Look.
Just because it wasn’t the right kind of scale doesn’t mean it had to go to waste.
That’s what I told myself as I dropped the brittle little red scrap into a bubbling pot of vinegar and broth and watched it fizz like it was dying all over again. The steam hissed up, thick with sour heat and something faintly... reptilian.
I gave it a stir. The scale dissolved clean, left behind a reddish shimmer like glitter from hell.
Nice. Fancy.
Behind me, Dragon finally cracked an eye open.
“No,” he said.
I didn’t turn. “No what?”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
He groaned into the moss. “Saya, that was a wyrm scale.”
“Yeah, and now it’s soup stock.”
“You’re insane.”
“You’re dramatic. I added wild greens. And noodles.”
He sat up, slowly. Sniffed the air once. His brow furrowed.
“…Is that… rice vinegar?”
I grinned. “Maybe.”
Another sniff. Closer this time.
“Wild gingerroot?”
“Maybe.”
He leaned over the pot, gave it a long, slow inhale, then exhaled with a reluctant sigh.
“…You used my recipe.”
“Yours, mine, stolen from a smuggler’s noodle cart in Port Ulisha—does it matter? It’s soup. And it smells divine.”
He squinted. “It’s probably cursed.”
“Cursed soup’s still soup.”
We stared at each other.
I handed him a bowl.
He took it.
Grumbled the whole time, of course.
But he slurped the first bite.
Then the second.
Then looked at me with deep, resigned shame.
“…Damn it.”
I smirked. “Good?”
He didn’t answer.
But he asked for seconds.
Which is basically an apology in Dragon.