Mara Thorn climbed the mountain with a sack of smoked goat over her shoulder and a written offer from the king folded in her coat. Two weeks ago, a dragon had come down from the peak and burned three grain sheds before flying back up. The king wanted it dead. Mara had asked for a month to try something else first. She was the only person in the valley who had ever fed a wild thing and lived, and she planned to spend that credit now. The cave sat above the tree line, a black split in the rock that smelled of iron and old ash. She set the goat down at the entrance and waited until she heard claws on stone. The dragon came out slow, red and blue scales scraping the rock, one horn chipped, one eye tracking her without blinking. Mara spoke plain. She said the cave was cold and narrow, and the goats in the valley were fat, and the king would send soldiers by the next moon if nothing changed. She offered a warmer cave lower down, a share of every season's herd, and safe passage over the farms. She said the other choice was arrows and pitch. The dragon listened. It sniffed the goat, then the paper in her hand, then her face. It did not speak, but it dragged one long claw across the dirt between them and drew a shape she did not know, then pushed the goat back toward her with its snout. Mara understood the terms had changed. The dragon wanted something first, something she had not brought, and it would wait in the cave until she returned with it. She picked up the goat, put the offer back in her coat, and started down the mountain with a new debt she did not yet understand.