Hopelessness.I loathe the feel of it—sticky, airless, clinging to skin and thought. I've worn it a few times on Earth. That was plenty.
Maybe that's why I picked journalism. Our creed: if the door won't open, try the window; if the window's stuck, there's always the chimney. Translation—don't stop. Goal in sight, obstacles blurred.
A few classmates took that as license and sanded off their morals. I like to think I didn't. Ironically, it was that soft spot—the human one—that put me under a car…and into another world.
Now regret nips at my heels. The second I slacken, the dragon-world blues dogpile me.
One wise choice: I made Inar buy me language artifacts. Pricey, yes—but I wasn't going to be mute, deaf, and useless. Back then, there was still a path.
I'd forgotten our dawn intruder—until I remembered there's business bigger than dwarves. Like sorting the papers Inar left me.
Time to claim my own footing: legal status, work rights—the works. I'm going to be a citizen here. Which empire? Details.
Dragons offer opportunity; humans feel familiar. Nagas? Women's harems. Hard pass—unless desperation taps me on the shoulder.
"Miriam, I'm heading to the city. Watch the rude ones—and don't let them break anything without my word," I call, hopping the stairs two at a time, bag thumping my hip.
"No! My lady… I don't want to stay alone. Please take me," she begs from the doorway.
"What fresh news is this?" I say, still moving at speed.
In my bag: scrolls, IDs—and three gold rings I'm taking to the exchange. I earned each one the hard way back on Earth—double shifts at a nightclub, working till I nearly blacked out. It mattered then, keeping up with the girls in my program, wearing something shiny. Now it matters more to keep my dignity. I'll trade the rings and keep Inar out of it. Step one: cut the money leash.
"Miriam, we don't even have a front door on the house with all our belongings," I call, vaulting into the mobile and firing it up. "Show those bearded gentlemen who's mistress here!"
My gut says don't fully trust her. She's loyal to me—but her coin still comes from Inar. And I'm attached to her. Emotional dependence is a stubborn weed.
I know all that. I just don't have the bandwidth to self-analyze right now. First I stop being a kept woman; then I'll untangle the rest. With that, I nose onto the main road.
A flicker of shame for fleeing—gone when I remember: the human kingdom is co-ruled with dwarves. Miriam will know how to play them. And—ha—I was right.
City Hall, a.k.a. the Regional Governance Council, is a squat stone box. Inside: cool air and a long corridor lined with an absurd number of doors.
I square my shoulders. Nerves buzzing. If this goes sideways, do they ship me to an outworlder camp? I've heard stories. Bad ones. I mouth the plaques as I pass: Chamber of Commerce. Library of Knowledge. Office of Magic. Informary.
I stop at the last door and tap, barely a sound. Inside—a henhouse chorus. Twenty-plus women, all bright chatter and morning-bird energy.
"Hel—" I cough, reset. "Good afternoon. I'd like to register as a homeowner and obtain residency," I tell the nearest clerk.
"Take a number, please," she says, bored already, turning back to her friends who are breathlessly dissecting a dragon—the Emperor's guardian—and their collective fiancée.
Different world, same species. I scan the room. No one waiting. So… I'm the line.
I say so. She sniffs, but hands me a form. I fill it out with a local ballpoint.
"Lady, you cannot work without written permission from your patron," she says, ice-dry, pushing the form back.
"My patron is who, exactly?" I spark, zero to sixty.
I draw breath to argue—when he walks in. The air changes, like pressure weather.
"Ladies," he says—to everyone, to no one. Then steel-gray eyes land on me; he tips a courteous nod. "Lady Lili?"So he did catch the name Miriam used—while he was on my floor, counting planks with his knees.
Teeth grind—maybe mine, maybe the room's—as whispers ripple: "Supreme Dragon of Asgarn," "Wing General," "Saints, look at him," "Why did I skip makeup today?"
I freeze—no idea what to call him.
"Lady, your registration is complete. You may go," the clerk says, flicking a glance at the door.
"Excuse me—what? And my work permit? I need it today. Can we expedite?"
"Lady," she sighs, sharper, "you can't just work. You need an employer willing to sign a one-year contract or longer…"
Our exchange has an audience.
"Lady Lilia will be working for me," he says, neatly over my head. "Prepare the papers and courier them to my address before noon. I'll sign."
And you are… who, exactly?
The room gasps. I'm the only one who manages words. "For you? Doing what, precisely?" The morning—his crash-landing through my door—flares in memory.
He's transformed: dark-navy suit, jacket fastened high; the military writes itself in his posture, his voice, the disciplined ice of his face. Not a trace of the man from dawn.
I test the air—nothing. No hangover, no scent at all.
He catches it. His pupils blade to narrow slits; his whole frame goes alert. So I did see what no one else should.
"Do you have secretarial experience?" he asks.
Feels like he's inventing a job for me right now.
"Y-yes."
"Then you'll be my personal aide. Will that do?" One corner of his mouth tilts—almost a smile.
I'm rattled, but I nod. Fast math: this is my exit from Inar's leash. I haven't brought up pay, but the suit—and that mansion—say he's not hurting.
We draw stares like a comet. The women's eyes around us are pure, unfiltered envy. Half of them would sell their souls to stand where I'm standing.
"But Lady DelVer is under Dragon Inar DelVer's patronage," a squeak pipes up from the back.
Noted, snake. I'll remember that voice.
"Is she?" he drawls, suddenly bored. "I don't care who's sleeping with whom. I need an assistant. Do as instructed." Ice-cold. Then he turns on his heel and leaves, steps clicking like a metronome.
So—stubborn. A man who won't walk back a promise even when his interest cools. Somehow, that stings.
Miracle of miracles—the red tape evaporates. I walk out with an actual employment contract.
"It will be signed by the Supreme Dragon of Asgarn—Ksiriant Stormwing," one clerk grinds out.
And just like that, I have a name for my neighbor.
At the door, they add that I'm expected tomorrow at the Supreme Dragon's manor.
"Yes, I know the address—we're neighbors. Yes, I have a comm box. Seven a.m.? That early?"
…
About that comm box—I lied. I don't have one. No one but Inar ever messaged me. I'll swap the rings and buy the basics.