Somewhere up there, a god is giggling. That's the only explanation.
Because clearly, someone has been personally invested in fucking over my life since the moment I slipped, squalling and sticky, into this world. Born in a piss-stained alley behind a spice market. Sold before I could grow tits. Branded, beaten, auctioned, leased, lost in a dice game, found again, and dumped like a rotten melon. Every time I think I'm climbing out—new shoes, new gig, maybe even a bed that doesn't crawl—bam. Fate boots me in the teeth and spits in my stew.
And now? I'm climbing a hill in the middle of the godsdamn desert. Barefoot. Wrapped in a heat-trapping, soul-sucking black shroud that smells like old prayers and mildew.
I look like death's widow.
I feel like toe jam.
Each step up the scorched slope peels another layer of skin off my soles. The sand is hot enough to sear the sins out of me, if that's what this is. Penance. Karma. Divine comedy. Except I'm the punchline.
Dragon told me not to go.
He said the old man on the hill isa a misog… misogernest… miso–whatever! One of those crusty old bastards who thinks women should shut up, cover up, and scrub temple floors with their tongues.
Said he once insulted a demigoddess so badly she turned herself into a volcano just to stop hearing him.
Said I should stay in our makeshift camp and soak my feet.
But I need answers.
I need someone to tell me which god exactly keeps twisting my life into a turd spiral.
And more importantly—why.
So here I am. Swaddled in sweaty fabric like a sacrificial yam. Crawling toward an ancient, cranky, allegedly clairvoyant man who hasn't worn pants since the reign of the Moon Kings.
The top of the hill appears.
There's one tree—dead-looking, but technically alive. Its gnarled limbs form a kind of crooked halo around the shriveled figure beneath it. The guru. Naked as enlightenment.
He looks like someone dehydrated a raisin and gave it opinions.
I don't know his name. No one does. They just call him The Wrinkle That Talks.
He doesn't move when I approach. Doesn't open his eyes. Doesn't even twitch when I collapse in front of him, gasping and wheezing like an asthmatic frog.
Then, without lifting his head, he croaks:
"Did you bring cookies?"
I blink. "What?"
"Cookies. Honey-date. Or pistachio. No raisin."
"I walked barefoot through a hundred hells to find you, and you want cookies?"
He sighs. "Then don't bother. The last whore who climbed this hill brought baklava. She got visions, a foot massage, and her bunions cured."
"I'm not a whore," I lie.
He opens one rheumy eye. "You're not a baker either."
I want to scream. Or throw something. Or possibly cry.
Instead, I yank the veil off my head, sweat and black hair spilling everywhere. "Look. I've had a shit life. I need to know which divine asshole is behind it."
He snorts. "All of them. They play dice. You're just the funny-shaped one that keeps rolling off the table."
"Can't you do some… seer-y thing? Read my fate? Gaze into my soul? Burn a lizard in a bowl?"
He closes his eyes again. "Too hot. Also, I ran out of lizards."
I sit. I sulk. I want to stab him, but I don't think you get karma points for murdering prophets.
After a long silence, he mutters, "There's a curse on you, girl."
I freeze. "What kind of curse?"
He shrugs. "One of those old ones. The 'born under wrong moon, pissed off wrong priest, slept with wrong goat-demon' variety. The usual."
My mouth opens. Closes. "...Okay. Which wrong thing did I do?"
He tilts his head. "How much time you got?"
I stare at him.
He smiles. Toothless. Serene. Demonic.
Somewhere down the hill, the Dragon is probably snacking on figs and laughing his scaly ass off.
I wrap my arms tighter around myself, tug the shroud back over my head, and whisper, "I should've brought cookies."
The old bastard chuckles.
"Next time, bring baklava. And maybe some sandals."
The silence breaks with a familiar creak.
"Nice tits."
I flinch.
The crow is back. The disgusting, foul-mouthed, feathered insult with wings and an attitude. It perches on the skeletal branch above the guru, talons scraping bark like nails on bone.
The hermit, without missing a beat, opens one lazy eye and nods in approval. "Nice indeed."
"...but no brains," the crow adds, stretching its neck like it's just stating facts.
The two of them erupt into cackling. Like drunk uncles who just discovered misogyny as a hobby.
I cross my arms over my chest. "I'm right here, you moldy nutsacks."
The crow ruffles smugly. The hermit doesn't even flinch. He just sighs, long and theatrical, like I'm the disappointment in a lineup of already terrible options.
"And she didn't bring cookies," he says with another shake of the head. "Not even a crumb. Not even stale bread."
"Not even a dry fig," the crow adds with mock horror.
"Wenches today…" the hermit mutters, squinting at the horizon like the very idea of modern womanhood has let him down spiritually.
I fling a pebble at the bird. It dodges. Barely.
"Wench? Wench?" I hiss, teeth clenched. "I've survived wars, whoremongers, demons, and the Sisterhood's boot camp. I've got scars where people don't even have body parts. You wanna talk wenches, old man?"
The crow croaks. "She's getting cranky."
"She's getting flammable," I growl.
"Careful," the hermit chuckles. "You'll scare off the wisdom."
"What wisdom?" I snap. "So far, all I've learned is that I have nice tits and bad moon karma."
"That is wisdom," the crow declares. "Most girls take years to admit that's their whole character sheet."
The hermit coughs something that might be a laugh—or a lung collapsing—and mutters, "She's got fire, I'll give her that. Maybe enough to burn a stew. Maybe enough to dig herself deeper."
He leans forward just slightly. "Tell me, girl. When was the last time you did something pure? No lie, no lust, no hustle? Like cook a decent meal for your man?"
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Try again.
The crow cackles like it knows every terrible thing I've ever done. Which, given the magic nonsense in this world, it probably does.
"Thought so," the hermit says. "Your gods aren't cruel. They're just bored."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"They're watching you the way children watch ants on fire. They poke. You wriggle. You're very wriggly."
I stare at him, open-mouthed, hair stuck to my sweaty forehead, wrapped in a shroud, barefoot on a damned hill, while a nude old man and a perverted bird lecture me on divine ennui.
"I should've stayed in bed."
The crow snorts. "You don't have a bed."
The hermit waves a hand. "Be grateful. It means they still find you interesting. When gods stop poking? That's when you should worry."
I mutter something obscene in Seebulban.
The hermit smirks. The crow mimics it.
And I realize, with growing dread, that this is going to get much worse before it gets better.
The hermit sighs. Loudly. Like he's been waiting all his life to be disappointed by me personally.
"Look me in the eyes, girl."
I squint at him. "You're not wearing pants."
"Eyes, not balls," he snaps.
Reluctantly, I do. His gaze is the color of old parchment and desert rot. Cracked mud and sun-bleached bone. And for a second—just one sickening, soul-stripping second—I feel something grab me inside.
Not my tits, for once.
My soul.
And gods help me, I'm not even sure I like having one.
He blinks slowly. "Do you truly wish to cleanse your karma?"
I nod. "Yes. Gods yes. I want it clean, scrubbed, sparkly, gift-wrapped. Bleach it if you have to."
He leans back and rattles off:
"You must bathe in a frog's milk every third night under a waxing moon. While chanting the names of forgotten saints backwards."
"Okay…"
"You must refrain from lying for forty days."
I groan.
"Also," he adds, holding up one finger, "you must adopt a hedgehog. Name him Archibald. Teach him to juggle."
"What?"
"Shave your head. Dye your eyebrows green. Burn a pie at midnight in memory of your past sins."
"Wait—"
"Fast for nine days, eat only ash and regret on the tenth. Then—"
"Is any of this helping?" I blurt.
He beams. "No. But it'd be funny as hell to watch."
The crow snorts first. Then screeches. Then full-body flaps into a wheezing bird-laugh.
"Archibald!" it caws. "The juggling hedgehog of penance!"
I stand there. Swaddled like a sweaty corpse. Covered in dust. Staring at a shriveled nude guru and a heckling feathered pervert.
"This," I say flatly, "is spiritual abuse."
"Better than spiritual boredom," the hermit shrugs. "Now go forth, tit-wonder. The gods are watching."
"Do they take requests?"
"Only bribes."
The crow nods solemnly. "And cookies."
I turn. Stomp back down the hill.
Barefoot.
Dusty.
And now cursed with the mental image of a hedgehog named Archibald juggling figs under moonlight.
Fucking karma.
***
Back at the bottom of the hill.
I fling myself into the sand like a tragic widow and stare up at the sky, still wrapped in that cursed black shawl like some mournful opera extra who missed her cue and decided to die anyway.
The Dragon is lounging nearby, wings tucked, looking offensively well-fed and smug.
He doesn't even pretend to hide it. Just arches a scaled brow and says, "I told you so."
I scowl. "Shut up."
"I warned you," he sings, stretching like a cat in the sun. "Did I not say, and I quote, 'Don't go up there, Saya. The old bastard is mad, misogynistic, and probably hasn't washed his beard since the Flood.'"
"You forgot nude."
"Oh, he was nude? Delightful." He licks a claw and starts polishing it like this is a casual tea party. "Did he at least divine your fate? Tell you which deity's got your tits in a twist?"
"Something about goat milk and a hedgehog named Archibald."
He stops mid-polish. Blinks. "...You're serious."
"Oh yes. And juggling. And burning pies. Also I'm apparently shaped like a funny dice."
He bursts out laughing. Big, wheezing belly-laughs that shake his whole ribcage. "Oh, honeycake, I haven't laughed like this since that bard tried to serenade your ass and got pecked by pelicans."
I sulk harder. Pull the shawl over my face. "I hate you."
He leans closer, grinning. "You smell like sand and shame."
"Go lick a cactus."
"I'd rather lick your ego. Smaller surface area."
I kick dust at him. He lets it hit his leg with theatrical horror.
"I'm cursed," I mutter. "They said it's not even personal. The gods just think I'm funny."
"Oh, love. That's very personal. They don't waste cosmic jokes on just anyone."
I hiss. "You're enjoying this."
"Of course I am. You went soul-gazing up a hill in full corpse drag, expecting divine wisdom, and came back with a spiritual hedgehog. What's not to love?"
I throw a rock at him. He eats it. Crunches like it's a snack. Bastard.
I flop back again, arms wide, defeated. "What do I do now?"
He hums. "Well, first, don't shave your head. You'd look like an angry testicle."
"Dragon!"
He snorts. "Fine, fine. Next village. New con. And maybe—just maybe—we sacrifice a pie at midnight. For the giggles."
I groan. But I'm already smiling. Damn him.
"Can Archibald come too?"
He blinks. "...Who the fuck is Archibald?"
"My penance hedgehog, obviously."
He stares. I stare back.
And then we both burst out laughing.
The gods may be assholes. But at least they gave me him.