Gregory turned his head, one ear twitching like a curse was loading. "Give us a kiss then," he said.
I recoiled. "Absolutely not."
"It's the only way," he said, totally deadpan. "Kiss from a virgin truly in love with me. You know how these curses go."
I stared. Then stared harder. "Gregory. I am not kissing a billy goat."
He looked tragic. Pathetic. Like a horny soap opera lead but with hooves. "I'm serious, Saya. You have to. Just one little kiss. For my freedom."
I crossed my arms. "You do realise I am neither of those things, right?"
Gregory blinked. "Neither what?"
"Neither a virgin—ha, as if—and definitely not in love with your demonic billy goat ass."
He sighed. "Please, Saya. Let's pretend. Just… fake it."
I narrowed my eyes. "Fake which part?"
Gregory's little goaty face managed to look deeply, soulfully pathetic. "…Both."
There was a long silence. Like one of those silences where the world just pauses to judge you.
"Gregory," I said, "you once tried to barter my soul for three figs and a handjob."
He nodded solemnly. "And in hindsight, I should've held out for four figs. That was premium-grade stuff."
"Do you have any idea," I hissed, "what I've had in my mouth over the years, and none of it prepared me for kissing a goat?"
Gregory leaned forward. "But I have very soft lips."
"You have a beard."
"Some people like that!"
"I'm not 'some people,' I'm Saya, and I do not do livestock."
He looked personally wounded. "Saya, you let a swamp nymph put her tongue in your—"
"That nymph had hips like poetry and boobs that glowed! What do you have? A bleating fetish and a case of hoof rot!"
Gregory pawed the dirt. "Saya, please. You're my only hope. All I need is a kiss full of pure, redemptive love."
"I will punch you instead."
"Could you at least try to feel something when you do it?"
"I feel like kicking you down a ravine."
Gregory sighed and looked over at the Dragon, who was watching with theatrical dismay from a sun-warmed rock.
"She's being difficult again," Gregory called. "You told me she liked animals."
The Dragon didn't even blink. "Not in that way, dear."
"I'm cursed!"
"She's cursed."
Gregory turned back to me. "Fine. Fine. What if you close your eyes and pretend I'm Bollo?"
That earned him a rock to the flank. Not a big one. Just enough for emphasis.
He bleated in betrayal.
"I hate you," I said.
"Then do it out of spite," he wheezed. "Break the curse and watch me suffer."
I paused.
"…That's actually a decent pitch."
"I know my audience."
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw another timeline. "Fine. Pucker up, goat-boy. But if I grow horns from this, I'm mounting your head on a wall."
He wiggled his ears hopefully.
I leaned in.
And immediately regretted everything.
Some hours later—muddy, itchy, and deeply soul-weary—we were back in the swamp. The trees wheezed like old lungs, and something unseen belched in the reeds.
Gregory stood beside me, still a goat. I had hay in my bra, moss in places moss had no business being, and a headache shaped like a bad decision.
The Hag squinted at us from beneath her matted veil of swamp-moss hair. She had a chicken skull necklace, a pipe that smelled like eel farts, and the general air of someone who bathed once per equinox, and only under duress.
"Right," she said, blinking her gunky eyes. "Lemme get this straight. You want me"—pointing a knobby finger at herself—"to make you"—pointing at me with a cracked nail that may have once been a claw—"a virgin again, and in love with that—" she jabbed her pipe at Gregory "—just temporarily."
We both nodded.
Gregory cleared his throat. "Yes, just temporarily."
"Purely ritual," I added.
"Strictly magical," he said.
"Absolutely not sexual," I said, which was a lie. The last hour had been… confusing. I still had beard rash.
The Hag stared at us like we were rat droppings that had learned to talk.
"Luv," she said finally, looking me up and down, "I seen yeastier harlots down the docks of Seebulba, and they didn't ask for this kind of nonsense."
"Excuse you," I snapped. "I'll have you know I've been revirginized at least twice. Once by accident. Once by pyramid scheme."
Gregory nodded. "The Blessed Order of the Chaste Clam."
The Hag gagged. "Don't say 'clam' in me hut, demon."
"Apologies," he bleated.
She sighed and turned back to me. "And you, twinkletoes, you really think I can just scrub the mileage off your soul, plop a sparkle back in your eye, and boom, goat-loving virgin of destiny?"
"Again," I said, "just temporarily."
She sucked her teeth. "This is what I get, innit? Spend sixty years honing swampcraft, master oozes, beat the curse o' Surlan the Muculent—twice—and now I'm playing bloody maidens and mammals for two desperate lunatics in heat."
"I'm not in heat," I said.
"I am," Gregory admitted.
I elbowed him.
The Hag grunted, fished something from a jar labeled "snail regrets," and lit a candle that smelled like wet bark and regret.
"Right then. Gimme yer finger. No, the middle one. 'Course it's the middle one. Virginity's all about attitude, and yours is feral."
I held it out. She jabbed it with a rusty pin. I screamed.
"Oi, quit whinin'. That's just the reset. Now for the love part."
Gregory wriggled expectantly. The Hag gave him a look usually reserved for plague victims and bard colleges.
"Goat-boy, go stand in the salt circle and bleat somethin' romantic."
He trotted over, cleared his throat, and said, "Saya, your hair is like midnight spun through a bar fight. Your thighs could crush kingdoms. Your hooves—sorry, feet—are unparalleled in both elegance and structural integrity."
I gagged. The Hag rolled her eyes.
"Close enough," she muttered, tossing pink powder and a duck feather into the fire.
The smoke curled, shimmered, hissed. I felt a strange warm flutter in my chest. Possibly love. Possibly acid reflux.
"Right," the Hag said, wiping her hands. "There. Virgin. In love. You've got till moonrise before it all reverts and your goat starts smellin' like goat again."
Gregory beamed. I scowled.
"This better work."
"It'll work," the Hag said. "Unless you lie."
We both froze.
"Lie about what?" I asked carefully.
"About bein' in love. Or about bein' a virgin again. Spell'll know. You lie, it goes wrong."
"Wrong how?" Gregory asked.
The Hag smiled. It was all gums and war crimes. "You don't want to know."
So yeah. We smiled. We nodded.
And we lied.