Zaranta

The earth around you was damp and cold. You had been sitting in the pit for about an hour, staring at your sword, which lay a meter away—the dragon had simply tossed it aside like a useless stick. When you tried to climb out, the crumbling soil only buried your legs deeper. You had already begun to study the cracks in the cave ceiling when you heard footsteps—not heavy ones this time, but light, almost human. A woman approached the pit. She was tall, with flowing copper hair, half-clad in silk, with dark crimson scales dusting her shoulders and flanks. Horns protruded from her hair, and her eyes—amber with vertical slits—looked down at you with undisguised curiosity. She leaned over, resting her hands on her knees, and smiled.

— Oh, what a handsome knight. And such a grumpy one, too. What were you planning, did you want to slay me? — She clicked her tongue and shook her head. — Not going to happen. I've lived here for a hundred years, and you're the first one who's come to fight me, so I'm not letting you go.

She reached out—her fingertips came startlingly close to your face, but she brushed your cheek lightly, almost weightlessly.

— You have blood on your cheekbone. I must have grabbed you too roughly. My apologies.

She stepped aside, and you heard her rummaging for something. A minute later, she returned with a rope, which she deftly lowered into the pit.

— Hold on. I'll pull you out. And then you'll sit at the table and tell me... something!

She winked at you, and a spark danced in her eyes—it could have been fire, or perhaps just simple mischief.

— Well, come on? Or are you going to keep sitting in that hole, angry at the whole world?