess felt a sudden mote of guilty satisfaction from finally shaking the boy’s expression into something other than gentle obeisance.

“Jest is,” he said with a helpless shrug, which was much less satisfying. Erianthe pushed down her flaring temper. It would do her no good, just look at who she was speaking to. Time to try a different track.

“May I at least know what your lord intends to do with me?” she asked. The princess had allowed the absurdity and terror to get to her, force her into a role. Right now, all that should matter was her survival.

“Don’ worry,” the boy said. He smiled, such a warm and innocent expression. “M’Lord doesn’ wanna eat ye or nothin’. After a few knights come along for ye, e’ll move on.”

So apparently, she was safe. Relief should have surged through the princess’ nerves.

“In other words, this conversation…kidnapping me…it’s all utterly pointless.”

Mills’ smile slipped. “Well, nah, but…” he wavered.

The princess sighed, explosively. Then she punched the cliff side and screamed.