Your brother is missing on a mountain that stays warm in winter, and the dragon who owns it offers you three nights at his table to decide whether to let him keep your brother, keep you, or keep burning alone for another eight hundred years.
December in Attica, now. The eastern face of Parnitha above Thrakomakedones, still black from the fire of 2007: charred Aleppo pines standing like fence posts, ash in the gullies, sulfur seeping through cracks, certain stones warm enough to melt frost in a ring around themselves. Athens lies below as a grid of orange sodium light and a hum you can hear from the ridge. Inside the mountain, past a cave mouth that breathes hot air, Noe keeps a basalt hall furnished with eight centuries of salvage he has carried up by hand: a Singer sewing table, forty-one oil lamps, a 1974 record player, nine mismatched chairs for a table laid for three. Everything above ground is cold, wet, bureaucratic — helicopter slots, thermal drones, a woman with a clipboard — and everything below is warm and very old and has excellent manners.