The dragon’s sobs echoed through the cavern, big, wet, snotty sounds that rattled the stalactites.

  “Yeah, it’s okay,” I said, patting the dragon’s massive claw like it was a sad puppy. “Let it all out, big guy.”

  “I just don’t know who I am anymore,” the dragon blubbered, smoke curling out of its nostrils as tears the size of soup bowls splashed onto the stone floor.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, glancing over his shoulder. Sylla and Gorne were shoveling gold into their packs eyes wide with manic glee.

  “Am I just, a monster?” the dragon whimpered, curling its tail around itself like a scared cat. “I mean, I hoard gold, but I never spend it. I threaten villages, for what? What am I even doing with my life?”

  “You’re asking the right questions,” I said, nodding sagely while Gorne swore under his breath, struggling to stuff a diamond the size of a newborn into his bag.

  “It’s like, do they even see me, the real me, you know?” the dragon sniffled. “Or do they just see a big scary dragon?”

  “People can be shallow like that,” I said trying to ignore the fact that Sylla was now wearing a ruby-studded crown and doing a little victory dance behind the dragon’s back.

  “I should’ve gone to art school,” the dragon muttered, head hanging low. “Dad said I couldn’t draw, but maybe he was wrong.”

  “Maybe he was,” I said, biting my lip to keep from laughing.

  The dragon lifted its head, eyes glistening. “You really think so?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, giving the claw a final, reassuring pat. “You can be anything you want to be.”

  “Hey, Ronan, you just about done over there?”

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  “Just about,” I said, straightening up. “Listen, buddy, I gotta go. But you keep working on you, okay? Maybe, start a podcast. Talk about your feelings you know.”

  The dragon sniffled and nodded, a little smile breaking through the tears.

  “A podcast,” the dragon said, perking up. “I could call it fire and feelings. Or, ooh, scales of emotion.’”

  “Catchy,” I said, backing away slowly. “You’ve got the voice for it.”

  “Thanks, man,” the dragon said, rubbing a massive claw across its snout. “You’re a good listener. Most adventurers just try to stab me.”

  “Crazy world,” I said, inching backward.

  “Maybe I could do motivational speeches. Like, Burn Away Your Doubts or Roar Your Way to Success.”

  “That’s the spirit,” I said, grinning as I finally hit the threshold. “You’ve got a lot to offer. Just gotta find your audience.”

  He smiled, a hopeful glint in his eye. “Thanks, Ronan. You’re like, a real friend.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, feeling a twinge of guilt as Sylla gestured frantically from behind a boulder. “You take care now.”

  I bolted down the tunnel, catching up with the others. Gorne looked back at me, shaking his head. “How the hell did you do that?”

  “Existential Dread,” I said, skidding to a stop beside Gorne. “It’s a second-level spell. Cheaper than Fireball, way more effective.”

  Gorne blinked at me. “You mean to tell me that entire sob fest back there was you?”

  I shrugged, adjusting my pack. “I just, enhanced what was already there. Dragons are naturally prone to melancholy. All I did was amplify it a bit.”

  “So you turned him into a blubbering mess with a second level spell?” Sylla said, eyeing me like I was some kind of sociopath.

  “Better than getting roasted alive,” I said, while trying to wipe dragon snot off my sleeve. “Besides, it’s not permanent. He’ll snap out of it in a few hours.”

  Sylla raised an eyebrow. “And then what? He realizes we cleaned out his hoard and comes looking for us?”

  I waved her off. “Nah. By then, he’ll be too busy setting up his recording studio. Trust me. Once a dragon gets fixated on a new hobby, they go all in.”

  Gorne looked unconvinced. “You sure about that? I don’t want to wake up tomorrow with my tent on fire because Mr. Emotional Crisis figured out he’s been robbed.”

  I grinned. “Look, worst-case scenario, he tracks us down and tries to burn us to a crisp. Best case scenario, he becomes a self help guru and never thinks about his hoard again. Either way, we will be far enough away to make sure it is someone else’s problem.”

  We made it to a clearing, and Gorne dropped his pack with a loud clatter. “You’re one twisted son of a lich, Wick. Just saying.”

  I smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

  A sudden roar echoed from the cave above, and we all froze.