PON SEIZING HIS BELOVED PRINCESS GENEVIEVE, ERØJER THE ROSEDRAGON LOOKED FORWARD TO FINALLY SHEDDING HIS VIRGINITY. LITTLE DID HE KNOW, LOVE SELDOM GOES AS PLANNED.

Summoning all the courage he possessed, he left the comfort of his cave and soared to Castle G’leta, just beyond the Isle of Viista, where he spotted the princess picking wyldflowers in the field just beyond the castle gates, then swooped in and snatched her up before the king’s peons knew what to do with themselves.

All save for the dreaded knight, Sir Chad. The hero of the castle charged out on his steed, sword clenched firmly in mailed fist, his thick, dark mane like a cape fluttering behind him. The horse’s speed was no match for the power of Erøjer’s wings and the wind, but still, Sir Chad pursued.

Erøjer envied the knight’s prowess, not just in battle, but also in bed, so the rumors had spread throughout the kingdom. No woman could resist him. Nor, so the whispers told, could any man. 

Sir Chad’s gallant predecessors had slain all remaining Diamondwings, leaving the Rosedragons to reach the age of fertility with no way to seek muliebral warmth. When Sir Chad finally arrived to rescue Princess Genevieve, Erøjer would leave him a roasted swine, a grisly banquet offering for his rotten king. The time of rejection and defeat had come to an end.

Rosedragons couldn’t help being introverts. Hibernation did that to a fellow. Still, throughout the years, Erøjer had aligned himself with a few other Rosedragons. The Wizards of Mount Fir’Shann, they dubbed themselves. Erøjer had never met the others in the scaly flesh, but they hissed to one another via the echoes that bounced off the damp cavern walls. Their daily chinwags soothed Erøjer’s feelings of isolation. He knew there were others ready to take up his cause, when the time came.

And that time would be soon.

But for now, he’d remain down below. His cave brought him comfort, his mountain of gold the kingdom’s most expensive bed. Erøjer had worked so hard to build his pile of riches—scorching towns and their folk until not even embers remained—but his treasures and the methods by which they’d been acquired failed to impress Genevieve. What could he possibly do to get her—or any princess—to acknowledge him? Rosedragons didn’t know poetry from pottery, and—despite the name of their breed—they found flowers quite disagreeable. He’d trade away every last coin, if just one of these ungrateful wenches would give themselves to him willingly. And for eternity.

Erøjer decided a nap was in order. Slumber was sure to bring clarity.

As the Rosedragon traveled to the Land of Nod, he dreamt of Sir Chad. Yet something had changed about his foe. The knight’s lovely long locks were now fair and curled, flowing as if the wind carried them. He wore not a suit of armor, but a bodiced petticoat, laced tight with golden thread. He called himself Lady Charlotte. Charlotte the Harlot. He yearned not to slay but to be slayed.

Erøjer awoke, every scale on his serpentine body quivering. He vowed to abandon all pretense of seduction. Starting today, Rosedragons didn’t ask politely. They took whatever they wanted. 

Princess Genevieve was chained to a jagged, crooked stone with chains and leather thongs, gagged with a glob of dragonspit, a thick, grey gel that filled her entire mouth. Tears fell from her eyes, suicide jumpers from a lonely bridge.

“Princess Genevieve, my object of desire, why do you not adore me?” Erøjer fancied his voice an intimidating boom, but the flowery words were marred by the pathetic squeak from his wicked underbite. All remaining confidence went straight down the shit pit.

The princess squealed and squirmed. Her bosom rose and fell. Erøjer stood on his hind legs, showed off the impressive physique he’d worked so hard to build, revealed his pleasure wyrm below. 

He unsheathed one ferocious claw, dug it tenderly into the princess’s mouth to remove the dragonspit. It plopped to the ground like fresh placenta. Genevieve vomited and gasped for air. Her eyes went straight to his pleasure wyrm, and every ounce of fear she’d been harboring transformed into maddening mirth. Her laughs were icicles scraping against the deepest crevices of Erøjer’s eardrums.

“You find something amusing, woman?”

“I’ve never seen a dragon’s pizzle.” Genevieve tried to lift her bound hand to point at his pleasure wyrm. “It’s like a man’s, only smaller.”

Erøjer paused, unsure how to react to such a ruinous insult. He did the one thing that came naturally. With one swipe of his claw, he tore the princess from the stone, snapping leather, chains, flesh, and bone as if they were made of paper. All but one chain, which still clung to the princess’s detached left arm. 

Erøjer lifted her toward his face. A geyser of blood spilled to the ground, staining his precious coins. The princess’s echoing screams filled the cave, and Erøjer wondered if the other Wizards of Mount Fir’Shann could hear. He hoped, prayed they’d be jealous.

Before Genevieve could beg for what remained of her life, Erøjer opened his gaping maw and tossed her in.

A crunch, a gulp, and a belch.

He’d barely had time to begin digesting her, before he heard the neigh of a horse off in the distance, then the battle cry of a warrior.

Sir Chad.

Something stirred deep within Erøjer. The truth. He steadied himself. The Rosedragon had many centuries to look forward to, many more riches to hoard, and he wished for someone with whom he could share his warmth.

Sir Chad would surely understand in time. 

Erøjer did not plan to die a virgin.