It was the witching hour.
That sacred time when chickens snore, goats dream of salt licks, and the villagers—bless them—are too asleep or too terrified of their local dragon-haunted prophetess to peek outside.
Perfect.
I slipped out the back of my hut like a shadow with a purpose. One burlap sack slung over my shoulder, bulging like a guilty conscience. Every step on the dewy grass made something inside go clink or squelch. Possibly both.
By the time I made it to the narrow goat path snaking toward the cliffs, I was wheezing like a winded squirrel.
The Dragon's hideaway loomed ahead. A cozy cave nestled into the mountain's side like an inconvenient truth. I whistled.
"Don't roast me—it's your favorite morally-flexible visionary!"
No flame. No growl.
Encouraging.
I dragged the sack across the mossy threshold and flopped it onto the stone with a theatrical flourish.
"Behold!" I declared. "The bounty of belief! The dividends of doom!"
The Dragon blinked at me from his perch.
I started unpacking with reverence.
"One silver candlestick—bent, but emotionally honest. One pouch of goat cheese. Smells like lies but tastes like victory. One fertility idol with nipples like doorknobs. A bolt of the scratchiest homespun ever woven by mortal hands—perfect for ritual drama."
Thunk.
"Three jars of pickled onions. A chicken. Still warm."
The chicken blinked at us.
"A fistful of copper coins. Two anonymous love letters—probably misdelivered, but I'm counting them. And this—" I held up something grey and knobbly— "is either a petrified potato or a sacred relic of the Onion Madonna. I'm hedging bets."
The Dragon exhaled through his nose.
"Oh, and snake oil!" I beamed. "Real snake oil. Might help with the eczema on your left wing."
He finally spoke. "You robbed peasants for this."
I clutched the sack to my chest. "They paid me. I told them things. Sage things. Spiritual things. Like how to seduce the mill boy using dairy products."
He gave me that look—the one that starts at disbelief and ends in exhausted admiration.
"Tell me this isn't better than hoarding gold and stabbing knights."
The chicken clucked.
I tossed it a pickled onion and curled up on a half-folded altar cloth.
"This," I said, sighing into my loot, "is the life."
The Dragon tried to play it cool. Typical. Sprawled across his stone shelf, wings tucked, eyes half-lidded like he was bored of everything that wasn't fire, blood, or obscure philosophy.
But I caught the twitch—right at the corner of his smug mouth—when I unwrapped a bundle of dried figs and laid it beside the fertility idol.
"You're impressed," I declared.
"I'm unconvinced," he replied, voice drier than a monk's pantry.
"Please. You just watched me haul two dozen villagers' hopes, fears, and fermented produce up a mountain. In exchange for muttering things like 'Beware the man with clean fingernails.' I am a goddess of bullshit."
He grunted. "You're a goblin of grifting."
"Semantics." I sprawled across a ceremonial tapestry and flung one leg over the sack. "Besides, it's not just fortunes. I'm elevating their very existence. Their bedroom existence."
One golden eye cracked open.
I grinned. "Told the blacksmith's wife to surprise her husband with a forged iron cock ring. Custom size. Something to 'temper his passions.' I told her to dunk it in the quenching barrel first—for dramatic effect."
He blinked, slow and disbelieving. "You're arming the villagers."
"And educating them."
I flipped onto my belly, chin in my hands. "Then there's the chieftain's wife. Gorgeous woman. Cheekbones like betrayal. I told her to smear honey on her thighs, wait for the full moon, and recite erotic poetry from the back of a grain sack."
He stared.
"She came back glowing like a sacred lamp. Said her husband nearly dislocated a hip. That's alchemy, scaled one. Transmutation of lust and livestock."
His nostrils flared. His tail twitched once.
I threw him a fig. "What wisdom do I offer myself, you ask?"
"I didn't."
"I'm waiting," I said loftily, "for a tall, broody beast with trust issues and a mild cheese addiction to realize I've been sleeping on altar cloths for him."
His tail slapped the floor like a punctuation mark.
"Go to sleep, prophetess."
"I'd rather not. I might miss a vision."
***
For a while, life was good.
We had a rhythm. A scam-seasoned routine. I, the all-seeing oracle of doom and dairy. Him, the occasional aerial menace.
Villagers brought me offerings like I was a localized goddess of goats and gossip. They came seeking fortunes, cures, curses, pregnancy advice, and occasionally help seducing the tanner's nephew.
Meanwhile, the Dragon played his part beautifully—torch a haystack here, rattle a few trees there, let a shepherd catch a glimpse of his majestic shadow right before a thunderclap. Just enough drama to keep my prophecies taut with credibility.
My name spread. The Seeress of the Whispering Hills. The Milkmaid Oracle. The Witch of Witherdown Valley. Saya the All-Knowing. Saya the Tittied.
Even I started believing the hype. My hut had curtains now. And indoor chicken.
Then came the mule.
It was noon. Too hot for anything except regret. I was lounging in the shade, popping sour cherries into my mouth and contemplating a nap, when I heard the clank.
A column of hoplites in gold-trimmed livery rode up the path, dust in their wake, and in front of them—like a divine punchline—was a captain astride the angriest, most constipated-looking mule I'd ever seen.
He didn't even wait to dismount.
"Where is the prophetess?" he barked.
I blinked. "She's out. Reading star charts. In a pond."
He scowled. "Where is the village hag?"
"Excuse me, I am barely twenty and moisturized."
One of the hoplites stepped forward. "Are you the one who claims to see the future?"
"I—uh—interpret omens. Abstract ones. Through cheese mold and cloud butts."
The captain narrowed his eyes. "Seize her."
"Okay wow. That escalated."
Two soldiers started toward me. I retreated a step, hands up.
"I didn't even say anything this week!"
The captain pointed a finger at my chest like a man who'd practiced his dramatic gestures in the mirror.
"Lord Velgarth summons you to his stronghold. You are to advise him. Personally."
I stared.
"Velgarth the Black Banner? That Velgarth?"
He didn't answer. Just stared down from his mule like I was an uncooperative apple.
"Oh fuck."
We barely made it past the first goat fence when I collapsed.
Arms flung wide. Eyes rolled back. A dramatic gasp, followed by a twitch. I gave them the full prophetic seizure special—complete with mumbling in tongues and ominous finger-pointing.
"The winds are shifting! The roots are bleeding! The stars weep for—"
"Knock it off," said the captain.
Mid-spasm, I opened one eye. "Pardon?"
He didn't even look at me. Just kept his mule trotting at the same sullen pace.
"I don't know what you are, lady, but my orders are to bring you to Lord Velgarth's keep by sundown. So no detours, no dramatics, and definitely no witchcraft."
"But I'm in a divine trance—"
"Do it again and I'll gag you with your own sash."
One of the hoplites chuckled. Absolute bastard.
I huffed, stood up, brushed the gravel off my elbow, and stomped forward in righteous indignation.
"This is sedition," I muttered.
"No," the captain said. "This is preventing sedition. You've got the whole valley stirring. Villagers burning offerings. Farmers carving sigils into their barns. My cousin's daughter tried to hex her cow into producing strawberry milk. Enough."
"Strawberry milk is a legitimate vision!" I snapped.
He didn't answer.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I glanced up. Sky clear. No wingbeats. No terrifying shadows swooping in to save me.
Of course not. The Dragon thought I was safe. Thought I was curled up on altar cloths, giggling over cheese wedges and reading fortunes from lizard poop.
He wasn't coming. He didn't even know I'd been prophet-napped.
Which meant I was on my own. Again.
And whoever this Lord Velgarth was… I doubted he wanted his fortune read.