It’s mid-morning. Sun slicing through pine needles like the gods finally stopped being stingy with light. There’s a brook bubbling nearby, clean enough not to give you parasites instantly, cold enough to tighten things that shouldn’t tighten without warning.
So I bathe. Because sotis even a scandalous heathen whore needs to not sll like dragon sweat, mossy blankets, and three-day-old fear.
I wade in slow. The cold bites my ankles, climbs up my thighs like so over-enthusiastic ghost lover. My breath hitches, but I keep going.
Behind , the Dragon snores under a tree. Loud. One wing twitching like he’s chasing sothing in his dreams. Maybe . Maybe pastries. Maybe Aunt Threxaval in her war heels. Who knows.
I dunk my head under the water, surface with a gasp, and start working the soap through my hair. It’s lye-slling peasant soap, but it’s mine. I scrub. Hard. Dirt, blood, smoke, leftover guilt from three ex-lovers and a tavern scam—out.
And that’s when I hear it.
Crrrk.
I glance up.
There, on a gnarled branch above the water, sits a crow. Big one. Glossy. Staring at like I owe it rent.
“You perving, feathered shit,” I mutter, flicking water toward it. “Never seen boobs before?”
It cocks its head.
Crrrk.
“Don’t ‘crrk’ . This is private. Sort of.”
It blinks slowly. Then speaks.
Not a croak. Not mimicry. Actual speech.
“Clock’s ticking, glow-crotch.”
I freeze.
"...what?"
The crow preens one wing like it has better things to do than explain itself to a naked river witch. Then glances back down.
“You heard . Few days till full moon. Debt unpaid. Hag’s watching. Tallying your sins. She’s got a big ledger.”
I stare at it. “You’re her crow.”
It squawks like that’s the dumbest thing I’ve said all week—and I’ve said plenty.
“I’m not her crow. I freelance. But yeah. She sent . Said you might be dawdling. Thought a reminder might, quote, ‘perk your nipples and your sense of urgency.’”
I glance down. Yeah, they’re perked. The water’s cold, not prophetic.
I splash it again. It hops sideways along the branch like a cranky priest avoiding rainwater.
“I didn’t ask for a prophecy with plumage,” I snap. “Tell her we’re moving. We’ve been moving. Slowly. On account of the Dragon bleeding like a diva and our legs barely working. Maybe she wants to co drag us herself, huh? With her goat cart and sour soup breath?”
The crow glares. Or looks like it does. Hard to tell with birds.
“She hears when you talk shit.”
“I always talk shit. If she hasn’t figured that out by now, she’s not as witchy as she claims.”
The crow flaps once. Stretches. Drops a turd on a rock with impressive accuracy.
“That’s for your tone,” it says.
“Yeah? Well here’s mine—” I raise both middle fingers, wet and glorious, dripping soap suds.
It squawks in what I can only describe as avian disdain.
Then it leans in just a bit, voice lower. Closer to serious.
“You think she’s joking about the moon?”
I narrow my eyes. “…No.”
“Then don’t fuck this up. You got three days. She’s got plans.”
I swallow. Not the water. Not the soap. Sothing cold in the chest.
“…What kind of plans?”
The crow shrugs. Or the bird version of it. Wings half-lifted.
“She didn’t share. Only said: ‘If they miss the moon, they’ll regret being born under it.’ Then laughed for seven minutes. Said sothing about binding contracts, the scent of betrayal, and a very special stewpot.”
My stomach flips. Not from the water this ti.
“Tell her we’re on it,” I say quietly.
“She knows. I was just the reminder. Think of as the ticking sound in your skull every ti you stop to scratch your ass.”
With that, it launches off the branch and disappears into the trees.
I stand there. Soap still in my hair. River still cold. Dragon still snoring.
And the full moon, sowhere ahead, ticking louder with every beat of my naked, nervous heart.
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