It was the kind of rain that slapped sideways, needling under cloaks and into every crevice. Mud sucked at my sandals like it wanted to claim them for its shrine of lost soles. I’d already tripped twice and cursed the gods of footwear in four languages, three of which I barely spoke.
Behind , sowhere in a cave that slled of wet stone and old regret, the Dragon sulked. He’d curled up into a pile of creaking scales and smoke, complaining about his joints like a disillusioned grandpa with wings.
“Fetch sothing for this cursed affliction,” he’d groaned, paw over one hind leg. “My bones are older than your lies.”
So here I was. Trudging toward the nearest town in the kind of rain that makes fish consider umbrellas, with a satchel of mostly useless herbs, two silver coins, and a borrowed cloak that slled like goat piss and broken dreams. Beneath it, my linen tunic clung damply to all the wrong places. My thighs were muddy. My pride, thinner than ever.
The town lights flickered through the curtain of rain, close enough to tempt, far enough to annoy.
And that’s when I saw it.
A shack. Leaning against the outer wall of the town like a drunk cousin overstaying her welco. Its chimney belched suspiciously green smoke. Its door hung slightly ajar. One shutter banged lazily in the wind like it was trying to attract attention. Or scream.
I hesitated.
See, I’ve known my fair share of crones. So of them just sold love charms and bad sex advice. So read fortunes out of chicken guts and cried when you paid in copper. One tried to drown in a bucket for calling her a fake.
This one?
This one felt like she might actually hex your uterus.
But it was warm inside. And dry. And I slled sothing vaguely like cinnamon. Or arsenic.
So I knocked. Once. Twice.
A voice rasped, “Enter, if you bleed.”
Well. That was welcoming.
I pushed the door open and ducked inside. It creaked like a guilty conscience. Warmth hit first—woodsmoke, wet herbs, and sothing cloying underneath, like rot dressed in perfu. A single candle flickered in a cracked lantern. The room was cramped, cluttered, too many shadows for such a small space.
And there she was.
The hag.
Seated by the hearth. Wrapped in rags that might once have been robes. Hair in a long black braid gone mostly grey. Pale skin like cold milk. Eyes like two chips of cloudy sapphire.
She looked up, and I froze.
Not because of the wart on her chin. Or the seven cats. Or the fact that sothing in the corner was humming to itself in a jar.
But because her face—
It was my face.
Not exactly. Softer in so places. Sharper in others. Lined, aged, ti-sunk. But the bone structure. The mouth. The eyes.
She looked like .
—but older. Weathered. Wiser? No. Just… tired. Like life had licked her clean and left her to dry.
“Close the door,” she rasped, not looking at . “You’ll let the stupid in.”
I closed it.
“You’re late,” she added.
“For what?”
“Your own mistake.”
She moved like soone made of aching joints and secrets, pouring tea into a chipped cup. The steam coiled in shapes I didn’t like. She handed the cup. Her fingers brushed mine—cold as coins in grave dirt.
I didn’t drink it. I’m not that dumb.
We didn’t talk much after that. She gave a tin of salve that slled like boiled frogs and dead flowers. I gave her the last of my coin.
I slept on her floor that night. Curled in a threadbare blanket between a cat that growled in its sleep and a basket full of sothing that moved.
And in the morning?
She was gone.
The shack too, almost. Door hanging off, roof half-caved. The hearth dead. The furniture gone to dust. I found the salve tin beside , sealed and real.
But no sign of her.
And the mirror by the door?
Cracked straight down the middle.
Reflected only .
Except—
For one fleeting second, I swear I saw her. Older. Smirking. My smirk.
Like a bad joke with a long setup.
I walked out fast.
Didn’t look back.
Rain had stopped. But the mud still clung. And the Dragon still had gout.
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