So yeah. She us.

  Of course she did.

  Because apparently when a swamp hag says “better find me before I find you,” it’s not just folksy murder-chatter. It’s a .

  Next full moon, , she comes creaking up the hill like mold in human form. Stick tapping the ground, eyes twinkling like she just caught two kids defiling a sacred relic—which, okay, maybe she did.

  Dragon’s still not talking.

  Still stuck in full-blown emotional shutdown mode.

  Auntie-Petrified-Crystal-Caldera meltdown status: ongoing.

  So who has to deal with it?

  , of course. Always .

  I drag the crone to the side, away from where my partner in dramatic grief is sitting and staring at clouds like they insulted his bloodline.

  I grab the bundle from my pack, unwrap it, and slap the thing into her hands.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “The tea cup,” I say, gritting my teeth. “Here.”

  She looks at it. Blinks. Doesn’t say a word.

  I jab a finger at it.

  “Not a scale. No. But it’s . Whatever she was. That ancient she-witch dragon goddess thing you back in the age of bronze and bad decisions.”

  She raises one eyebrow.

  I keep going.

  “It’s not just her tea cup, okay? She . For . Sat with it. Judged empires with it. Probably cursed it at least five times. ”

  Crone still silent. Of course. She’s enjoying this.

  I fold my arms.

  “Don’t ask how I got it. Don’t ask what happened. Just… don’t.

  She’s gone. Your… whatever. Your old flame. Your eternal rival. Your tea partner in blood and cryptic erotic tension.

  She’s . We found her like that. We her like that. So take the cup.”

  Still silent.

  So I jab her shoulder now. Yeah. I .

  “Take the cup. Take the magic. Take the . And forget whatever unfinished cryptic swamp-flavored tragedy you two had hanging between you. Just… forget it. It’s done.”

  I step back.

  The crone looks down at the cup again. Hands wrapped around it like it might burn her. Or like she already knew. Like maybe she it the moment it happened.

  She doesn’t say thank you.

  Of course she doesn’t.

  But she nods.

  Once.

  And that’s enough.

  I walk back to the dragon.

  He hasn’t moved.

  Still staring at the sky like it owes him an apology.

  I flop down next to him, sighing.

  “Deal’s done,” I say. “She’s gone. Hag’s gone. Tea cup’s gone.”

  He says nothing.

  So I lean back against him and mutter:

  “You owe me many cheeses for this.”