She basks in the crowd’s adulation. But at the banquet honoring her, she feels a twinge of disdain for them, followed by guilt at the unfamiliar emotion.

Her shield caught in the dragon’s maw, she twisted its head and plunged her sword through its crop into its brain.

She keeps only the customary tenth of the dragon’s horde, the rest going to Queen and country; even so, she is wealthy. No one charges the dragonslayer for anything. Gratitude wars with condemnation for people so eager to pay a tribute for their protection, their weakness.

Her scream echoed through the ruined palace as scalding blood streamed down her arm.

She secludes herself in a manor with a view of the palace. Servants gossip about her: her demands for obeisance, her mockery for those who earn their coin rather than winning it, her diet of raw meat that her infirmity makes difficult to eat, and her growing cruelty.

Her arm curled reflexively to her chest, even as the skin blackened and crisped.

She rakes the blackened flesh with her fingers until it peels away, and she stretches her new scaled limb and flexes her talons. She sets her eyes on the palace.