Forest path, late afternoon light slicing through branches like lazy spears. Dry leaves underfoot, dragon limping beside me, sullen and broody as ever.
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 "mortal incompetence in basic first aid." 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 know 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 me. I never forget who I owe."
"You forget what 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 ask nicely?"
"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 thunk.
"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 deep, low, you-just-poked-the-dragon kind.
I blink. "What?"
He doesn't look at me. Just mutters:
"It's a trap."
I stop walking.
"What kind of trap?"
He finally turns his head, eyes narrowed.
"The classical kind, Saya. The kind we never learn from.
The kind where someone unassuming gives you something for free… and then casually asks for a favor that sounds small, sounds harmless, sounds doable."
I frown. "You mean the hag?"
He nods.
"You know who's never dangerous?
Pompous bastards. Men with titles. Fancy armor. Flaming swords.
Sir Odran. The Duke of Splendid-Whatever.
They fold like napkins the moment things get difficult."
I snort. "True."
"But the old woman 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?
That's 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 goddess of vengeance and sour stews, 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 stuck."
"Between two female demigods."
"Brilliant."
He nods.
We walk in silence a few more paces.
"So," I say, lightly, "what's the actual 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 plan? You want a plan?!"
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 strategy scrolls, Saya. Let me refer to the manual titled 'How to Appease Demigoddesses Who Cook with Blood and Hold Grudges Longer Than Time.' 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! Join a convent! Grow herbs! Change our names! Grow beards! Stay perfectly, divinely, celestially still for a thousand bloody years and hope 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 is no plan! There's only doom wearing perfume on one side, and doom in a soup pot 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 and improvise! That's our brand, isn't it?"
I consider.
"…Okay. That does sound like us."