It wasn't the customers' endless complaints. She held out a steel gauntlet and received those with

grace—some were shaped like nuts and bolts, others like misshapen springs that had been compressed or stretched beyond their limits. She would slap her palm to one shoulder in a brisk salute, and more metal debris would be added to the deformed, bizarre wings upon her pouldrons. As the wings grew, she stooped a little lower.

 It wasn't the shields strapped to both arms—the round one came in handy when she served breakfast. It wasn't the pair of great iron swords strapped to her back—they had fine edges when she needed to refill the log store. She would polish them as she sat by the hearth late into the night, watching the fire smoulder, feeling the warmth ebb away. 

​

It wasn't the shoes for his horse which had attached themselves to her faulds. It wasn't the dents she'd earned, nor even the fact that everything was all so heavy.

 He'd named their guest house The Sand Castle, never mind that it stood upon a rocky cliff overlooking a pebbled beach. He'd proudly hung the sign from their front door, then retired to his turret. 

 He left her to run reception. You're the one with the magnetic personality. You'd do it so much better than me.

​

When the cracks appeared, widening into jagged-edged fissures into which their dreams fell, he promised to fill them. Tomorrow. When the demands for refunds began, he told her to grow a thicker skin. 

It wasn't the higgledy-piggledy tower of cooking pots that sat upon her helmet, nor the hammer and nails that rested upon her right sabaton. It wasn't the rake that trailed from her left heel, nor the chicken wire that twisted around her neck like a barbaric cowl.

It was the barbed arrows that stuck out at crazy angles, turning her into a spiky monster. Somehow, they all managed to slip into that gap under her arm, angling inwards, perilously close to her heart. The last one had been in response to her request for help with fixing the shower in room five. You're turning into a right old Dragon.

She looked down at her twisted, hardened, disfigured body, with its crazy edges that clawed at the floor, and she began to walk. She gouged the door frame as she left, picking up speed as she shed pans and beaten mugs, knives, needles, and spatulas. Sparks flew from the stones beneath her feet as a shower of weaponry and implements rained from her, bouncing in all directions. As she reached the clifftop, her breastplate split with a thunderous crack. 

She flung wide her arms and flew.