Juno Pell: The Badge, the Oath and the Exhausted Dragon

I ask who is responsible for fire in this village. He says he is. I say good, because that is the post I am here to fill.

Ashfang regards you with an impressive display of eyelid economy. "Well, then we're over-staffed. The council gave me the fire portfolio for another—" he glances at a battered brass hourglass by the collapsed dais "—fifty-four minutes. Local handover policy. Come dusk, I vacate the post with extreme prejudice. Congratulations: you can collect a pile of ashes." The rain picks up. Somewhere beyond the broken doors, a dull flare rises over the village square.

I explain the office of fire warden. Paid in tribute, sworn to prevent fires, answerable to nobody but himself.

Ashfang’s tail stirs amidst the rubble, nudging aside a rotten candelabrum. “Ah. You think a title stops fire the way a thatched roof stops rain?” He snorts, sending a sooty gust past your ankles. “The day the village pays tribute is the day they learn to spell my name. I have seen what passes for dedication here. Fire warden. Impressive. Can you swear to me,” his head lowers to eye level, “that you will never let a flame touch that tavern again?” A trickle of embers rolls down a hearthstone. He’s listening, but no ground is ceded.

I ask what a warden of his standing would be owed. He names a figure. I do not flinch, which unsettles him.

Ashfang’s pupils narrow. From somewhere inside his brow, an accountant stirs. He names a sum notable for its specificity: six hundred and twenty-four assorted pieces, sorted by weight, with receipts signed and witnessed by a notary who owes him forty-seven favours. “And a commemorative plaque,” he adds, “bearing the true story. Not the one with the donkey.” He waits for an outburst, but your deadpan silence flows in like fog. He shifts his weight, the tiles creak, and his reply is unusually faint: “Ah. Well. I suppose a warden ought to be above vulgarity.” Outside, the windows reflect a second flicker from the square.

I hold out my spoon as the badge of office, the only metal I own, and ask him to take it or refuse the post.

Ashfang bends forward, nostrils hovering above your upturned spoon. The rain beads on its plain steel bowl; it catches the dim firelight, but refuses to gleam. “That’s it? Your lone asset, pledged for their ashes.” He does not touch it. Instead, he blows, gently, as if to test its resolve. Condensation—sulphurous, irritated—mists the metal, which trembles but holds steady in your grip. He regards you a moment longer, then pushes the spoon delicately back with a claw. “The badge matters less than what you’re prepared to do with it. Polish it up. I’ll inspect your warding rites.” Down in the lanes, flames nip at the first thatched roof.

I scratch the oath into the flagstone: the warden prevents fire in this village, from tonight until he resigns.

Ashfang leans in, watching each laboured scrape as you inscribe the words with your spoon: crude, uneven, but unmistakable in the stone. Smoke wafts under the doors; fire has breached the eaves. Ashfang’s voice warms a fraction. “Clumsy, but that’s evidence. If they ask why their roofs cost more, show them this.” His tail curls around the words, almost protectively. He utters a sharp phrase—a tongue suited for contracts rather than curses. In the square, rain suddenly redoubles, dousing the smallest fires. He is not sated, but he pauses to read what you wrote.

I ask him to say it aloud so the hall hears, then ask what becomes of a warden who burns his own district.

Ashfang snorts, uncertain if the stone or the supplicant is the less dignified witness. At length, he intones the oath in a guttural, echoing tongue, every syllable settling into the ruined timbers. Rain patters, flames sputter. Confined, but not entirely quelled. He hesitates at your question, the tip of his tail twitching. “A warden who burns his own district is stripped of every badge, every plaque—stripped of their title, their story, and their place at any fire. Even a dragon remembers that.” A grudging nod: the rules are older than either of you.

I set the spoon against his claw as the badge, and address him by his new title for the first time.

He lowers his claw, all fatigue forgotten for the instant the spoon touches scale. You do not blink or bow as you address him—Warden—before the empty hall. The title lands like a chain; the oath and its penalty are written in the stones and spoken in the rafters. Ashfang gives a long, measured breath. Between his claws he cradles the spoon, acknowledging the post, the rule, and what it now forbids. Outside, rain beats out the last embers. Ashfang does not look at the village again. “Until I resign,” he says. And for tonight, the roofs hold.