The hag was not only a murderer but she was also a liar. She wasn’t lying about the baron’s son, or the cost she and her sisters had charged him, but she was lying about her purpose in invading his fortress.
She had been told by her sisters to collect what they had demanded from his son so long ago, and she would, even if it meant leaving here with something that would take nine months to actually gain.
As the hag informed the baron of the devastating cost of the gruesome curse she and her sisters had inflicted on the woman, Cynthia, his son had pined for, she crept closer and closer to him. The hag had something on her mind, but it wasn’t dialogue or negotiation, no what she was thinking about was more primitive, more primal than that.
She delighted in watching the baron’s face twist in agony, not only at the news that his son had somehow died but at the fact that she had come to collect the price stipulated in the magical oath the deceased youth had sworn to them so long ago.