# Chapter 4: Am I Not Good to You?
"Hm hm hmmm, hm hm hm-hmmm~"
A green hatchling bounced through the cave, a little hop every third step, humming a tuneless little song as he passed egg after upright egg.
That was me. And why wouldn't I hum? Belly at eighty percent, one successful mugging under my belt, zero consequences so far. Life was good. Life was basically a team-building retreat with catering.
I bounced all the way back to my red egg and flopped down in front of it.
On the way I'd done a little inventory. Call it professional habit. The cave held maybe a dozen unhatched eggs, and I'd started sorting them the way I used to sort a backlog: white ones over there, a cluster of blues, some blacks, a few greens, and exactly one red. Assets, categorized by liquidity. Every one of those eggs was a future hatchling, and every future hatchling was carrying a lunchbox they didn't know they were carrying. From where I sat, this cave wasn't a nest. It was a pipeline.
And at the top of the pipeline: my red egg. My flagship asset.
I'd even started mentally ranking the rest by expected return. The blues looked sturdy — reliable dividend stocks. The blacks were mystery boxes. The whites were penny stocks: cheap, plentiful, probably disappointing. And the greens... look, I knew what greens grew up to be. Investing in a green hatchling was investing in a future competitor. I'd rob those with a clear conscience and a song in my heart.
I lifted my head. The red egg stood there exactly as before. No change. Not a wobble, not a crack, not so much as a polite tremor. There were plenty of eggs left in this cave, but only one red one, and it remained the only one I cared about. Compared to all the others, red eggshell just seemed like it would taste more... promising. A dragon has his preferences.
"Come on, buddy. Show some spine."
I put a little encouragement into it and felt something close to genuine disappointment. You're a RED egg. Act like it. Even the green ones have started hatching. The greens! You're being out-hustled by greens.
Do you know what happens to products that miss their launch window? They get discontinued. Some other egg takes your shelf space, your destiny, and your slightly-above-average size, and ten years from now nobody remembers you were supposed to be the ace of the chromatics.
Predictably, the egg offered no response.
I muttered at it a moment longer, then settled my chin back against the ground. The cave's dirt floor was dry and cool — not cold, just pleasantly shaded, and for a green dragon it hit the comfort zone dead center. Prime real estate. No wonder something in my hindbrain kept purring *good den, safe den* every time I lay down.
My heavy eyelids slid shut. Time to rest up and wait for the next lucky contestant.
"Nyx Baelmore!"
A young, crisp little voice rang through the wide cave.
My eyes snapped open.
My round head came up.
Work! That's work!
And here was the funny part: my legs were already moving before I finished the thought. The sound of a hatching dragon had gone straight into some ancient wiring in my spine and pressed the big red button labeled GO. My body had decided. Management had merely been informed.
The humming had stopped, obviously. You don't hum during a fire drill. Some primitive dashboard in my head had already pulled up a map of the cave and was highlighting the fastest route to the source of that voice, while the part of me with the office job — theoretically the part in charge — was still processing the words "that direction, GO."
I pushed up, shot a scornful glance at the red egg.
"You're really letting me down, buddy."
Scorn delivered, four little claws churned the dirt as I sprinted toward the voice.
***
It was close. I passed a handful of eggs and spotted my target.
One egg, its top already cracked open. Draped over the broken rim, a round little coal ball was crunching away at her own shell.
I call her a coal ball because that's exactly what she was: black from horn to tail, a deep matte black, wrapped around a perfectly round little body. Visually indistinguishable from a lump of anthracite. And she was small — smaller than me, which made her downright dainty by hatchling standards. A delicate little coal briquette.
She was eating. Focused. Vulnerable.
I quietly upshifted my sprint.
Target acquired: one coal ball, distracted, mid-meal. Threat assessment: minimal. She was small, she was busy, and she hadn't posted a lookout. Rookie mistake. In this cave, mealtime without perimeter security was just catering.
I hit the shell at full speed and thrust out a claw, going straight for the scruff of destiny.
Crunch, crunch, cr—
The crunching stopped.
I watched the little coal ball register the situation in stages, slow as a loading bar. First she stretched her neck after her receding shell and bit at the air. Missed. Bit again. Missed again — always short by exactly one dragon-length, because the shell was traveling with me. Her little black paws paddled the air twice, looking for ground that had been quietly repossessed.
Then she twisted her head around to look behind her.
We made eye contact. Whatever was happening behind those round black eyes, it was processing fast — I could practically hear the loading bar finish and the error report print.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
I split my snout into a friendly smile for my newly hatched little sister.
I looked at the little coal ball dangling from my claw, making eye contact with me, being suspiciously well-behaved. Maybe this one wouldn't require violence. I brought my head in close.
"Let's negotiate. Give me some of your eggshell, cooperate, and I won't beat you up. How about it? Pretty good deal, right?"
I laid out the terms the way I used to walk clients through a retainer. Tier one: full cooperation, you keep two-thirds of your shell, everybody smiles. Tier two: partial cooperation, terms get renegotiated by my foot. Tier three wasn't a tier so much as a cautionary tale. I even had references — well, reference. One little green dragon, back across the cave, who could testify to my flexible payment structure.
Silence.
"Why so quiet?"
I gave the claw a little shake. The coal ball swayed with it, limp as laundry.
Her pitch-black pupils rolled once, and the next second, her face arranged itself into an expression of pure "terror."
"Okay. Just don't beat me up."
Excellent. This little coal ball understood the ancient wisdom: the wise dragon yields to circumstance.
I looked at her round, black, watery eyes. Huh. Kind of cute, actually.
"Nyx Baelmore, right? Heard the announcement. Nice name. Very distinguished. Lots of syllables." I gave her another little sway. "You know, most hatchlings scream when this happens. You didn't scream. I respect that. Professional."
The coal ball's eyes went even wider, and she seemed to be trying to make herself smaller while suspended in midair, which is a neat trick involving the neck, the shoulders, and a complete surrender of dignity.
The mischief urge rose immediately. My head drifted in closer again, and I gave my dangling little sister another "friendly" smile.
"So tell me — am I not good to you?"
Nyx: ...
She stared up at me for a long second, and I watched her settle some internal debate I wasn't invited to. Then her head bobbed, small and weak.
"...Thank you."
Satisfactory answer. I retracted my head.
There was something deeply satisfying about a negotiation where both parties left the table believing they'd gotten the better deal. She got to keep her dignity and the full use of her limbs. I got lunch. Professionally speaking, this was the cleanest transaction I'd closed in either of my lives — and I'd once closed a six-figure retainer between the third and fourth floors.
Honestly I wanted to play with the coal ball a little longer, but dinner waits for no dragon.
I swung my claw up.
Toss!
For the record, I aimed for the soft part of the floor. I'm a professional, not a monster.
The round black hatchling sailed high through the air — and then, mid-flight, her body twisted with casual precision, rotated a full circle, and stuck a smooth four-point landing on the dirt.
Huh. Graceful. I filed the landing away in the drawer labeled "probably nothing," right next to "runs upright when angry" and "says thank you to muggers." The drawer was getting full. Then the smell hit me, and the drawer could wait.
***
The aroma drifting out of her shell was incredible, and I could physically feel my mouth flood again. Enough restraint. I stepped forward, sprawled my whole body over the shell, stretched my neck down through the broken top, and surveyed the interior.
At the bottom: a pool of clear liquid. Egg fluid.
Great. Drinks were included with this one too.
Happy thought. I opened wide and bit off a chunk of shell.
Same potato-chip crunch as before — but the flavor had changed. The green one's shell had been original flavor. This one was spiced. Cumin, if I had to name it. Who was seasoning these? Never mind. Don't question the catering.
I took another bite and chewed thoughtfully, the way I'd once watched a colleague swirl a glass of red at a client dinner. Notes of cumin. A hint of smoke. An aftertaste of geological confidence. If shells were going to come in flavors, I was going to need a spreadsheet.
I chewed my way down the wall, bite after bite, until I reached the fluid line.
Not too much, not too little. One hundred percent full. Condition met.
My right claw patted my slightly bulging round belly with deep satisfaction.
I was done. Officially. Robbing anyone else now would just be greed for greed's sake.
However.
I looked at the gleaming pool of fluid in front of me.
What does black dragon egg fluid taste like? The curiosity itched.
My head crept forward.
Just one taste. Not a drink. A taste. A single, scientific sip.
Self-persuasion complete, my head slid into the shell and stopped above the pool. I gave it two big sniffs with both nostrils. Nothing. Colorless, odorless, same as the green one's.
Right. The tongue would have to do the research.
My snout parted, a pink little tongue slipped out, and I took one delicate lick.
My emerald pupils contracted to points.
Sour. Astringent. Aggressively, personally sour.
I yanked my head out with my tongue still hanging.
"Bleh! Bleh, bleh, bleh!"
Both front claws went to work scraping at my own tongue, trying to peel the taste off it. That flavor had gone straight to my brain and slapped it. Only after the sourness faded a few degrees did I feel human again. Dragon again. Whatever.
Lesson logged. Black dragon fluid: aggressively undrinkable. Green dragon fluid: floral, acceptable. The spreadsheet was filling in whether I wanted it to or not. At this rate, by the time every egg in the cave hatched, I'd be the world's foremost — and only — eggshell sommelier. A growth market. No competition. Terrible margins.
I shot a sidelong glare at the little coal ball lying obediently nearby.
Your fluid is terrible. What a waste of a soft, squishy, dessert-looking exterior.
But...
My emerald eyes narrowed.
I turned to the prone coal ball and split my snout.
"Remember my name. Vesperra."
From somewhere across the cave came a muffled yelp, a scuffle, and a thud — then the distant sound of four dragons holding very, very still.
The knot committee had heard the name. Apparently my masterpiece had a front-row seat to this conversation, and the name alone had just ended their argument for them.
I decided not to examine what that said about my landlady's reputation.
"If that doesn't sit right with you, you're welcome to challenge me after your first slumber."
Under my gaze, Nyx gave a small shake of her head.
"I... I won't challenge you."
Her little voice came out soft and squishy, the audio equivalent of a marshmallow.
What a soft little thing.
I'd dealt with soft clients before. Soft clients paid on time and never argued scope. Soft clients were the backbone of the economy.
Though — that personality. I gave the coal ball a rare second look. Was she sure she wasn't a metallic dragon with a paint job? Where was the temper? Where was the chromatic attitude? Then again, that depth of black was undeniable. One hundred percent pure chromatic, no question.
"Oh? Why not?"
"I... I can't beat you."
The little black dragon shrank her neck into her shoulders, the very picture of cowardice, a portrait titled *Please Don't Notice Me.* She'd even tucked her tail in. Full composition. Gallery-ready.
I immediately lost interest.
The coal ball was too soft. Bullying her had no texture. No crunch. And I was full now anyway — time to find a spot for my first slumber.
I did a slow turn, scouting. The cave offered options: the warm hollow near my red egg, home turf but shared with a deadline that had legs; the shadowed ridge behind the blue cluster, good sightlines; the far wall, quiet, boring, safe. The decision could wait until after the walk. Decisions were a walking activity.
I left her where she lay and walked off without another word.
***
Behind me, the little coal ball didn't make a sound.
No protests. No vows of revenge. No rematch being scheduled against my scales. After two muggings' worth of experience, I knew what a freshly robbed hatchling was supposed to sound like — and it wasn't this. The silence followed me halfway across the cave.
Somewhere around the egg cluster, the skin between my neck frills prickled. I glanced over my shoulder.
She was still by her shell. Head down. Eating. Slow, deliberate bites, like she had all the time in the world. Not looking at me at all.
Somehow that was worse.
Because it occurred to me, walking away, that I'd been very clever about the name. Names could be borrowed. Coats could be returned slightly used. But I'd chewed my way through that shell with my own mouth, left my mark on every bite — and scent didn't lie the way mouths did. I'd signed my work in saliva all over her lunchbox, and the quietest dragon in the cave was back there reading the signature.
...Nah. She was a marshmallow. A dainty little anthracite marshmallow who said thank you when you robbed her. What was she going to do, file a complaint?
My tail tingled again.
I really needed to stop ignoring that.