The hag's cackling still echoes somewhere down the mountain trail, like a goat with asthma laughing at my funeral.
"Next full moon, luv! Better find me before I find you!"
Yeah. Charming. May she step on every sharp root on her way down.
I wait until the last clink of her jars fades into silence before I let myself collapse. My legs give out with a graceless thunk and I slump beside the dragon, still reeking of herbs, blood, and defeated pride.
He's not saying anything. Just staring at the fire with that haunted nobleman look he gets when things go sideways in a particularly theatrical way.
I nudge him with my foot. "Okay. Talk."
He doesn't move.
"I said, talk, golden diva. What's with the dramatics? Why are you acting like we've just been sentenced to death by interpretive dance?"
A slow sigh. The sound of a very old soul trying to crawl back into the womb.
"It's my aunt," he says, in a voice that belongs on a velvet fainting couch. "You heard the hag. She wants a scale from her."
"Yes, yes. Aunt Threxaval the Bone-Biter."
"Bone-Eater," he corrects. "Show some respect."
I blink. "Okay, fine. So she's your scary aunt. Big deal. I had an uncle who ran a cult in a bathhouse. They found six toes in his stew pot."
The dragon lifts his head and gives me a withering look.
"Saya, you cannot begin to grasp what we're walking into. This isn't family. This is a cosmic punishment with upholstery."
I wave him off. "She's your aunt. Invite her for tea. Talk it out. Maybe she's mellowed. Spent a few centuries journaling, tending a bonsai, collecting sins in jars."
He stares at me like I've farted in a sacred temple.
"She doesn't do tea. She does ancestral reckonings.
She once ended a war by staring at a king until he un-crowned himself."
I pause.
"…Right. That's new."
"She's judgmental on a divine scale, Saya. I once brought a bronze offering bowl to a blood rite and she excommunicated me. For ten years."
I try not to laugh. Fail.
"She excommunicated you?"
"For sneezing."
Oh gods. "I need to meet this woman."
"No. You don't. You need to avoid eye contact and hope she forgets you existed."
I lean back against a rock. "Come on. She can't be that bad."
He huffs.
"She hosts funerals before killing people. She corrects grammar mid-scream. She's got a throne made entirely of other dragons' jawbones, and she sits on it sideways."
The image hits me and I nearly lose it.
"Why sideways?"
"Because it's more dramatic."
Of course it is.
I rub my temples. "Okay. Okay. So she's scary. Elegant. Old. Bit of a bitch. But how hard can it be? We ask nicely. Maybe bribe her. Maybe grovel a little."
The dragon goes quiet.
Then he exhales. Long. Dramatic. Tragic.
"You want to know? Truly know?"
I nod.
He shifts, slowly, like a dying noble mustering strength to deliver his final aria.
"Then sit, Saya. Sit and listen. For what I am about to tell you will melt the edges of your sanity and curdle your remaining hope."
I blink. "Okay, calm down."
"No.
There is no calming down.
Not with Aunt Threxaval."
I lean back against a rock, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in theatrical boredom.
"Alright, tragic lizard. Enlighten me."
He adjusts his position like a dying empress summoning her heirs to witness the final decree. His voice drops half an octave.
"Aunt Threxaval… is not a person, Saya. She is a season. A catastrophic aesthetic principle. A judgment given shape."
"Oh for fuck's sake."
"She names her teeth, Saya. Individually. Alphabetically. Some of them in languages that haven't been spoken since the Cradle War."
"That's—okay, that's objectively impressive."
"She doesn't speak with you. She delivers a monologueat you. You listen. Or you combust from the sheer pressure of grammatical perfection."
I squint. "Are you sure this isn't just you with a wig?"
He ignores me.
"She once sent a letter so cruel, so precisely worded, that it dissolved the concept of a marriage. The couple stayed together, but for seventeen years they were legally divorced in all realms. Even the gods were confused."
I cover my mouth.
"When she visited the Three Crone-Goddesses of Fate, they hid their scissors. The fates, Saya. The ones who cut the threads of all life. She walked in, sniffed, said 'Tacky,' and left. They wept."
I can't breathe.
He's picking up steam now. There's a manic light in his eye.
"The Goddess of Justice once came to her lair. Full regalia. Scales, flaming sword, blindfold. She stood tall, radiant, divine."
"Aunt Threxaval looked her over and said one word: 'Slouching.'"
I slap my thigh. "NO."
"The goddess corrected her posture. Bowed. Then left. Sobbing."
"Oh gods—"
"Death himself—DEATH, Saya—brings her flowers. Seasonally. To stay on her good side."
I'm curled over now. My sides hurt.
He lowers his voice, almost reverent.
"Her chronicle—her personal history—is hand-illuminated on basilisk skin. It screams when opened."
"What?!"
"She had an entire perfume line named after her once. She sniffed the bottle, said it smelled like cowardice and roses, and incinerated the company."
"She's a menace."
"She is a brand."
I gasp for breath, laughing. "Oh gods. So she's a bitch with a kill count and a flair for drama. Is that it?"
He leans closer. His voice lowers.
"She only destroys by invitation."
I blink. "What?"
"You petition her. Formally. On parchment soaked in tears and embossed with your lineage. If you are below the rank of archduke, she returns your plea with a burnt liver and a letter that starts with 'No.'"
I gape.
"She requests references, Saya. References."
"Like a job application?!"
"She wants dramatic arc. Proper downfall. Moral failure. Aesthetic integrity. She burned a city once because the governor tried to bribe her with silver. She hates silver."
I'm breathless.
And then he delivers the final blow.
"And when she accepts your plea for destruction, Saya…
She commissions an opera."
I can only stare.
"Five acts. Live orchestra. Corpse-violinist. Choir of the Damned.
Lesser wyrms perform a choreographed aerial ballet timed to the final aria.
The soprano sings her name as the flames consume the palace."
Silence.
I cover my face with both hands.
"Oh my gods. We're going to die fabulously."
He nods solemnly.
"At least we'll have good seats."