The goblin’s name was Grobnar Gristlechewer, and he wore a hat much too large for his head. It drooped over one eye like a mushroom cap in the rain, and he had to keep swiping at it with his stubby claw when he wanted to glare properly. Which was often.

Especially now.

“I don’t get it,” Grobnar grunted, peering up at the great dragon through the tangled scaffolding. “You’s wantin’ a pit here—real deep, nasty pit. Good trap spot, aye. But then you’s sayin’ you want plants. Wot kinda dungeon got flowers?”

Across the cave, reclining like a coiled emerald river, was the dragon himself: Lord Iridion, the Verdant Flame. His scales shimmered with the green of springtime, the gold of ripened wheat, and the occasional glint of mild exasperation.

“I said I wanted moss. Ivy. Perhaps a fern or two. Something alive.”

“Aye, I gets that,” Grobnar muttered, scratching his ear with a soot-covered finger. “But I don’t gets why. Moss is what gets in the way of spikes, see? All soft and springy.”

Iridion sighed—an elegant sort of sigh that smelled faintly of cinnamon and scorched oak.

“I live here, Grobnar. This is my home, not merely a tomb for the unwelcome. I sleep in this chamber. I think in this chamber. I entertain guests—”

Grobnar blinked at him.

“...Other dragons,” Iridion clarified quickly. “Important ones. And I rather think it’d be pleasant to see sunlight now and then.”

Grobnar looked slowly up at the rocky ceiling. “We under a mountain, yer grace.”

“Then carve a skylight,” said Iridion cheerfully.

Grobnar’s eye twitched.

“A skylight.”

“Indeed.”

“Through the mountain.”

“Yes. Perhaps with a little colored glass in it,” Iridion added, his eyes lighting up like twin lanterns. “Something with greens and golds. Oh, and a mural below! Tastefully done.”

Grobnar groaned and slumped into a pile of loose rocks, which he immediately began to rearrange into a jagged pile out of spite.

“A dungeon’s s’posed t’be dark,” he mumbled, stacking stones. “S’posed t’be full o’ shadows an’ drippin’ water an’ skeletons what rattle when no one’s lookin’. Not... greenhouse-y. Not cozy-like. Yer givin’ me a feelin’ in me gut I don’t like.”

“That would be indigestion,” said Iridion kindly. “You did eat half a barrel of tallow candles this morning.”

Grobnar waved a hand. “Breakfast’s breakfast. But this ain’t right. You’s wantin’ curtains too?”

“Actually, yes,” said Iridion, spreading his wings. “Tapestries. Woven with the deeds of my ancestors. Some in the hallways. Maybe a rug in the main hoard chamber. Something plush, to step on when I emerge in the mornings.”

Grobnar made a noise like a teapot being strangled.

“Ye can’t ambush folk with plush rugs!” he cried. “No self-respectin’ blade trap pops outta a rug! Ye need flagstones! Cracked ones!”

Iridion tapped a claw against his chin, considering.

“Well, how about this: plush rug and blade trap.”

Grobnar narrowed his eyes.

“Hidden beneath?”

“Of course.”

Grobnar considered this. “Well... that’s a bit better.”

They worked through the afternoon, Grobnar grumbling like a thundercloud the entire time. Iridion requested scented torches, and Grobnar responded by accidentally installing a swinging axe mechanism in the hallway outside the sitting nook.

“Who puts a sittin’ nook in a dungeon?” Grobnar snarled, adjusting a rusted gear with his teeth.

“I do,” Iridion said mildly, sipping tea atop a polished stone dais. “It faces the waterfall cavern. Marvelous acoustics. Have you heard frogs echo? Quite soothing.”

Grobnar muttered something and continued working.

By the end of the week, the dungeon was half gloom, half grandeur. One corridor shimmered with vines and glowing mushrooms. Another was home to a hidden pit trap full of weasels with lanterns tied to their tails (Grobnar’s idea). The main chamber was bathed in warm light from the newly-carved skylight—slightly crooked, with a patch of glass that wobbled when the wind blew—but Iridion loved it.

Grobnar stood beside him, arms crossed, squinting up at the ceiling.

“Well... it ain’t the worst dungeon I ever made,” he muttered. “Still think you’re cracked wantin’ pillows in a treasure hoard. But... s’not bad. Got enough pointy bits.”

Iridion gave a satisfied nod. “You’ve done well, Grobnar. Truly.”

Grobnar kicked a pebble. “Aye. Well. Guess I’ll pack up me tools. Got a litch downriver wants a moat with eels.”

He turned to go, then paused.

“Still think yer ivy’s gonna rot the whole west wall.”

Iridion smiled. “Then I shall sit and watch it crumble. In comfort.”

Grobnar snorted and stomped off down the tunnel, muttering about skylights and frogs and how adventurers these days didn’t fear enough mold.

Iridion watched him go, then looked up at the sunlight spilling through the glass, casting a golden sheen over his gold.

He sighed contentedly.

“Finally. A proper dungeon.”