Mordrax the Terrible, Scourge of the Skies, Hoarder of Gold, and Warden of the Eastern Peaks, stretched his wings with a slow, deliberate sigh, sending a few loose coins cascading down his hoard. His golden eyes, half-lidded in exasperation, fixed upon the small, wiry goblin standing at attention below. Splug, his most barely competent minion, clutched a battered clipboard in one claw, his large, warty ears twitching with the kind of nervous energy that came from long years of handling matters that were well beyond his station.

“Splug,” Mordrax rumbled, his voice echoing through the vast cavern. “Explain it to me.”

Splug gulped. “Er… explain what, boss?”

Mordrax exhaled, slow and heavy, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Why. Is she. Still screaming?”

Splug shifted, glancing at his notes. “Ah, well, y’see, milord, she’s a princess, ain’t she? Screamin’s part o’ the package, like. Comes wif the silk gowns an’ the delicate manners.”

Mordrax’s tail flicked against a pile of gold, sending a few goblets clattering. “Yes, Splug, I am aware that princesses have a habit of screaming. What I fail to understand is why this one hasn’t stopped yet.” His molten gaze narrowed. “It has been three days. You would think she’d have adjusted by now.”

Splug flipped through his papers. “Ah, well, accordin’ to me notes, Princess Ameliana’s at about the usual pace. Stage one, screamin’ an’ cursin’ your name—oh, she’s got some right fancy words, this one—then there’s refusin’ to eat, then the inevitable furniture throwin’.” He tapped the clipboard. “We’re deep into stage two, boss. Supper’s been rejected twice, an’ last tray got launched clear across the chamber. Almost knocked out old Grizzle in the kitchens.”

Mordrax groaned, pressing a claw to his snout. “Why do they always throw the trays, Splug? What is the reasoning? Do they think I care if they eat?”

Splug scratched his head. “Dunno, boss. Reckon they think it’s some kind o’ defiance, like. I shall waste away before I accept yer foul dragon vittles!” He snorted. “But it’s all nonsense. They always give in, sooner or later. First it’s ‘I won’t eat, I shan’t touch a morsel!’, an’ then next thing you know, they’re sittin’ there wif a mouthful o’ roast venison, pretendin’ they don’t enjoy it.”

Mordrax let out a dry chuckle. “And do they ever acknowledge that they were being fools?”

Splug grinned. “Oh no, boss. They act like it never ‘appened.”

Mordrax rolled onto his side, stretching lazily. “It’s so tedious, Splug. The same routine, every time. The screaming, the threats, the grand speeches about honor.” He rubbed his temples. “They act as though I have nothing better to do than sit here, wringing my claws, waiting for them to waste away out of sheer spite.”

Splug sniffed. “Reckon they don’t think past the part where they get carried off, boss. Prob’ly think if they kick up enough fuss, you’ll get tired of ‘em an’ send ‘em home.”

Mordrax scoffed. “Do they not understand how this works? It is not about them.” He waved a claw toward the cavern entrance, as if addressing some unseen audience. “Do they think I woke up one day and decided, hmm, today I shall snatch a princess because I simply have nothing else planned?”

Splug nodded. “Aye, they do seem to fink it’s all about ‘em, don’t they?”

“Exactly,” Mordrax grumbled. “No comprehension of the political weight of it all. The strategy. The long game. They assume I want a hoard of golden-haired captives rather than actual leverage.”

Splug shrugged. “Ain’t much for big-picture thinkin’, are they? Always thinkin’ this time, they’ll be the one who changes everythin’.” He chuckled. “Oh, if only they knew.”

Mordrax let out a deep, rumbling sigh, letting his wings settle against the cavern floor. “It’s insulting, Splug. As if I am some thoughtless brute, rather than a dragon who has perfected the art of careful, calculated villainy.”

Splug nodded solemnly. “Ain’t like the old days, boss. Used to be, a princess disappearin’ meant kingdoms shakin’ in their boots, sendin’ envoys, makin’ offers. Used to be a real game, that did. But now?” He spat to the side. “Now they just send some wet-eared knight wif more guts than brains, hopin’ he’ll get lucky.”

Mordrax let out a low growl. “And what always happens, Splug?”

Splug grinned. “They get roasted, boss.”

“They get roasted, Splug.” Mordrax shook his head. “And yet, they never learn.”

A fresh wail rang out from the back of the cavern, followed by a loud thud—likely the sound of something being thrown at the door.

Mordrax groaned. “That is it. If she does not quiet down by nightfall, I am putting her in the far chamber.”

Splug let out a low whistle. “The far chamber, eh? Ain’t put a princess in there before.”

Mordrax’s tail flicked irritably. “It is the furthest chamber, Splug. And heavily walled in stone. If she must keep wailing, I would rather it be from a great distance.”

Splug nodded. “Aye, smart thinkin’, boss. Good, solid villainy. Move the problem further away. Let ‘er wear herself out in a nice, echo-proof bit o’ the lair.”

Mordrax huffed, settling back against his hoard. “If she is still screeching in a week, I shall start letting the bats in.”

Splug cackled. “Oh, that’s a nasty trick, that is.”

“I am nothing if not patient, Splug,” Mordrax muttered, closing his eyes.

From the back of the cavern, another shriek rang out, followed by what sounded like a chair splintering against a wall.

Mordrax cracked one eye open. “Prepare the far chamber.”

Splug grinned, making a note on his clipboard. “Right away, boss.”

As the goblin scuttled off, Mordrax let out a long, slow exhale. He had held princesses before, and he would do so again, but by the gods, he was getting tired of the shrieking ones. Perhaps next time he ought to take a princess with a bit more sense.

…If such a thing existed.