It took him two weeks just to get that wound to stop weeping. Two weeks of groaning, flopping dramatically on every available surface, moaning about humidity and Two weeks of me playing nursemaid, herbalist, and emotional support harlot.
Now he’s walking again. Slowly. Favoring one side. Still muttering like a retired war poet with gout. But he’s moving.
Which is good. Because we have ten days till the next full moon, and I that swamp hag meant it.
I glance over at him. His scales are duller than usual, but there’s color back in his eyes. And in his temper.
“So,” I say casually, kicking a rock down the path, “what’s the plan?”
He doesn’t respond.
I try again. “You know. The debt.”
He exhales through his nose. “I was hoping you’d forgotten.”
I scowl. “It’s I never forget who I owe.”
“You forget you owe.”
“That’s different.”
He limps a little more dramatically, as if pain will distract me.
I don’t let him.
“So?” I push. “We going to visit your lovely Aunt Apocalypse and ask her for a souvenir?”
His whole body stiffens.
“No.”
“Not even to ?”
“Absolutely not.”
He speeds up a bit. I speed up with him. He huffs.
I kick another rock, harder this time. It bounces off a tree with a satisfying .
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“Okay, then what? We run? Fake our deaths? Hope the hag croaks on a toadstool before she finds us?”
He growls low in his throat. Not the dramatic kind. The real kind. That kind.
I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t look at me. Just mutters:
“”
I stop walking.
“What kind of trap?”
He finally turns his head, eyes narrowed.
“The kind, Saya. The kind we The kind where someone gives you something for free… and then casually asks for a favor that sounds small, sounds harmless, sounds .”
I frown. “You mean the hag?”
He nods.
“You know who’s dangerous?
Pompous bastards. Men with titles. Fancy armor. Flaming swords.
The Duke of Splendid-Whatever.
They fold like napkins the moment things get difficult.”
I snort. “True.”
“But the living in a shack at the edge of the world?
The one who smells like onions and frog regret?
Who brews tea that makes you see your own past mistakes as shadow puppets?
the one you don’t cross.”
I chew my lip.
“So… you think she’s, what, some exiled witch queen?”
“Best case.”
I grimace. “What’s worst case?”
He glances at the sky, then at me.
“Some ancient , banished by her kin for crimes so terrifying they aren’t recorded in any mortal tongue.
Now biding her time.
Plotting.
Waiting.
Feeding goats until the stars align.”
I blink. “And we’re… between her and your aunt.”
“Correct.”
I sigh. “So. We’re .”
“Between two female demigods.”
“Brilliant.”
He nods.
We walk in silence a few more paces.
“So,” I say, lightly, “what’s the plan?”
He flinches like I just stabbed him.
Then he stops walking.
Slowly turns to face me.
Eyes narrowed. Nostrils flared. That twitchy vein near his jaw pulsing.
Oh no.
“What’s the plan?” he repeats. Voice climbing.
I nod. “Yeah, like, what are we—”
“What’s the ? You want a ?!”
His wings twitch open, just a little. Enough to show that I’ve done it—I’ve finally poked the ancient bear hard enough.
“Oh yes, let me just consult my , Saya. Let me titled Shall I?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
“Here’s a plan!” he shouts, gesturing wildly with one claw. “We lie low! We vanish! We play dead for a few centuries! Grow herbs! Change our names! Grow beards! for a and they both forget we ever existed!”
I blink. “…Is that sarcasm?”
He throws his head back.
“Of course it’s sarcasm! I don’t have a plan, Saya! There There’s only on one side, and on the other!”
He spins away, muttering to himself.
“Gods save me. I should’ve partnered with a goblin. A nice, simple, emotionally distant goblin. One that doesn’t make deals with entities older than dirt just because she likes the way their hut smells of moss and regret.”
I cross my arms. “So that’s it? Panic and improvise?”
He stops. Turns. Points at me like he’s solving a riddle.
“Yes! Panic improvise! That’s our brand, isn’t it?”
I consider.
“…Okay. That sound like us.”
