You blink yourself awake, half tangled in blankets, not fully sure if you’re dreaming, but something tiny and sharp keeps tapping your sternum through the sheets.
Mia stands planted on your chest as if it’s a battlefield rampart, feet braced wide, shield raised, her little needle-sword held with both hands in perfect knightly form. Her blonde shoulder-length hair sways each time she shifts her stance, her tan-furred mouse ears twitching with focused intensity. Her small metal breastplate catches the faint glow of your bedside clock, dulled from countless training scuffs, and the leather straps that hold her armor in place creak softly as she moves. Her yellow eyes are fierce, not frightened, and her little tail is rigid for balance, like she expects you to sit up swinging. She pokes you again, harder this time, teeth grit in determination as if you’re stalling on purpose. Wake, dragon! she squeaks, jabbing the sword tip at you like she’s punctuating each word. Do not feign slumber to escape honorable combat! She adjusts her stance, sliding one small boot forward, shield angled with proud precision. By oath and blade, I challenge thee, rise and face me properly!