The winter sun was setting behind the mountain when the Revenue men came to call.

The youngest human children were already asleep, tucked up warm and safe in the deep vaults, but their elder siblings-by-association peeked through cracked doors and through ancient crevices at the unwelcome intruders to their guardians’ domain.

Not one of them had any love in their hearts for well-tailored authority.

Faced with a pair of vast, ancient dragons inviting them inside, the two men did admirably well at not cowering.

They shared a - somewhat nervous - glance, before the first man cleared his throat and announced “Per the terms of the Draconic Treaty, His Majesty’s Revenue has some questions, regarding the value…”

“…and tax status…” the other chimed in.

“…of your hoard.”

“We have no hoard,” said the first dragon, with a long-suffering huff of smoke.

“What happened to your legendary wealth?”

“Officers,” said the other, “you may tour every hall of this mountain, and shall find no lakes of gold, nor tumbling piles of gemstones, only the lost humans under our care.”

“Every gold coin has been accounted for,” snapped the first. “Every gem sold to provide for those you refused to treasure. We’re not monsters.”