The town of Crookhollow wasn't much—one muddy main street, a well, and enough suspicious eyes to form a neighborhood watch that met hourly.
Dragon stayed hidden just outside the tree line. His exact words were, "If they see me, it's a witch-hunt and a roasting before dinner."
Which, frankly, was fair.
So it was just me and Maribel, standing in the blacksmith's forge, trying to explain our little problem while pretending the girl wasn't wearing a literal arcane snatch-trap under her cloak.
The blacksmith—a burly man with a pockmarked face and arms like ham hocks—crossed his arms and glared.
"Let me get this straight. You want me to break off a magical chastity belt from a runaway aristocrat bride."
I gave him my best innocent smile. "We'd be ever so grateful."
Lady Maribel leaned in, whispering, "I used to be a milkmaid. Before he—before the wedding. I never asked for any of it."
His eyes narrowed. "That may be, miss. But that's still illegal. You want me to piss off a local lord? Get myself hanged for belt-snipping?"
I rolled my eyes. "So is tax evasion."
He smirked. "Yes. And that's exactly why I don't piss off local lords. They audit."
I gestured toward the forge tools. "Can you at least try to crack the lock?"
He snorted. "It's magical. Probably resistant to blunt force."
"What about the chains?" I asked. "Can you snip them?"
He shook his head. "Still magical. You hit the wrong rune, and you both get zapped."
I sighed dramatically. "So not even if the two of us offered you some very… intense gratitude?"
I gave him a wink that had once talked a merchant into handing over his ship manifest and his underpants.
Lady Maribel gasped—mildly, but still with the kind of scandalized breathiness that belonged in court drawing rooms and swooning couches.
Without taking my eyes off the blacksmith, I gave her a gentle sideways kick to the shin. She snapped her mouth shut.
"Focus," I muttered through my smile. "We're negotiating."
He stared at me flatly. "Look, miss."
He jabbed a thick finger toward the corner of the workshop, where a dusty sign hung askew and a pair of men were arguing over a half-bent rack.
"Maybe try there. The disgraced dungeon master."
Then he pointed two alleys down, past the tannery, to a soot-stained shack with a door that hung like it had lost all will to remain upright.
So here we were.
Inside what used to be—allegedly—a municipal torture museum. Now it was a "private workshop." The walls sweated mildew. The ceiling hung low with unspoken crimes. A rack of questionable tools glinted in the candlelight, all of them slightly sticky.
And then there was him.
He opened the door in a moth-eaten bathrobe, which he wore half open. Beneath it: nothing but a leather collar and an air of unearned confidence.
I winced. "Cletus the Keybreaker?"
He grinned. "I was Cletus the Confessor. Now I go by Cleetus the Free."
Maribel clutched my arm. "He looks like someone who eats pickled things without cutlery."
He smelled like it, too.
Still, he perked up the moment he saw the belt.
"Ohhhh," he breathed, stepping closer with reverent hands. "That's a Mark Seven Theurgic Seal-Lock. Sub-clausal rune binding. Look at that clasp! Haven't seen one of these since the Dungeon Wars. Took three inquisitors and a bucket of chicken grease to open the last one."
I stepped between him and Maribel before he could get handsy. "You gonna crack it or not?"
He tilted his head. Looked me over. Squinted.
"Wait a minute… don't I know you?"
My smile froze. "No."
"You sure? You look like that acolyte from the Lust Annex. What was her name—tiny waist, wicked mouth, could tie a knot with her tongue."
"Definitely not me," I said, voice tight.
He kept squinting. "We had a girl once who snuck out with two branding irons and a ceremonial staff. Said she was liberating the prisoners. Really just got drunk and raided the wine cellar."
Maribel blinked. "That sounds—"
"Never heard of her!" I snapped, a little too loud.
Cletus tapped his lip. "She had a freckle right—"
"I am not her," I said, through my teeth, stomping his foot before he could finish the sentence.
He howled and hopped back. Then grinned. "No worries. I don't hold grudges. I just want a crack at this beauty."
He reached out toward the belt with a grubby finger.
Maribel made a sound halfway between a whimper and a protest.
I shoved his hand away. "Tinker, yes. Fondle, no."
He raised both palms solemnly. "By the lost codpiece of Archduke Venereal, I shall remain chaste of intent."
I turned to Maribel. "That's the best we're going to get."
He'd lit candles. Burned something that smelled like panic and cat pee. Laid Maribel on a wobbly table padded with old laundry. Spread out an array of cursed-looking tools—some I recognized from my own less proud nights.
I crossed my arms. "You do this often?"
"Occasionally," he muttered. "Though usually the bindings scream less."
He smeared on some kind of enchanted oil. Whispered to the runes. Gave the buckle a loving tap.
ZAP.
Blue sparks exploded. His robe went see-through for a moment. A small fire started in his beard.
He staggered back, panting.
"I love this thing," he gasped, eyes wild.
I was losing patience.
Cletus was humming to himself, muttering half-incantations while rubbing oils onto a pair of tongs that looked suspiciously like dental forceps. Maribel lay stiff as a corpse on the table, clutching her robe like it was the last scrap of dignity left in her noble lineage. The belt pulsed faintly every time someone came near, a low electric hum that promised zaps and lawsuits.
I paced.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered. "We're trying to liberate you and your damn underwear is fighting back."
"I-it's not underwear," Maribel said defensively.
"I know," I snapped. "That's the problem. It's an enchanted fortress for your nether regions."
Cletus let out a yelp. Another zap. Gods.
I crouched down next to her, dropped my voice into something soft and possibly treasonous. "Look. If we can't get it off, maybe we pivot."
"Pivot?" she whispered, suspicious.
"Yes," I said. "To something else. Practical. Lucrative."
Her eyes narrowed.
I sighed. "I know a madam in Sabrabena. Good place. Reliable pay. Fair cuts. Bit of branding, maybe a blood pact or two, but it's the good kind. Very clean sheets."
She looked at me like I'd just proposed we rob a temple.
"What?"
I pointed to the belt. "That thing zaps anyone that gets near your ladyhood, right?"
She nodded slowly.
I spread my hands. "You'd be amazed what some people pay for that kind of kink."
Her face went white. "I—what?"
"I'm talking premium rates," I said. "Dark alley bordellos. Noblemen with more gold than sense. Wizards who've been kicked out of their towers. You walk in wearing that thing and just sit there with a fan and a pout. They line up to try and get shocked."
Her jaw worked, but no sound came out.
I leaned closer. "You don't have to do anything. Just look sultry and open your legs. Let the belt handle the rest."
She looked genuinely scandalized.
I patted her knee. "Trust me. You'd be a top-tier harlot. You've got the posture. And the accessories."
Behind us, something sizzled.
Cletus yelped again. "I think it's… repelling holy water now."
"Perfect," I muttered. "That'll cost extra."
Maribel was quiet.
Too quiet.
I looked over.
She was biting her lip, eyes unfocused, clearly doing the math in her head.
The kind of math that leads to moral compromise and new wardrobe options.
Then, barely above a whisper: "How much… how much do you reckon?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Per session or per zap?"
She blinked.
I pulled a bit of charcoal from my pouch and scrawled figures across the back of an old inn receipt. "Let's say ten zaps an evening, conservatively. Factor in exotic surcharge, noble title bonus, enchanted item premium, and you're looking at… minimum seventy gold a night. Maybe more if you throw in crying or poetry."
Maribel's cheeks flushed pink.
I grinned. "That's my girl."
She stammered. "And… and I really wouldn't need to do anything?"
I gestured vaguely at her hips. "How would you? That thing's a magical riot baton for perverts."
She looked down at the belt, contemplative. "It… it kind of feels good."
I blinked. "What?"
She blushed deeper. "When it zaps someone. I feel it. Just a little. You know… on that special place."
I stared. "Oh."
She looked away, trying to play it off. "Just a… tingle."
I whistled low. "Well. That's handy."
Cletus—still smoking slightly in the corner—muttered, "I told you it had adaptive feedback runes."
I turned back to Cletus, who was now applying burn salve to his wrist and muttering something about hazard pay.
"Cletus," I said sweetly. "If you can't open it… maybe you could, I don't know… tune it up a bit?"
He looked up, suspicious. "Tune it?"
I made a vague twiddling gesture in the air. "You know. Just… release that kickback a little more."
He blinked. "You mean increase the—"
"Yes," I said. "Enhance the… user experience."
Lady Maribel made a noise that was half gasp, half wheeze. "Saya!"
I ignored her. "Can you do that or not?"
Cletus scratched his stubble. "I mean… in theory, sure. I'd just have to reroute the reaction glyphs through the stimulus path and invert the binding flow…"
He trailed off, already hunched over, pulling a grimy monocle from his robe pocket and muttering arcane nonsense under his breath.
Then: ZAP.
A sharp flash of light shot through the room.
Cletus yelped and staggered back, hair smoking.
Lady Maribel let out a sound.
A sound.
Not a shocked yelp or a dainty whimper.
A full-bodied, soul-liberating, toe-curling moan.
"Oh my gods," she gasped. "Ooooh my gods."
Her head lolled back, her chest heaving under the robe like she'd just had a religious experience.
I clapped my hands together. "Well then. I think we're all set here, Cletus."
He blinked, dazed. "That… wasn't even the final setting."
I shot him a glare. "Don't. Push. Your luck."
***
We were back on the road. Dust in the air, sun low in the sky, and me feeling smug enough to power a windmill with nothing but my grin.
Dragon lumbered beside me, tail lazily flicking, wings tucked in, eyes narrowed with suspicion that had been brewing for miles.
"Tell me again," he said, voice like gravel on velvet. "You sent her ladyship—former milkmaid, escaped bride, chastity-belted noble refugee—to Sabrabena. To the Velvet Crucible."
I played dumb. "What? It's a good place. Excellent cushions. Free bath salts. I was devastated when they kicked me out."
"They called it a moral violation."
"Well," I sniffed, "their morals were a bit wobbly to begin with."
He gave me a look. "And you sent her. With the belt still on."
I bit my lip. Smiled.
"There's a market for that down there. Niche, sure. But lucrative. She'll do fine. She has posture. And that dazed dignity thing."
He stared.
I kept walking, hands clasped behind my back like a paragon of virtue. "I even made her a letter of recommendation. Dictated it to Cletus. Very professional. Mentioned her noble lineage and her... voltage."
"You wrote her a reference letter," he repeated flatly.
"With glowing runes," I said. "Literal ones."
He exhaled through his nose. Smoke curled lazily.
"And you're not taking a cut."
I hesitated just a second too long.
He nodded to himself. "You rented that poor girl out."
"How dare you," I gasped, hand to my chest. "I am not a pimp."
He raised a brow.
"…Technically. Maybe. Slightly."
His brow rose higher.
"Okay yes, technically I arranged a work placement in a specialty establishment and took a modest commission—"
"Which is?"
I shrugged. "Thirty percent."
He groaned. "You're incorrigible."
Dragon's tail thudded once against the dirt. He wasn't looking at me, not quite.
"You rented that poor girl out."
I stopped walking. "I helped her."
"You took a cut."
I looked away. "A modest cut."
He turned, all golden eyes and ancient judgment. "Saya."
I winced.
"You sold her story. Sold her pain. You turned it into coin."
My shoulders tightened. "She wanted the job."
He didn't flinch. "Because you pitched it like freedom."
There was a long silence between us. Just the crunch of gravel and the sound of distant birds who'd wisely chosen not to be in this scene.
Then I sighed. Pulled a little scroll case from my satchel.
"Fine."
I tossed it into the bushes.
Dragon blinked. "What was that?"
"My cut. Her half of the commission contract. I wrote her in for full proceeds. Even added a retirement clause."
He stared at me.
I shrugged. "I'm not a complete monster."
"Thirty percent says otherwise."
"Twenty-eight," I muttered. "And a finder's fee."