It was official. The magistrate was a sack of goat farts in a powdered wig.
He laughed. Laughed at my beautiful, ticulously forged, titty-stamped manumission scroll like it was a godsdamn joke. Even called the bailiff over to look at it. “This bit here,” he cackled, pointing to where I spelled ‘sovereign’ like ‘sore-vajin.’ “Is this part supposed to be in crayon?”
I took offense.
And when Saya takes offense, there’s only one place left to go.
The swamp.
And the shack.
And the hag inside it.
It took two hours of mud, leeches, and one extrely bold frog trying to tongue my ankle bracelet, but I made it.
I banged on the warped, rotted door. “Open up, hag. I got gold. Or mushrooms. Or a very specific request.”
The door creaked open, and there she was.
Swamp Hag. Slled like boiled regret and stale crotch. Wearing the sa lopsided hat and that ratty shawl that might’ve once been a dog.
She squinted at like a hangover co to life.
“Oh no. Not you again,” she barked. “Didn’t I tell ya last ti? You bring one more cursed coochie or hexed love-trinket, I’d feed ya to the gators arse-first.”
I smiled sweetly. “Hi, Auntie Muck. Missed you too.”
She huffed, scratched sothing under her left tit, and waddled back inside.
I followed.
She glanced over her shoulder. “This about a knight?”
I grinned. “Yup.”
She snorted. “Let guess. Wants his ‘eart. Or his 'and.' Or maybe his 'og. Got yer knickers in a twist, did he?”
“Kinda,” I said, settling into the moldy stool by the cauldron. “Except reverse it.”
She paused.
“…what?”
“I want his dick cursed.”
She blinked. One eye wandered.
“…what, you an like itchy?”
“No,” I said, deadly serious. “I want it to shrivel. I want it to fold in on itself like a scared grub. I want it to cry when he walks past bakeries. I want his balls to feel haunted.”
There was a long silence.
Then she burst out laughing. Wet, phlegmy, cackling like a drunk duck.
“Oh, gods’ bollocks, girl! What in the nine reekin’ swamps did ‘e do to earn that?”
“He forged my indentureship papers.”
She wheezed.
“He’s waving them around like a royal decree. Sent bloody hunters after . Claims he owns . Like I’m so prize goat with whoring experience and good hips.”
She shuffled over to her shelf, muttering. “Right. That does sound like knob-cursin’ territory. Let’s see…”
She yanked down a cracked jar with sothing pickled and purple floating inside.
“Right. You want temporary shrivelin’, or full-on lifelong wilty-cock syndro?”
“Permanent. And humiliating.”
She grinned. “That’ll cost ya.”
I dropped two silver coins and one jeweled nipple ring on the table.
She picked up the ring, inspected it, and nodded approvingly.
“Sit tight, love. I’ll get the goat's tongue and the wart-powder. We’ll make sure next ti he gets a stiffy, it whistles like a teapot.”
I smiled.
Now this was justice.
***
The whole godsdamn street was watching now.
Good.
I stood right in the middle of the muddy square outside the Rusty Eel Inn, hands on hips, hair wild, still slling faintly of swamp hag incense and roasted toad bits.
Above , second window on the left — his room.
And inside? Oh, the screaming.
“MAKE IT STOP!” Ogden howled like a dying mule. Sothing thumped. Possibly a nightstand. Possibly his dignity.
I cupped my hands and bellowed sweetly, “Ohhh noooo, Ogden! Is your tiny prick havin’ a tantrum? Did it curl up and die?”
More groaning. Then a crash. The shutter flew open — and there he was, red-faced, sweating, shirtless, clutching the waistband of his pants with the panic of a man whose atstick was currently being hexed into a terrified raisin.
“What did you do to , you little demon whore?!”
I bead. “Gave you a taste of your own fuckery, you pustule. Swamp hag says hi, by the way.”
He half-collapsed onto the windowsill, wheezing. “Please. Gods. Just take it off.”
“Ohhh. Now you want favors. Interesting. Should I maybe forge you a rcy scroll? Maybe stamp it with my left tit?”
“Saya. It feels like it’s trying to retract into my spine.”
“Good!” I shouted. “Maybe then it'll finally reach your brain.”
A crowd had gathered. Mostly drunkards, one goat, and a street urchin eating stolen dates.
Ogden sobbed. “Fine! I’ll give you coin. Jewels. Half my takings—”
“No. I want the papers, Ogden. My indenture papers. Burn them.”
He clutched the windowsill tighter, teeth bared. “Never. You’re mine. Those are binding.”
I folded my arms. “Then so is the curse. Enjoy every sunrise with your new shrivel-stick, dickhead.”
“Saya—!”
I turned on my heel and strutted off, every hip sway a victory parade.
Behind , his scream echoed down the alley like a banshee with blue balls.
Gods, that felt good.
***
The sheets were a tangle of sweat, curses, and very questionable choices.
Ogden lay flat on his back, chest rising like a bellows, sheen of guilt and satisfaction all over him. Hair stuck to his forehead, mouth still slack from the last ti I rode him like vengeance with tits.
I stretched next to him, draping one leg over his like we were lovers and not longti adversaries in a war fought with paperwork and pelvic trauma.
“There,” I purred, running a finger down his scarred, still-glowing chest. “Isn’t it better when we’re friends again?”
He groaned. Not the good kind. “You’re a bitch, Saya.”
I grinned.
“Correction,” I said sweetly, reaching across him to the bedside table where the papers lay — crisp, official, stamped with Ogden’s seal and my godsdamn past.
I held them up between two fingers like a pair of filthy knickers.
“Was a bitch with a grudge,” I said, then lowered them over the flickering candle.
The fla licked the edge, caught, curled the parchnt into blackened ruin.
Ogden tried to reach for it — too slow, too late, too spent.
I watched it burn. Watched my na curl and crackle and disappear into smoke.
Freedom never slled so good.
He let out a string of creative obscenities, half of which I’d taught him.
I smiled wider, slid down the sheets, and wrapped my fingers around his now-fully-recovered cock.
It twitched, poor thing. Didn’t know whether to celebrate or flee.
“A bitch,” I whispered, kissing his hip, “with a healing touch.”
He groaned again.
And this ti?
It was the good kind.
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