Morning came late and groggy, the kind of grey, muddled dawn where even the castle ghosts preferred to stay curled under their bedsheets. I didn't sleep much. How could I, with the memory of last night's not-quite-a-date gnawing away at my thoughts like a nervous rat in a pantry?
I rolled over, face squashed into the pillow, and blinked blearily at the ceiling. Smaug, ever the picture of reptilian innocence, was snoring softly beside my knees, curled like a monstrous, fire-breathing croissant. He twitched in his sleep, a puffy cloud of smoke trailing from his nostrils and forming a perfect ring over my toes.
[You look like death warmed over and sprinkled with burnt toast crumbs,] the system drawled inside my head.
I groaned. "Thank you for that."
[It's a compliment. You should see yourself after battle practice.]
I flipped the pillow over, pressing it against my ear. "Go haunt someone else."
