They say the dragon of the Violet Peak is a scourge, a beast of apocalyptic hunger that devours iron-clad men as if they were popcorn shrimp. They say I sit atop a mountain of gold, picking my teeth with lances.
Honestly, the rumors are exhausting. And inaccurate.
I’m currently sitting in The Gilded Tankard—the town’s finest, and only, tavern—nursing a mug of warm cider that is almost as big as my head. In this form, I am unassuming. Cute, even, if you like the "petite, angry scholar" aesthetic. My hair is the exact iridescent violet of my true scales, falling in a chaotic curtain around a face that hasn't aged a day in four hundred years. I am four feet and ten inches of pure, compressed magical fury.
"Another cider, Miss V?" the barkeep, Old Tom, asks with a wink.
"Keep them coming, Tom," I grumble, drumming my fingers on the table. "And tell that bard in the corner that if he rhymes 'dragon' with 'flagon' one more time, I’m going to singe his eyebrows off."
The town of Oakhaven knows. Of course they know. I founded this place three centuries ago because I needed somewhere to buy books and imported chocolates without terrifying the merchant caravans. In exchange for their silence, I provide protection from goblins, excellent weather for the harvest, and a steady stream of idio—I mean, adventurers, who spend exorbitant amounts of gold on "Dragon-Slaying Potions" (colored water) and "Flame-Proof Salves" (lard).
The humans think they are players in a grand epic. They are ants. Adorable, noisy ants. The strongest knight in the kingdom could strike my scales with a vorpal blade, and it would feel like a mosquito landing on a callous. I don’t kill them because, well, ants are boring when they’re dead. They are much more entertaining when you break them.
Speaking of which, I have a scrying appointment.
I slap a gold coin on the table—an ancient minted piece that makes Old Tom’s eyes widen—and slide off the bench. I have to hop slightly. It is undignified. This form is efficient, mana-wise, but by the Gods, the geometry is insulting. I can't change it though, I can force a sultry curvy look but it takes focus since it is an illusion not like this tiny form which is just me.
"Hey, little girl!" a voice booms from the doorway.
I freeze. The tavern goes silent. Old Tom starts polishing a glass very aggressively.
Standing there is a slab of beef wrapped in steel. Plate armor, crested helm, a sword that probably compensates for a great many disappointments. Sir… let’s call him Sir Clanks-a-Lot. I haven't bothered to learn his name yet.
"You shouldn't be in a tavern," the beef-slab sneers, looking down at me. "Go home to your mother, child. The adults are talking strategy. I’m off to slay the Beast of Violet Peak."
I turn slowly. "I am not a child," I say, my voice tight. "I am a scholar of local history."
"Hah!" He laughs, and it sounds like rocks in a blender. "A scholar? With a chest that flat, you look more like a boy in a wig. Maybe you should—"
Snap.
The air in the tavern drops ten degrees. The candles flare violet. My eye twitches.
Flat.
He called me flat.
In my true form, I possess a majesty that eclipses the sun. I have curves of obsidian and amethyst muscle, wings that span horizons. But in this accursed, mana-efficient shell, I am a plank. A violet-haired, short-tempered plank
.
"Listen here, you tin-plated can of Spam!" I shriek, leaping onto the table, knocking over my cider. "I possess more power in my little finger than your entire bloodline has generated in a millennium! My 'flatness' is aerodynamic perfection, you rustic lout! It is the streamlined vessel of your doom!"
The knight blinks, confused. "I... what?"
"Get out!" I point to the door, my finger sparking with actual lightning. "Go to the mountain! Go meet the dragon! She’s going to love you."
He stumbles out, terrified not of the dragon, but of the tiny, screaming woman in the tavern.
The townspeople sigh in relief.
"He was a tipper, too," Tom laments.
"He's going to be a princess," I mutter, smoothing my tunic and giving Tom 20 extra gold for the trouble, he smiles and nods his thanks. "A very, very pretty princess."
The lair is cozy. My actual hoard is buried deep in the magma vents where the humidity is better for the gold, but I keep a "display hoard" in the upper caverns for guests. It’s mostly copper coins painted yellow and some very shiny glass.
Sir Clanks-a-Lot—his real name is Sir Roderick, I discovered upon stealing his saddlebags—charges in screaming a battle cry.
I don’t even bother breathing fire. I just use a gravity spell to slam him into the wall. Clang. He drops like a magnet on a fridge.
When he wakes up, the game begins.
This is my favorite part. I don’t kill intruders. Where is the artistry in that? No, I take these toxic, hyper-masculine vessels of violence, and I empty them out. I scrub them clean. And then, I refill them with something much softer.
Roderick wakes up in "The Dungeon." It’s actually a guest suite I had carved out of marble. There are no bars, only a magical barrier that feels like a velvet curtain but is harder than diamond. The lighting is soft, rose-tinted bioluminescence. The air smells of lavender and despair.
And he is not alone.
I am there. Not as the Dragon, and not as the Angry Scholar. I am in my "Fellow Captive" guise. I call her Elara. Elara is weepy, wide-eyed, and wears a torn peasant dress that showcases a vulnerability I find hilarious to perform. The form is exhausting to maintain though.
"Oh! You’re awake!" I gasp, clutching a handkerchief. "Thank the stars! I thought the Beast had broken you."
Roderick groans, trying to sit up. I’ve stripped him of his armor while he was out. He’s in his tunic and breeches. He looks around, panic setting in. "Where... where is my sword? Where is the beast?"
"Hush, brave sir," I whisper, crawling over to him. "She took it. She takes everything sharp. She hates... hardness."
"I must fight her!" Roderick tries to stand, but I’ve placed a subtle suppression glyph on the floor. His legs are jelly. He collapses, and I catch him. He’s heavy, but Elara is surprisingly strong for a waif.
"You cannot fight," I tell him, my voice trembling. "Did you not feel it? The curse?"
"Curse?" His eyes go wide. "What curse?"
I look away, biting my lip. "The Dragon of Violet Peak... she does not keep men. She eats men. She only keeps... maidens. For her collection."
Roderick checks his trousers. Still there. "But I am a man!"
"Are you?" I ask, tilting my head. "Are you sure? Because she didn't eat you. Which means..." I trail off, letting the implication hang there like a bad smell.
This is where the gaslighting truly shines. Over the next week, I don't physically change him. Not yet. I change the world around him.
I slip alchemical reagents into his water that soften the skin and thin the body hair. I use minor illusions to make his reflection look slightly different—his jaw softer, his eyes larger.
But the conversation is the real weapon.
"You have such gentle hands," I tell him on day three, as he tries to pry a stone loose from the wall.
"I do not! These are the hands of a warrior!" he barks.
"Oh, stop pretending," I giggle. "We’re sisters in bindings here. You don't have to keep up the act for me. The Dragon saw through it. That’s why you’re alive. You have the soul of a damsel, Roderick. Or... should I call you something else?"
"My name is Roderick!" he shouts, but his voice cracks. The vocal cord relaxant is kicking in.
Day five is the breaking point. I stage a "visit" from the Dragon. I project a massive, shadowy illusion against the barrier and use ventriloquism to boom a voice into the room.
“BRING ME THE PRETTY ONE,” the Dragon voice commands.
Roderick cowers. He tries to make a fist, but his muscles have atrophied from the enchanted slumber spells I cast at night. He has forgotten how to hold a sword. I have literally plucked the muscle memory of combat from his mind while he slept, replacing it with the knowledge of embroidery and the lyrics to sad lute ballads.
"She means you," I weep, hiding behind him. "You're the pretty one, Roderick! Look at you! You’re beautiful!"
He looks at his reflection in the polished silver tray I left out. The illusion magic is strong now. He sees a terrified girl with stubble.
"I... I can't fight," he whispers, looking at his hands. They are smooth. "Why can't I fight?"
"Because you were never meant to," I coo, stroking his hair. "The armor was a lie, sweetling. You were hiding. But you’re safe here. You don't have to be hard anymore."
I pull out a dress. It’s silk, emerald green, corseted.
"Put it on," I suggest gently. "The tunic... it offends Her. If she sees you in men's clothes again, she’ll realize her mistake and eat you. You have to blend in. Please... for me? I don't want to be alone."
It takes an hour of crying (me) and panicked hyperventilating (him), but eventually, the survival instinct kicks in. He puts on the dress.
I lace him up. Tight.
"There," I whisper, spinning him around to the mirror. "Don't you feel... right?"
He stares. The conditioning, the drugs, the magic, and the sheer exhaustion crash down. He doesn't see a knight in drag. He sees a survivor. He sees the only version of himself allowed to exist.
"I look..." he starts, his voice high and soft.
"Like a princess," I finish.
By day ten, Roderick is gone. We just talk about romance novels. I’ve filled the cell with trashy sapphic romance scrolls, and he devours them. He relates to the heroines. He cries over the tragic misunderstandings.
"I just want someone to save me," he admits one evening, curling up on the rug. "I don't want to slay dragons. It’s so loud and dirty. I just want a strong person to carry me away."
"I know," I say, grinning internally so hard it hurts. "Roderick is a terrible name for a princess, though."
He looks at me, eyes wet and hopeful. "What... what should it be?"
"Rowena," I suggest. "It sounds like wind through the willows."
"Rowena," he repeats. He smiles. It’s a soft, broken, beautiful smile.
That’s the signal. You can see the exact moment the desire to crusade leaves his eyes and is replaced by a desire for cucumber sandwiches.
"Rowena," I say, my voice dropping the terrified captive act. "Do you want to be her? Truly? Forever?"
"Yes," he whispers. "I hate the stubble. I hate the width of my shoulders. I wish the dragon could change me. Please."
I stand up. I drop the illusion of Elara. I don't turn into the dragon, but I let my eyes glow with arcane power.
"As you wish, darling."
The Polymorph spell is complex—a masterpiece of biomancy. I strip away the testosterone, rearrange the skeletal structure, redistribute the fat. I take the heavy, clunky knight and sculpt him into the delicate, terrified waif he has been mentally rehearsing to be.
The flash of light is blinding. When it fades, Sir Roderick is gone. Rowena stands there, blinking long lashes, clutching her bodice which now fits perfectly.
"Oh," she breathes, spinning in a circle. "Oh, it’s wonderful."
"You’re adorable," I say, pinching her cheek. "Now, pack your things. You’re moving to the Tower."
The Tower is my greatest prank. It’s an isolated spire about ten leagues west, completely disconnected from my lair. I teleport the "graduates" there.
It’s a waiting room. A luxurious, high-security waiting room for future wives.
I teleport Rowena directly into the top chamber. She joins the other two current residents: formerly Sir Galahad (now Gabriella, a stunning brunette who loves baking) and a Barbarian named Throg (now Thalia, who is surprisingly delicate and does excellent watercolors).
They welcome her with open arms. "Did she use the 'Dragon is coming' trick on you?" Gabriella asks sympathetically.
"Yes," Rowena sniffles. "It was terrifying."
"Here, have a scone," Thalia offers.
I watch from my scrying orb back in the lair, munching on popcorn. It is better than any theater. I see them bonding, braiding each other's hair, and discussing which knight might come to rescue them. They have completely forgotten their past lives. To them, the memories of being men are like bad dreams, fading in the morning light.
The best part? The "Rescue."
I keep the Tower guarded by a very low-level Golem. It looks scary—lots of spikes—but it falls apart if you hit it with anything harder than a stale baguette.
Eventually, a party of adventurers arrives. I zoom in with the scrying orb.
"Behold!" cries a young paladin. "The Tower of the Lost Maidens!"
He charges the Golem. It crumbles. He rushes up the stairs.
Rowena, Gabriella, and Thalia swoon. They are practiced at this. They fall into the arms of their rescuers, weeping with gratitude.
"Oh, brave hero!" Rowena cries, fluttering her lashes at the Paladin. "Take me away from this dreadful place!"
The Paladin puffs up his chest. "Fear not, fair maiden! I shall protect you!"
I cackle. I actually roll on the floor of my lair, kicking my feet. The irony! The Paladin has no idea he’s holding a man who could probably have beaten him in a duel three weeks ago. But Rowena is happier this way. She’s going to make a fantastic Duchess. Like some of my previous guests
I’ve kept tabs on my previous like,
Sir Reginald—now Regina—married a wealthy merchant and runs the most ruthless trade guild in the south. Her husband adores her; says she has a "head for strategy. A body for pleasure and hips of a mother" and she is a mommy now, take that muscle bound moron.... Ha.
The Barbarian Vorlag—now Veronica—became a pacifist nun and runs an orphanage. She’s very strict but beloved.
And young Prince Valerius... ah, Valerius. He became Valeria. She didn't get rescued. She seduced the dark sorceress who came to raid the tower. They are now a lesbian power couple terrorizing the coast. I’m actually quite proud of that one. I sent them a fruit basket for their anniversary, But back to my current "guests"
I sip my tea, watching Rowena ride off on the back of the Paladin’s horse, clinging to his waist. She looks content. The Paladin looks smug. The world is in balance.
"Mistress!" A goblin minion scurries into the room. "There is a knock at the main gate."
"A knock?" I raise an eyebrow. "Usually they just kick it."
"This one is shouting, Mistress. He says he is Sir Baldric the Bold, and he is here to slay the flat-chested witch who insulted his brother."
I freeze.
"His brother?" I muse. "Ah. That must be Clanks-a-Lot’s sibling."
"He also brought a measuring tape, Mistress. He says he wants to 'quantify your inadequacy.'I think he knows that is your human form "
The air in the lair begins to vibrate. The gold coins rattle. My violet hair begins to float as if underwater, charged with static.
"Quantify," I whisper. The word tastes like ash and ozone.
I stand up. I transform. Not into the human scholar. I stretch, my bones cracking and expanding, scales erupting like armor plating. I grow until I fill the cavern, a serpentine nightmare of violet fire and death.
"Let him in," I rumble, my voice shaking the dust from the ceiling.
I’m going to need a bigger dress. And maybe some pink lace. Sir Baldric is about to learn that size does matter, but not in the way he thinks.
I do love my hobby.