The stream babbles like it's mocking me.
Seriously. It's got that smug little gurgle, like, "Look at me, Saya, I'm so clean and natural, unlike your tunics that smell like goat sweat and questionable life choices."
I'm ankle-deep in freezing water, bent over like a laundress from a cautionary tale, scrubbing last week's filth out of my remaining clothes, three last semi-decent tunics. Just a simple linen wrap slung low around my hips and a whole lot of righteous indignation covering the rest of me.
My fingers are pruned. My tits are cold. My mood is somewhere between drown me now and burn the world down with menstrual rage.
And that's when I hear it.
"Niiiiiice tits," comes the gravelly croak from above.
Oh no. Not again.
I look up, squinting against the sun, and sure enough—perched on a crooked branch like some cursed feathered insult—is that damn crow. The same one from the hag's hill. Glossy, smug, full of unsolicited commentary.
"What. Do. You. Want," I growl, wringing the tunic like it owes me money.
"Nothing," the crow cackles, tilting its head. "Got used to the view. Developed an appreciation for… natural landscapes."
He means my boobs. He absolutely means my boobs.
"Don't you have a corpse to peck at? A battlefield to haunt? Something less pervy and stalker-ish?"
The crow hops down a branch. "Nah. You're more fun. Most people scream or throw shoes. You? You monologue. It's like watching theatre, but with more cleavage."
I launch the wet tunic at him.
It slaps uselessly against the tree trunk, flops into the stream like a drowned worm, and I—grace incarnate—lunge after it.
And promptly slip.
One moment I'm a wrathful goddess of hygiene, the next I'm flailing like a drunk octopus, arms windmilling, feet in the air, and then—SPLASH.
I land flat on my back in the stream, linen wrap half-twisted, water shooting up my nose, dignity shattered into a thousand soggy pieces.
The crow is howling. Literal feathered laughter. Croaking like a demon gargling gravel.
"Majestic," he wheezes between caws. "Truly a queen of grace. Can I get a slow clap?"
I flip him the finger from my watery grave. "I swear to all gods feathered and foul, if you don't shut up, I'll trap you in a soup pot and serve you to the Dragon as 'roast forest duck.'"
He flaps off, still laughing, and yells over his wing, "See you next bath time, tits!"
I lie there for a moment, letting the stream cool my fury.
The stream trickles past my thighs as I sit there soaked, sullen, and plotting avian homicide. Bits of moss cling to my hair. My tunic's wrapped around one ankle like a flag of surrender. A single frog stares at me from a rock with judgmental silence.
And then—because fate is a petty bitch—the crow comes back.
Flaps down like he owns the sky, lands on the rock next to me with a smug little hop. Ruffles his wings. Pecks something off his foot.
"Forgot to mention," he croaks, casual as a fart in church. "The uncle says your scaly friend has eight moons left to prove himself worthy."
I blink.
"What?"
The crow cranes his neck, beady eyes gleaming with that particular brand of mystical malice reserved for familiars and tax collectors.
"Eight moons. You know. The dead one? The ghost? Big jaw, bigger ego. Said it all dramatic too. 'Tell my wretched nephew: the Family waits. Eight moons. No more.'" He puffs his chest. "Then he made me repeat it back. Twice. Real diva."
I stare at him, water dripping off my nose. My jaw clenched so tight I could probably crack walnuts with it.
"Oh," I say slowly. "So you're a messenger again."
He nods. "Crow of many talents. Harbinger, heckler, herald of doom, tit enthusiast. It's a full résumé."
I resist the urge to throw another wet tunic. I'd only lose it again.
"Does the scaly bastard know?"
The crow clicks his beak. "Not yet. Figured I'd start with you. You're the brains of the operation."
"That's terrifying," I mutter.
Then, as if the moment wasn't grim enough, he leans in and whispers like we're old drinking buddies, "Also, you got a leech on your butt."
I leap up with a shriek that echoes off the trees.
The crow launches into the air, laughing like a deranged kettle, and disappears into the sky shouting,
"Eiiiight mooooons! Tick tock, titty girl!"
I slap the leech off, grab my tunic, and glare after him.
I swear on every coin I've ever stolen:
Next time, I'm stuffing that bird into a pie. Feathers and all.