So. I was trudging through a swamp.
Me. Personally. On foot.
Dragging a mule behind me like some tragic swamp princess of questionable virtue, clutching the hem of my overpriced skirt with one hand and cursing the gods of fashion with the other.
The mule was overloaded. Not with supplies, mind you, but with investments. Some people hoard coins. I hoard possibilities. Like the pair of carved ivory combs I found in that roadside market. Or the ornamental brazier shaped like a naked nymph. Or the seven silk tunics in varying shades of "rich widow on her third husband."
And yes — before you ask — I had the coin.
Because the old lizard can lecture me all he wants about "frivolous expenditures" and "the tragic mathematics of bug gambling," but sometimes a girl makes the right bet.
And yesterday?
I backed the mantis.
Everyone said the scorpion would win.
Bigger. Meaner. Armor like a cursed helmet.
A real favorite.
But the mantis?
Oh, she had heart. Or spite. Or whatever bugs run on.
She faked a stumble, played dead for a breath, then—snap—ripped the scorpion clean in half and took the pot.
I walked away with enough coin to buy:
a mule,three arguments with the Dragon,and everything strapped to this long-suffering beast's back.
So yes.
Technically, we're "prepared" for swamp country.
But don't tell him.
He's still muttering about "degenerate odds" and "statistical delusion" and "how probability doesn't care about cleavage."
The mule doesn't care either.
She just trudged forward under the weight of my genius.
Behind me? Dead silence. Because someone was still sulking.
Not naming names. But let's just say certain ancient, majestic, gout-ridden reptiles with family trauma and dramatic uncles who haunt woodland glades could learn a thing or two about letting things go. The ghosts of long dead dragons, me poking my nose in books about his sacred Draconic lineage and me actually geing good at gambling.
"I didn't summon your dead uncle," I muttered to the mule. "And I didn't tell him you were a disgrace to the bloodline. He blamed me."
The mule did not respond. It just trudged along with the same passive resentment I usually reserved for morning-after walk-of-shames and temples that banned sandals.
I sighed and adjusted the straps of my newly acquired brocade satchel, which was currently housing three sets of anklets, one bottle of cherry-scented oil, and a bundle of love letters written by me to myself in different handwritings. You never know when you'll need references.
My feet? Clad in sandals so dazzling they could be seen from orbit.
Unfortunately, they were also about as practical as tits on a turnip.
The swamp did not care.
Another patch of knee-deep brown suckwater loomed ahead. Probably filled with frogs, regrets, and the occasional philosophical leech.
I stopped. Looked down at the sandals. Looked back at the silent shadow gliding behind me in the fog, just watching with smug reptilian judgement.
"Don't say a word," I hissed at no one.
Then I peeled off the sandals, kissed them goodbye like a martyr of fashion, and stuffed them into a saddlebag next to my silver-threaded negligee and the cursed mirror I definitely didn't steal.
With a huff, I hitched my skirt up to what was technically still legal in most provinces — barely — and stepped into the mud.
It made a noise like a very old man giving up on love.
I groaned. The mule farted. Something croaked ominously in the reeds.
Behind me, not a sound. Just the distinct, invisible presence of someone pretending to be above it all while clearly enjoying every squelching step I took.
"This is petty," I muttered. "You're supposed to be the wise, ageless one. I'm the one who commits social arson and gets banned from bathhouses."
More silence.
I tripped over a root. Swore creatively. The mule snorted again.
"You know what?" I snapped to no one. "I like swamps. Great for the skin. Free exfoliation. Might catch a fungal infection and die dramatically. Very on-brand."
Another step. Another squelch. Somewhere deep in the mist, something gurgled like it had unfinished business.
Still no comment from the winged cryptid behind me. Just brooding and floaty menace and the occasional tail twitch whenever I mentioned his tragic lineage.
I rolled my eyes.
"Next time you can be the bait," I said. "I'll sit on a rock and sip tea while your uncle tells me how you wet the nest till your fiftieth molt."
The mule stopped to chew something unspeakable.
I kept trudging, knee-deep in mire and consequences.
"Ugh. I swear, one more patch of this, and I'm starting a new religion. Swamp nymphs. Mud orgies. Blood rituals. No dragons allowed."
Still no reply.
Just the sound of wings, somewhere above, keeping pace like a slow, disdainful cloud of trauma and disapproval.
Perfect.
We were off to a great start.
Up ahead, something green and smug was sitting on a rock.
A frog. Fat, warty, and radiating the kind of existential ennui only amphibians and failed poets seem to manage.
It blinked at me.
I stopped. Narrowed my eyes. Tilted my head.
"Well," I said, hands on hips, "stranger things have happened."
The frog blinked again. Slightly slower this time. Like it knew what was coming and was already disappointed in me.
I took a step closer. The mud slurped my ankle like a needy lover.
"Look," I whispered, glancing behind me to make sure Captain Judgy Scales wasn't paying attention. "It's not like I believe in the whole cursed prince thing."
The frog said nothing. Neither did the swamp. But somewhere, I swear I heard a cricket judging me.
"I'm just… keeping my options open."
And before I could talk myself out of it, I bent down, held my breath, and gave the frog a very quick, extremely awkward kiss. More of a polite peck, really. Like kissing an old aunt who smells of pickles and vague menace.
The frog blinked again.
Nothing happened.
No flash of magic. No puff of smoke. No gasp of royal gratitude followed by frantic proposal of marriage.
Just a silent, damp pause.
I straightened up. Wiped my mouth. "Well. That's disappointing."
The frog gave a little ribbit.
Then it spoke.
"You ain't no princess either, sweetheart."
I froze.
"Excuse me?"
It cocked its head. "Saving my curse for someone with a little more pedigree. Maybe a tiara. Maybe less swamp crotch."
I stared.
He shrugged — or did the frog equivalent, which involved a weird ripple of jowl.
"Try the next rock. Might be a duke. Or a librarian."
I kicked the rock.
Hard.
The frog squawked, flipped into the air with a wet plop, and vanished into the muck like a sarcastic turd.
"Ugh. Rude," I muttered. "I kissed you, didn't I? You could've at least turned into a coat rack."
No reply.
I sighed and sloshed forward, wetter, dirtier, and somehow emotionally insulted by an amphibian.
Behind me, still no commentary. Just a massive, ancient, sulking silence hovering overhead.
"I liked the other frog better," I shouted over my shoulder. "At least he didn't talk back!"
Another squelch. Another curse. I pressed on.
There had better be a tavern after this bog. Preferably one with wine, velvet cushions, and no talking wildlife.
Or curses. Unless they came with gold.
And definitely no more frogs.