We hadn't gone far from Khoraz.
Just up into the hills that hunched over the port like old men counting coin.
Dry country. Mean country.
The kind where the earth shows bone through the soil — cracked stone, thornbush, and wind that tastes like it scraped its tongue on salt before climbing inland. Nothing soft grows there unless it's hiding. Nothing fat survives unless it bites first.
Goats, though?
Goats thrived.
Scraggly, yellow-eyed things picking their way across ledges that would send a sane person screaming down into the surf. Bells clanking. Chewing everything — bark, rope, discarded sandals, probably each other if winter ran long enough.
The Dragon liked the hills.
Said the updrafts were clean. Said the view let him see ships days before they saw harbor. Truth was, he just didn't like sleeping near ports. Too many ballistas. Too many heroes with rental swords and dreams of ballads.
So we camped up there.
Cracked little firepit. Bedrolls on sun-bleached grass. My cloak thrown over a rock because I refused to sleep smelling like goat piss unless absolutely necessary.
It was the sort of place where nothing ever happened.
Which, in my experience, meant something absolutely would.
Places like that — dry, quiet, half-forgotten by gods and men — they collect trouble. Trouble wanders in, thinking no one's watching.
And that morning?
Trouble had horns.
So I was staring at a billy goat.
For half a heartbeat, I didn't say anything.
Because I knew that look.
The stiff-legged stance. The offended dignity. The way the universe seemed just a little too pleased with itself.
I'd worn that body once.
Four legs. Split hooves. Teeth that never quite lined up right. An overwhelming urge to headbutt things I loved and eat paper for reasons that felt philosophical at the time. Three days trapped like that — cursed by a hedge wizard with bad aim and worse handwriting. The Dragon still brings it up whenever he's bored.
I swallowed.
"No," I muttered. "No. Absolutely not."
The goat snorted.
Scruffy. Horned. Smelled like brimstone and sweaty linen. Kind of like Gregory, actually.
"…Gregory?" I said slowly. "Is that really you?"
The goat snorted and pawed the ground with one hoof. Then it glared at me.
"I knew you were thick," it said, voice like hot gravel in my head, "but not this thick."
I blinked. "Oh gods. It is you."
"Yes, Saya, it's me. Congratulations. You've solved the mystery. Would you like a fig?"
"What in seven slutty hells happened?"
"The bitch cursed me."
I raised an eyebrow. "Which bitch? Because your social calendar is a war crime."
"The witch bitch!" he snapped. "Borrowing spell mixed with a tethering curse. Locked me in this shape. Horns and all."
My jaw dropped. "Wait. Wait wait wait. Did you bonk the Swamp Hag?!"
"What?! No!" Gregory reeled back like I'd slapped him with a rosary. "Saya, really! I have standards."
"Do you?" I crossed my arms. "Because the last time I saw you, you were halfway through a nymph orgy and licking wine off a centaur's hoof."
"That was ritual," he muttered. "Besides. This wasn't the hag. This was some saucy little sorceress from Thelveth. Tattoos. Red curls. Bit of a screamer."
I stared at him. Hard.
"Don't look at me like that," he said.
"I'm not looking at you like anything."
"You're doing the look. The 'Gregory fucked his way into another transformation' look."
"Well, did you?"
"…Technically."
"Gregory."
"It was a borrowing spell! I was just trying on her shape. You know. For… variety."
"You shapeshifted into her?"
He coughed. "Mid-act. With permission. She said she was into mirrors and roleplay. I thought it would spice things up."
"And instead she cursed you into a goat."
"She said I was being 'insufficiently supportive of her self-image.'"
I stared at him.
He flicked his ears. "What?!"
I sighed. "You absolute demon. I mean that literally."
"I am a demon."
"And you owe me two goats now."
"One!"
"One was the original agreement. The second is for the emotional damage of seeing you like this."
He gave me the most put-upon bleat in history.
Behind me, the Dragon muttered, "If we keep collecting strays, we're going to need a stable."
I pointed at Gregory. "He is a stable now."
"Goat jokes?" Gregory said flatly. "Really? I'm cursed, Saya. I can't even wank. I tried. Just stubbed my hoof on a rock and cried a little."
I patted his shaggy head. "Poor baby. Maybe we'll find a nice lady goat for you."
He narrowed his eyes. "Saya."
"Yes?"
"If I start rutting in public, euthanize me."
"Deal. But I'm charging you three goats for the favor."
The Dragon groaned and walked away. Gregory glared after him.
"Still gay and judgmental, I see."
I nodded. "Still ancient and allergic to fun."
The goat sighed. "So. Any chance you know someone who can undo a Thelvethian ego curse mixed with a shapeshift loop and a vengeance rider?"
I shrugged. "I mean… probably. But they're all women. And you're still a goat."
He whimpered.
I grinned.
"Don't worry, sweetie. Mama Saya's got you. We'll fix you. Eventually. Probably."
Pause.
"…Unless the Dragon eats you first."