That naive? This world created Diaofei. This world hurt her. This world had thrown a trickster at her wearing the guise of the Allfather within minutes of setting foot outside, and then proceeded to rain stones upon her head endlessly while fencing her in with castle walls and English knights. And this world still had magic enough for dragons. Whatever softness might reign in the world of rebirth, it is most certainly [i]not[/i] naive. What a stupid thought. She should strike her own head from her shoulders for the audacity of even pondering that question.

Not that it matters. The question of trap or ambush is utterly irrelevant next to the only question that matters: is this her? Is this Actia? All she knows about her prey is that she should come when the shrine burns. The shrine is burning. She has come. Is this her?!

It is the pursuit of that truth that pulls Saber out of the flames. She is on the dragon in a second. A boot to the head rather than her blade through that command seal painted throat. Even a smaller dragon such as this one would be unlikely to die straight away from a single wound, and its materialized servant would have more than ample time to strike a counterblow while she was committed. It would simply take too long to wrench the blade free, and without a spare weapon that was an unacceptable loss. 

Bait out the ambush, and then crush it. In the meantime a warrior of her stature would be laughed out of her own halls for fearing a dragon she could plausibly mount and ride under better circumstances. Let it roar, let it fight! And while it struggles against the iron of her knee pinning its shoulder against the ground, let it also answer!

"Give me your name, little wyrm. This war is not yours to win."

She presses her weight down harder into the ground, rotating her shoulder up as she sinks to get a better angle on the arc that would crush the inevitable counterattack. Shadows seep into the floor where they fleck off of her dark cloak. In the icy depths of her eyes, motes of molten gold begin to pool and glitter, as if they'd melted off her treasures and seeped into her soul.