The town was a splinter — jamd sideways into the gut of the Redwall mountains like so drunk god had tried to hamr civilization into a ravine and given up halfway.
Cliffside hos clung to crumbling terraces. Rope bridges swayed over gorges that looked like the mouths of starving gods. And sowhere above it all, stacked between a tannery and a temple to sobody’s left shinbone, nestled a crooked little shop with a door too narrow and windows too dark.
The sign overhead said “Antiquities & Miscellanea.” The script shimred. Then bled. Then faded back to ink. Cute.
The bell above the door didn’t ring. It coughed. Like it had smoked too many cursed cigars and seen too many custors die broke.
Inside: dark. Dusty. Slled like old spell paper, singed rat fur, and maybe a whiff of desperate ambition gone bad.
Shelves stacked wrong. Vials glowing colors that shouldn’t glow. A skull with soone’s na still scratched on it.
And behind the counter, perched like a bat who gave up on the night shift, was the proprietor.
Tall. Bone-thin. Skin like stone left too long in moonlight. One long braid tucked under a moth-bitten shawl. Fingers twitchin’ just enough to make you think he had a spell loaded under each nail.
He looked up at .
Paused.
Scanned.
Sandals.
Cloak, frayed.
Linen tunic, no structure.
Too many bangles — the kind you steal, not buy.
He made a face like he just sniffed sour wine.
“Well, look who the sewer dragged in,” he said, accent thick, fast, and unimpressed. “You lost, sweetheart? Brothel’s two streets down. Look for the red lantern and the sll of broken dreams.”
I smiled through my teeth. Stepped forward.
“I’m here for sothing more refined.”
“Refined,” he snorted. “You? Honey, you’re wearin’ half a junk drawer and sll like river moss. Unless you’re lookin’ to pawn that clanky wrist circus, I ain’t interested.”
“I heard you deal in rarities.”
“Sure. And I heard people don’t bathe in public no more, but here we are.”
He turned away. Started rearranging so old bones in a velvet-lined tray. Probably alphabetically. Probably by who scread the most.
“I’m not here to waste ti,” I said, voice lower.
“Good. Neither am I.”
“I’ve got coin.”
“Uh-huh. So does everyone with a pouch full’a lies.”
“I’ve got trade, then.”
He paused. Didn’t turn. Let the silence stretch just long enough to snap.
“You got five seconds to convince you’re not here tryin’ to move so knockoff talisman blessed by your cousin’s ferret.”
I pulled my hood back just a little. Let the light catch my eyes.
He turned. Real slow.
And now he was lookin’ at different.
Still suspicious. But curious, too.
He squinted.
“You witch-marked?”
“No.”
“You glowin’ under there?”
“Not unless you count rage.”
“Good answer.”
He leaned forward, one hand on the counter, the other tapping a rhythm I couldn’t place.
“No hags. No cults. No middlen workin’ for sothin’ that slls like brimstone and unpaid taxes.”
“I’m freelance. Just desperate.”
He snorted again. But this ti it sounded almost… amused.
“Desperate’s good. Desperate’s where deals happen.”
He gestured to the side.
“Back room’s quieter. Wards won’t record nothin’. If you’re here for real? You get five minutes. Tops. You say sothin’ dumb, I make you into a bracelet.”
I smiled wider.
“Fair.”
“An’ don’t touch nothin’ back there,” he added as I passed. “Had a satyr try to pocket a soul jar last week. He’s still in it.”
The back room wasn’t bigger, just narrower. Felt like it had opinions about who belonged inside.
Low shelves. Smoky crystal orbs. Scrolls tied with catgut. Slled like chalk, burnt cedar, and bad secrets. A single chair faced the counter like an interrogation setup. I sat in it. Of course.
The dark elf didn’t sit.
He just lood.
Arms crossed. Fingers still twitching like they were having their own conversation.
“A’right,” he said. “So. Let’s pretend you’re not wasting my ti.”
“Let’s,” I said, and pulled out a small, flat bundle wrapped in oiled cloth and bound with a black ribbon.
His eyes tracked it the way starving n track a roast duck.
But he didn’t reach. Not yet.
“I need sothing rare,” I said. “Taboo, even. Enough to… fool an old party guest of the godless persuasion.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So we’re talkin’ cursed? Blessed? Haunted? Or just slls funny?”
“I need sothing authentic.”
He tilted his head.
“Look, toots. This ain’t no curiosity stand. I don’t sell gods’ toenail clippings or wish-granting butt-plugs to just anyone.”
I leaned forward, unwrapped the cloth with slow fingers.
Laid out five objects.
They hit the air like thunder.
Scales.
Each the size of my palm. Warm to the touch. Burnished gold with edges sharp enough to nick the light. Even dulled by cloth, they shimred with that deep-ti sheen you can’t fake — the kind that slls like ozone, wildfires, and pride.
His fingers stopped twitching.
His whole face stopped.
He looked at . Then at the scales. Then back.
And then he laughed.
Short. Barking.
“You’re outta your fuckin’ mind.”
I shrugged. “It’s a real offer.”
“Five of these for one from ?”
“Correct.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“There’s always a catch.”
“The catch is that I’m desperate and I know what I need.”
He circled the table once. Fast.
“You know how illegal these are?”
“Do you?”
“You know I could rat you out right now and have a hundred bounty freaks dogpiling you for this?”
“You’d be dead before the first one kicked in your door.”
He paused.
Squinted.
“Fair.”
He picked up one scale — gently — and turned it over between his fingers. The twitch ca back, this ti just in one thumb.
“Real,” he muttered. “Old. Male. Large. High-blooded. Fire-aligned. You pluck this off yourself?”
I smiled.
He didn’t.
“What are you tryin’ to do?” he asked. “Five pri scales for one? What’s the ga?”
“No ga. Just a very picky collector I need to impress.”
His eyes narrowed.
“That hag?”
I said nothing.
He cursed softly. Sothing Elvish and unkind. Probably involved goats.
Then he turned. Walked to the far shelf. Opened a drawer made of bone and humming resentnt. Pulled out a black velvet pouch.
Set it down.
“Here. One scale. Technically. Yours.”
I didn’t move.
He opened it.
Inside: a dull, greyish thing the size of a thumbnail. Brittle. Cracked. Looked like it had been peeled off a lizard having a bad molt.
I blinked.
“That’s not a dragon scale.”
“It used to be.”
“From what, a wyrmling with the flu?”
He grinned, wide and sharp. “You didn’t say what kind of scale.”
I leaned back in the chair.
“Let’s not insult each other,” I said. “I know what the real ones look like. I’ve bandaged them. I’ve pulled them out of monster jaws. I’ve kissed worse.”
He chuckled.
Then exhaled long and slow, and moved to the cabinet behind him.
“Alright. You want the pri cut. The real filet draconique.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Gonna cost you more than five. Just sayin’. Because if I sell you this, and word gets out, every cult, collector, and scale-sniffin’ psycho with a grudge is gonna ask where I got it.”
“I can make sure word doesn’t get out.”
“You’re good at that, huh?”
“I’ve had practice.”
He unlocked a drawer with a key that hissed. Reached in. Drew sothing out wrapped in crimson silk.
When he unwrapped it — yeah. That was the real thing.
Dark red, rimd in black. Heavy. Iridescent under the lamplight like it was rembering fires it once endured.
Definitely not from my Dragon. Different bloodline. But still old. Still raw with power.
I nodded once. “That’ll do.”
He stared at .
Still holding it.
“Five for one?” he repeated, softer now.
“Plus your silence.”
“You’re gonna get killed.”
“No. I’m going to pay you very, very well in sothing rarer than coin.”
He paused.
“…Trust?”
“Debt.”
That made him smile.
And he laid the scale down between us.
“You ever co back here,” he said, “you bring that debt with interest. Or next ti, I’m sellin’ you.”
I picked up the scale. It humd in my hand.
“Noted.”
The valley wind had teeth. Dry, an ones. I hiked back up the goat-path half-skipping, half-strutting, cloak flapping like I’d just robbed a saint and gotten away with it.
Dragon was right where I left him—sprawled across a sun-ward rock shelf like a particularly judgntal carpet. Eyes half-lidded. One wing twitching in a dream. Smoke curling from his nostrils. Probably dreaming of being right about sothing.
Too bad.
Because I had the goods.
I practically threw the wrapped bundle at his front paw.
“Ta-da.”
He blinked.
Sniffed.
Didn’t move.
“Go on,” I said. “Open it.”
He didn’t.
Instead, he raised his head slowly. Like I’d just handed him a coiled snake and told him it was a surprise sandwich.
“You’re proud of this,” he said flatly.
“I should be. You have any idea how rare it is? I traded five of yours for it.”
His eyes narrowed.
“…You what.”
I bead. “Five of your boring old scales for this beauty. Crimson core. Black edge. Slls like brimstone and victory. Co on, you’re the expert—tell I nailed it.”
He didn’t even blink. Just slowly reached one claw down, unwrapped the silk, and stared.
Silence.
Wind.
A hawk cried sowhere far off. Probably laughing.
He looked up at like I had farted during a coronation.
“Saya.”
“Yeah?”
“You seriously traded five scales you plucked off my back… for this?”
I blinked. “Yes?”
He stared at . Not angry. Not surprised. Just… hollow. Like I’d aged him twenty years with one sentence.
“What?” I asked. “What’s wrong with it?”
He held up the scale between two claws, turning it in the light.
“This is a scale,” he said slowly, “from an oriental water wyrm.”
I frowned. “Okay… and?”
He leaned closer, voice quiet, dangerous.
“Water. Wyrm. Not pri brood. Not high dragon. Not even sa species. This is from a glorified river noodle with wings. The hag will know. One look and she’ll know.”
I squinted at it.
“It looks draconic to .”
“It isn’t.”
“Has all the right shimr.”
“That shimr says ‘I drink rainwater and worry about pond politics.’ Not ‘I’ve incinerated kingdoms.’”
“It was heavy,” I offered, weakly.
He dropped it on the rock with a sound like a disappointed sigh.
“You traded five of my scales—my scales—for this scaly soup garnish.”
“It was a good deal!” I insisted. “The guy practically fainted when he saw them.”
“I bet he did. That elf just won the scamr’s lottery.”
I crossed my arms. “So now what?”
He closed his eyes. Breathed in. Out.
“Now,” he said grimly, “we either go back and rob him blind… or you grovel before the hag and pray she’s gone temporarily nose-blind.”
I stared at the scale again.
It really had felt important in the shop.
But now… under his glare… it looked smaller. Sadder. Kind of soggy, even.
“Maybe she’s nearsighted?” I offered.
He gave a look that could have curdled moonlight.
I sighed. “Okay. So we’re dood. But like… politely dood.”
He flopped back onto the rock.
“Remind again,” he muttered, “why I let you near my back with tweezers.”
“Because I’m charming. And you were asleep.”
He groaned.
I picked up the scale, turned it over, sniffed it. It did sll a little… fishy.
I dropped it.
Then picked it up again. Waste not.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “So maybe it’s not perfect. But it’s a backup, right? I can still try to bluff. We’ve got ti.”
He cracked one eye open.
“Two days. Tops.”
“Then let’s make them count.”
Pause.
“Also,” I added, “I think that shop had a cursed whistle I forgot to ask about. We could go back.”
He groaned louder.
Which is basically a yes.
I was still turning the stupid water wyrm scale over in my hand, trying to will it into being sothing it wasn’t—bigger, aner, more fire-drippy—when I heard it.
Crrrk.
My shoulders tensed.
Another croak. Closer. Wet. Smug.
Then—
“Nice ass.”
I spun around.
There he was. Perched on a nearby branch like he’d been waiting the whole ti. Sa glossy feathers. Sa half-mangled beak. Sa I-know-sothing-you-don’t energy that made want to throw a rock at him and then apologize to the rock.
I glared.
“I’m ard,” I warned.
“You’re stupid,” he croaked back.
“Excuse ?”
He fluffed his wings like he was offended for .
“Stupid girl. Five real scales for a river wyrm relic? Hag’s gonna filet you and use your skin as a tea cozy.”
Dragon didn’t even lift his head. Just muttered, “Told you.”
I hissed at both of them.
“I thought it was legit! It felt legit!”
“So does syphilis,” the crow said.
I launched a pebble at him. He caught it in his beak. Spat it back. It missed my forehead by half a breath.
“Clock’s ticking,” he added, tilting his head. “Two days left. No tricks. No swaps. She wants real.”
I held up the wyrm scale. “Can’t I just—”
“She’ll sniff that thing once and turn your spleen inside out.”
“Okay,” I snapped, hands on hips. “If you’re so smart, bird, why don’t you tell where to get another scale without giving up my entire Dragon’s ass in trade?”
The crow just blinked.
Then—**slowly, deliberately—**he croaked:
“Should’ve stolen it.”
My mouth fell open.
“You—are you encouraging to rob that twitchy undead-elf bastard?!”
He fluffed again.
“Told you. Clock’s ticking.”
And just like that, he launched into the air with a gust of wing and a final parting call:
“Nice ass!”
Gone.
Dragon groaned into the dirt. “This is what your life attracts.”
I turned to him.
“You heard the bird. He said we should steal it.”
“I heard him. I ignored him. He’s a crow.”
“He’s her crow.”
“That makes it worse.”
I looked at the wyrm scale again.
Then toward the path.
Then back at Dragon.
“Well,” I said, cracking my knuckles. “You up for a little return shopping trip?”
He didn’t even open his eyes. Just muttered:
“If we’re doing this, I’m not flying. My wing still itches and my pride’s in recovery.”
I grinned.
“Don’t worry. We’ll go in quiet.”
Pause.
“And if we get caught—”
He groaned.
“I’ll bla the crow.”
User Comments
0 comments from readers