The town was a splinter — jammed sideways into the gut of the Redwall mountains like some drunk god had tried to hammer civilization into a ravine and given up halfway.
Cliffside homes clung to crumbling terraces. Rope bridges swayed over gorges that looked like the mouths of starving gods. And somewhere above it all, stacked between a tannery and a temple to somebody's left shinbone, nestled a crooked little shop with a door too narrow and windows too dark.
The sign overhead said "Antiquities & Miscellanea." The script shimmered. Then bled. Then faded back to ink. Cute.
The bell above the door didn't ring. It coughed. Like it had smoked too many cursed cigars and seen too many customers die broke.
Inside: dark. Dusty. Smelled like old spell paper, singed rat fur, and maybe a whiff of desperate ambition gone bad.
Shelves stacked wrong. Vials glowing colors that shouldn't glow. A skull with someone's name still scratched on it.
And behind the counter, perched like a bat who gave up on the night shift, was the proprietor.
Tall. Bone-thin. Skin like stone left too long in moonlight. One long braid tucked under a moth-bitten shawl. Fingers twitchin' just enough to make you think he had a spell loaded under each nail.
He looked up at me.
Paused.
Scanned.
Sandals.
Cloak, frayed.
Linen tunic, no structure.
Too many bangles — the kind you steal, not buy.
He made a face like he just sniffed sour wine.
"Well, look who the sewer dragged in," he said, accent thick, fast, and unimpressed. "You lost, sweetheart? Brothel's two streets down. Look for the red lantern and the smell of broken dreams."
I smiled through my teeth. Stepped forward.
"I'm here for something more refined."
"Refined," he snorted. "You? Honey, you're wearin' half a junk drawer and smell like river moss. Unless you're lookin' to pawn that clanky wrist circus, I ain't interested."
"I heard you deal in rarities."
"Sure. And I heard people don't bathe in public no more, but here we are."
He turned away. Started rearranging some old bones in a velvet-lined tray. Probably alphabetically. Probably by who screamed the most.
"I'm not here to waste time," I said, voice lower.
"Good. Neither am I."
"I've got coin."
"Uh-huh. So does everyone with a pouch full'a lies."
"I've got trade, then."
He paused. Didn't turn. Let the silence stretch just long enough to snap.
"You got five seconds to convince me you're not here tryin' to move some knockoff talisman blessed by your cousin's ferret."
I pulled my hood back just a little. Let the light catch my eyes.
He turned. Real slow.
And now he was lookin' at me different.
Still suspicious. But curious, too.
He squinted.
"You witch-marked?"
"No."
"You glowin' under there?"
"Not unless you count rage."
"Good answer."
He leaned forward, one hand on the counter, the other tapping a rhythm I couldn't place.
"No hags. No cults. No middlemen workin' for somethin' that smells like brimstone and unpaid taxes."
"I'm freelance. Just desperate."
He snorted again. But this time it sounded almost… amused.
"Desperate's good. Desperate's where deals happen."
He gestured to the side.
"Back room's quieter. Wards won't record nothin'. If you're here for real? You get five minutes. Tops. You say somethin' dumb, I make you into a bracelet."
I smiled wider.
"Fair."
"An' don't touch nothin' back there," he added as I passed. "Had a satyr try to pocket a soul jar last week. He's still in it."
The back room wasn't bigger, just narrower. Felt like it had opinions about who belonged inside.
Low shelves. Smoky crystal orbs. Scrolls tied with catgut. Smelled like chalk, burnt cedar, and bad secrets. A single chair faced the counter like an interrogation setup. I sat in it. Of course.
The dark elf didn't sit.
He just loomed.
Arms crossed. Fingers still twitching like they were having their own conversation.
"A'right," he said. "So. Let's pretend you're not wasting my time."
"Let's," I said, and pulled out a small, flat bundle wrapped in oiled cloth and bound with a black ribbon.
His eyes tracked it the way starving men track a roast duck.
But he didn't reach. Not yet.
"I need something rare," I said. "Taboo, even. Enough to… fool an old party guest of the godless persuasion."
He raised an eyebrow. "So we're talkin' cursed? Blessed? Haunted? Or just smells funny?"
"I need something authentic."
He tilted his head.
"Look, toots. This ain't no curiosity stand. I don't sell gods' toenail clippings or wish-granting butt-plugs to just anyone."
I leaned forward, unwrapped the cloth with slow fingers.
Laid out five objects.
They hit the air like thunder.
Scales.
Each the size of my palm. Warm to the touch. Burnished gold with edges sharp enough to nick the light. Even dulled by cloth, they shimmered with that deep-time sheen you can't fake — the kind that smells like ozone, wildfires, and pride.
His fingers stopped twitching.
His whole face stopped.
He looked at me. Then at the scales. Then back.
And then he laughed.
Short. Barking.
"You're outta your fuckin' mind."
I shrugged. "It's a real offer."
"Five of these for one from me?"
"Correct."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch."
"There's always a catch."
"The catch is that I'm desperate and I know what I need."
He circled the table once. Fast.
"You know how illegal these are?"
"Do you?"
"You know I could rat you out right now and have a hundred bounty freaks dogpiling you for this?"
"You'd be dead before the first one kicked in your door."
He paused.
Squinted.
"Fair."
He picked up one scale — gently — and turned it over between his fingers. The twitch came back, this time just in one thumb.
"Real," he muttered. "Old. Male. Large. High-blooded. Fire-aligned. You pluck this off yourself?"
I smiled.
He didn't.
"What are you tryin' to do?" he asked. "Five prime scales for one? What's the game?"
"No game. Just a very picky collector I need to impress."
His eyes narrowed.
"That hag?"
I said nothing.
He cursed softly. Something Elvish and unkind. Probably involved goats.
Then he turned. Walked to the far shelf. Opened a drawer made of bone and humming resentment. Pulled out a black velvet pouch.
Set it down.
"Here. One scale. Technically. Yours."
I didn't move.
He opened it.
Inside: a dull, greyish thing the size of a thumbnail. Brittle. Cracked. Looked like it had been peeled off a lizard having a bad molt.
I blinked.
"That's not a dragon scale."
"It used to be."
"From what, a wyrmling with the flu?"
He grinned, wide and sharp. "You didn't say what kind of scale."
I leaned back in the chair.
"Let's not insult each other," I said. "I know what the real ones look like. I've bandaged them. I've pulled them out of monster jaws. I've kissed worse."
He chuckled.
Then exhaled long and slow, and moved to the cabinet behind him.
"Alright. You want the prime cut. The real filet draconique."
"That's why I'm here."
"Gonna cost you more than five. Just sayin'. Because if I sell you this, and word gets out, every cult, collector, and scale-sniffin' psycho with a grudge is gonna ask where I got it."
"I can make sure word doesn't get out."
"You're good at that, huh?"
"I've had practice."
He unlocked a drawer with a key that hissed. Reached in. Drew something out wrapped in crimson silk.
When he unwrapped it — yeah. That was the real thing.
Dark red, rimmed in black. Heavy. Iridescent under the lamplight like it was remembering fires it once endured.
Definitely not from my Dragon. Different bloodline. But still old. Still raw with power.
I nodded once. "That'll do."
He stared at me.
Still holding it.
"Five for one?" he repeated, softer now.
"Plus your silence."
"You're gonna get me killed."
"No. I'm going to pay you very, very well in something rarer than coin."
He paused.
"…Trust?"
"Debt."
That made him smile.
And he laid the scale down between us.
"You ever come back here," he said, "you bring that debt with interest. Or next time, I'm sellin' you."
I picked up the scale. It hummed in my hand.
"Noted."
The valley wind had teeth. Dry, mean ones. I hiked back up the goat-path half-skipping, half-strutting, cloak flapping like I'd just robbed a saint and gotten away with it.
Dragon was right where I left him—sprawled across a sun-warmed rock shelf like a particularly judgmental carpet. Eyes half-lidded. One wing twitching in a dream. Smoke curling from his nostrils. Probably dreaming of being right about something.
Too bad.
Because I had the goods.
I practically threw the wrapped bundle at his front paw.
"Ta-da."
He blinked.
Sniffed.
Didn't move.
"Go on," I said. "Open it."
He didn't.
Instead, he raised his head slowly. Like I'd just handed him a coiled snake and told him it was a surprise sandwich.
"You're proud of this," he said flatly.
"I should be. You have any idea how rare it is? I traded five of yours for it."
His eyes narrowed.
"…You what."
I beamed. "Five of your boring old scales for this beauty. Crimson core. Black edge. Smells like brimstone and victory. Come on, you're the expert—tell me I nailed it."
He didn't even blink. Just slowly reached one claw down, unwrapped the silk, and stared.
Silence.
Wind.
A hawk cried somewhere far off. Probably laughing.
He looked up at me like I had farted during a coronation.
"Saya."
"Yeah?"
"You seriously traded five scales you plucked off my back… for this?"
I blinked. "Yes?"
He stared at me. Not angry. Not surprised. Just… hollow. Like I'd aged him twenty years with one sentence.
"What?" I asked. "What's wrong with it?"
He held up the scale between two claws, turning it in the light.
"This is a scale," he said slowly, "from an oriental water wyrm."
I frowned. "Okay… and?"
He leaned closer, voice quiet, dangerous.
"Water. Wyrm. Not prime brood. Not high dragon. Not even same species. This is from a glorified river noodle with wings. The hag will know. One look and she'll know."
I squinted at it.
"It looks draconic to me."
"It isn't."
"Has all the right shimmer."
"That shimmer says 'I drink rainwater and worry about pond politics.' Not 'I've incinerated kingdoms.'"
"It was heavy," I offered, weakly.
He dropped it on the rock with a sound like a disappointed sigh.
"You traded five of my scales—my scales—for this scaly soup garnish."
"It was a good deal!" I insisted. "The guy practically fainted when he saw them."
"I bet he did. That elf just won the scammer's lottery."
I crossed my arms. "So now what?"
He closed his eyes. Breathed in. Out.
"Now," he said grimly, "we either go back and rob him blind… or you grovel before the hag and pray she's gone temporarily nose-blind."
I stared at the scale again.
It really had felt important in the shop.
But now… under his glare… it looked smaller. Sadder. Kind of soggy, even.
"Maybe she's nearsighted?" I offered.
He gave me a look that could have curdled moonlight.
I sighed. "Okay. So we're doomed. But like… politely doomed."
He flopped back onto the rock.
"Remind me again," he muttered, "why I let you near my back with tweezers."
"Because I'm charming. And you were asleep."
He groaned.
I picked up the scale, turned it over, sniffed it. It did smell a little… fishy.
I dropped it.
Then picked it up again. Waste not.
"Okay, okay," I said. "So maybe it's not perfect. But it's a backup, right? I can still try to bluff. We've got time."
He cracked one eye open.
"Two days. Tops."
"Then let's make them count."
Pause.
"Also," I added, "I think that shop had a cursed whistle I forgot to ask about. We could go back."
He groaned louder.
Which is basically a yes.
I was still turning the stupid water wyrm scale over in my hand, trying to will it into being something it wasn't—bigger, meaner, more fire-drippy—when I heard it.
Crrrk.
My shoulders tensed.
Another croak. Closer. Wet. Smug.
Then—
"Nice ass."
I spun around.
There he was. Perched on a nearby branch like he'd been waiting the whole time. Same glossy feathers. Same half-mangled beak. Same I-know-something-you-don't energy that made me want to throw a rock at him and then apologize to the rock.
I glared.
"I'm armed," I warned.
"You're stupid," he croaked back.
"Excuse me?"
He fluffed his wings like he was offended for me.
"Stupid girl. Five real scales for a river wyrm relic? Hag's gonna filet you and use your skin as a tea cozy."
Dragon didn't even lift his head. Just muttered, "Told you."
I hissed at both of them.
"I thought it was legit! It felt legit!"
"So does syphilis," the crow said.
I launched a pebble at him. He caught it in his beak. Spat it back. It missed my forehead by half a breath.
"Clock's ticking," he added, tilting his head. "Two days left. No tricks. No swaps. She wants real."
I held up the wyrm scale. "Can't I just—"
"She'll sniff that thing once and turn your spleen inside out."
"Okay," I snapped, hands on hips. "If you're so smart, bird, why don't you tell me where to get another scale without giving up my entire Dragon's ass in trade?"
The crow just blinked.
Then—**slowly, deliberately—**he croaked:
"Should've stolen it."
My mouth fell open.
"You—are you encouraging me to rob that twitchy undead-elf bastard?!"
He fluffed again.
"Told you. Clock's ticking."
And just like that, he launched into the air with a gust of wing and a final parting call:
"Nice ass!"
Gone.
Dragon groaned into the dirt. "This is what your life attracts."
I turned to him.
"You heard the bird. He said we should steal it."
"I heard him. I ignored him. He's a crow."
"He's her crow."
"That makes it worse."
I looked at the wyrm scale again.
Then toward the path.
Then back at Dragon.
"Well," I said, cracking my knuckles. "You up for a little return shopping trip?"
He didn't even open his eyes. Just muttered:
"If we're doing this, I'm not flying. My wing still itches and my pride's in recovery."
I grinned.
"Don't worry. We'll go in quiet."
Pause.
"And if we get caught—"
He groaned.
"I'll blame the crow."