The cure worked.
Miraculously.
The glow faded. The itch retreated. The heat between my legs no longer throbbed like a cursed drum at a fae orgy.
I sat cross-legged on a mat that slled like mildew and cat piss, cheeks flushed, thighs damp with swamp-sweat and relief, while the swamp hag cackled like she'd just exorcised a particularly randy poltergeist.
She ladled the last of the brew into a cracked mug and handed it to with a wink. “Bottoms up, luv. Clears the last o’ the spores. Might taste like feet.”
It did.
Like feet had mated with pond scum and fernted over despair. But I choked it down.
She watched like a proud midwife. “There we go. Nice an’ clean. Like yer nethers been baptised in brimstone and vinegar.”
I wiped my mouth. “How much?”
She held up three stubby fingers. “Three copper pennies.”
I blinked. “That’s it?”
“And yer firstborn.”
My jaw dropped.
She held the mont.
Eyes gleaming.
Then grinned, toothless and smug. “I’m kiddin’, luv. I got no use for babies. Can’t even pickle ‘em proper anymore.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Don’t joke like that.”
“No promises.” She reached for her teapot. It hissed. She patted it fondly. “Besides, yer womb’s probably cursed seven ways from Sunday by now.”
I stood, still woozy, still vaguely suspicious. “So that’s it?”
“Mostly,” she said. “Though you might notice a few side effects. Temporary. Mostly harmless.”
I froze. “What kind of side effects?”
The raven shrieked from its perch. “Tart!”
I flinched. “What the hell?”
“Oh that?” the witch said, waving a hand. “He’s bound to yer aura now. Only for a moon cycle or two. He’ll follow ye ho.”
The raven flapped and cawed again. “Sinner! Loose woman! Taaaaart!”
I stared in horror. “He talks?”
“He judges,” she corrected.
“Can’t you unbind him?”
She shrugged. “Not unless you bed a bishop under a full moon. Or bathe in unicorn sweat. Bit of a toss-up.”
The raven landed on my shoulder. Talons dug in. Breath slled like curses and pickled onions. He nuzzled my ear.
“Tart tart tart.”
I whimpered.
The hag cackled. “Think of him as yer conscience, luv.”
“I don’t have a conscience.”
“Then think of him as karmic garnish.”
I turned toward the door, muttering to myself.
Behind , she called out, “Mind the nymphs next ti, sweetie! Or at least wrap it in barkskin!”
The raven whispered: “Filthy tart…”
I walked back into the swamp.
It was going to be a long moon.
I stomped down the creaking swamp planks, sodden sandals squelching with every step, mosquito-bitten, dignity in shreds, and a bloody raven on my shoulder whispering moral slurs into my ear like a judgntal aunt at a brothel funeral.
“Tart,” it croaked. “Loose-legged leaf-fucker. Taaart.”
“I swear to all twelve slutty goddesses,” I snarled, spinning on my heel and pointing a finger back at the crooked shack, “what if I drown the damned thing?”
The swamp witch was still on her porch, rocking in a chair made from ribs and ill intent. She sipped sothing steaming from a mug that said World’s Best Crone.
She grinned, wide and gummy. “You’ll ‘ave to catch it first, won’t ye?”
The raven flapped up, perched on a crooked branch just out of arm’s reach, and cackled. “Slattern. Hussy. Sheath of sha.”
“Oh I’ll catch it,” I growled. “I’ll pluck every feather and roast it over a slow fire. Drizzle it in honey. Serve it with turnips and a fucking apology.”
The hag wheezed, slapping her knee. “Oh, you’re fun, you are! Go on then, bird-murderess. Just rember—killin’ it don’t stop the curse. Jus’ gives it a louder voice inside yer head.”
I froze.
The raven cocked its head. “Internal sha. Now in stereo.”
I glared. “You made this thing.”
The hag raised her mug. “Nope. You did.”
I turned and trudged away, muttering obscenities and dragging my pride behind like a wet cat. The bird followed, flapping from branch to branch, calling out like a town crier of my sins.
“Limp of virtue! Tavern bed thrice ward! Taaaaart!”
Gods help .
I was going to eat that fucking bird.
By the ti I made it back to the cave, I was one mosquito bite away from murder.
My hair was a nest. My boots squished. My thighs still itched in a phantom way. And the raven—the gods-damned cursed judgnt crow—was still with . Hopping from boulder to boulder. Mocking. Squawking. Narrating my sins like a perverted town crier with a vocabulary of innuendo and slander.
“Strumpet!” it cried as I stumbled over a root.
“Harbinger of thigh diseases!”
“Purveyor of forest filth!”
“I will eat you,” I hissed, spinning on it.
It flapped up to a ledge and smirked. I didn’t know birds could smirk, but this one had studied under the best.
Dragon was lounging by the fire, nose buried in so ancient scroll like he hadn’t been eavesdropping on my swamp sha spiral from ten leagues away. His eyes slid toward with a dangerous amount of amusent.
“Welco back,” he said, deadpan. “I see you brought a friend.”
“Tart!” said the raven helpfully.
I groaned and dropped my pack. “Don’t start.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Dragon said, still watching the bird.
“Feather-duster lizard!” the raven called cheerfully. “Hoards gold to compensate for erectile disfunction!”
There was a pause.
A very long, very dangerous pause.
Then Dragon inhaled through his nostrils.
A quiet, focused breath.
And foom—a thin, precise puff of fire, barely more than a sigh.
The raven didn’t scream.
It didn’t flap.
It simply turned into ash, mid-perch, in a blink.
A soft poof, a rain of gray powder, and the echo of smug silence.
I stood there, blinking. Jaw sowhere in the floor region.
“…What the hells?” I croaked. “What about my aura? It was bound to !”
Dragon shrugged. “Magic fire. Purifies.”
I stared at the pile of ash, still faintly warm.
“You could’ve done that the whole ti?!”
He gave a look.
“It was funny.”
I sputtered.
He stretched, wings flexing, then added casually, “There might be so karmic debt. But honestly—” he glanced at over his claw, “—given your record? Hardly a footnote.”
I kept staring.
The ashes blew gently into the fire pit.
I muttered, “You owe a bath, a drink, and a hundred apologies.”
“Make it to the waterfall and I’ll handle two out of three.”
“Which two?”
He grinned.
I sighed.
And together, we left the last of the raven behind. May it judge soone else in its next life. Preferably a tax collector.
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