I wake up naked.
That's not the strange part.
The strange part is that everything around me is… wrong. Curved. Glossy. I sit up — or try to — and immediately bash my forehead against something cold and hard.
Clink.
I rub my head and blink at the glass wall rising around me like some perverse palace dome. Everything's warped — the light, my reflection, the weird blurry shapes beyond. A faint scent of pickled something wafts past.
Wait.
No.
No no no.
I press both palms to the curved wall. It's a jar. I'm in a godsdamn glass jar. Like some exotic spice. Or a rare sex beetle.
I shout. It echoes. I pound the glass. Nothing.
Outside, there's a table. And above it, endless clutter — shelves, hooks, dangling bits of lizard tail and dried herbs. All comically large. Or—
Wait. Shit.
It's not that the jar is huge.
I'm tiny.
I'm miniature Saya. Mini-skank. A six-inch strumpet in a mason jar.
"HELLO?" I squeak. "I AM NOT A PICKLE."
A shadow looms. Something creaks. A massive gnarled hand descends with chipped green nails the size of parasols. Long, thin fingers grasp the lid. I brace for divine judgment.
The lid unscrews.
In peeks the face of the Swamp Hag — warts, one lazy eye, hair like drowned rats nesting in mud. Her breath hits like old socks soaked in onion stew.
"Well well well," she cackles in full cockney glory. "If it ain't lil' Miss Tartlet-inna-Jar. Wotcha doin', luv? Tryin' out fer the condiment shelf?"
I scream. It's shrill. Indignant. Possibly adorable.
She snorts. "Careful now. Too much squealin' an' I might mistake ya fer a fairy an' stick ya on me toast."
"Put me back! Fix this!"
"Oi, I ain't broke nothin'. Weren't me who dipped 'er ladybits in a cursed puddle o' reality-slippin' dream-honey now, wuz it?"
Oh gods. The temple pool. The blind guardian. The transdimensional frog. Fuck me sideways with a ritual ladle, this is all the Dragon's fault.
I stomp my tiny foot.
"Make me big again, you crypt-dwelling knuckle-crone!"
She grins, revealing three teeth and none of them aligned.
"I might. If you say the magic words."
I fold my arms. "Please?"
She laughs. "Nah, luv. Not those ones."
Her fingers twitch. A cloud of sparkly green gas poofs into the jar. I cough, choke, and flop onto my back like a fainting courtesan.
The last thing I hear is the Hag muttering: "Right then. Let's see if ye still got yer attitude when you're ridin' a slug into battle."
I black out to the sound of a cork being shoved back in.