PROLOGUE
And So, It Begins
“And lo, they gathered at the appointed hour, bearing torches, dread, and absolutely no sense of self preservation.”
– Summoning for Fun and Profit, 6th Edition
Amid the shadows of a moonless night, four hooded figures converged atop a jagged, windswept mountaintop, fueled by the kind of optimism that only denial and selective memory could provide. The cold was so biting it felt downright vindictive, as if the weather held a grudge against anyone foolish enough to venture this high. The tallest among them carried a tattered and charred tome bound in leather of dubious origin (certainly not Human . . . probably). He cleared his throat with the gravitas of someone who hadn’t just tripped over a tree root on the way in.
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” the Grand Harbinger of Doom began, his voice confident, like he had practiced talking in a mirror far too many times. “I hope everyone’s ready for some good old-fashioned summoning . . . and by good, I mean better than last time.”
He paused, with an expectant grin on his face. He waited for laughter but was met only with the sound of a cricket coughing and the shuffle of awkward feet.
Undeterred, he turned to the hooded figure on his left. “Herald! How’s your mother? Well, I hope?” His tone was a masterclass in feigned interest, as if Human Resources had suggested he ‘show more interest in the team.’
“She was sacrificed last winter, your Grandness,” replied the Herald of Prophetic Hindsight, as though this was common knowledge.
The Grand Harbinger blinked, caught off guard, before he forced a chuckle. “Right, right. Well . . . we all make sacrifices.”
“Me mum’s doin’ well,” chimed in the Underseer of Trivial Mysteries. He spoke in a tone far too chipper for a moonless night filled with dark rituals. “Oy, figured you’d want ta know. She always asks after ya.”
“Right, well, let’s move —”
“Mom’s got the runs,” interjected the Keeper of the Snacks, a huge grin plastered across his face, eager to not be left out.
“I . . . what?” The Grand Harbinger looked as if he’d just been slapped with a wet fish.
“The runs,” the Keeper repeated helpfully. “Y’know. The trots. The squirts. The —”
“Yes, thank you, I got it.” The Grand Harbinger’s expression shifted from indifference to mild horror. “Your mother . . . she . . . didn’t help with the snacks . . . did she?”
“Oh yes, sir,” the Keeper replied, with earnest pride. “She always helps with the snacks.”
The Grand Harbinger took a moment to process the information.
“Right. Well, let’s . . . not think about the snacks right now.” I should’ve stayed in public relations, he thought grimly.
He rubbed his temples before forcing his professional smile back into place. Clearing his throat again, he tried to recover his air of authority, glancing around the group.
“Right, right . . . right . . . moving on!” He took a quick breath. “Underseer, bring forth the sacrifice.”
There was a long pause. The group exchanged nervous glances. After an uncomfortable beat, the Underseer of Trivial Mysteries sheepishly raised his hand.
“Me mum said I weren’t allowed ta do no more sacrifices,” he mumbled. He held up a wicker basket overflowing with tiny orange vegetables. “I thawt we may, you knows, use these ones instead.”
The Grand Harbinger’s face fell. His carefully crafted aura of leadership had begun to slip.
“What are those? Baby carrots?”
“Yeah, well, they came from me own garden. Grew ’em meself, I did. See, the tome says ta sacrifice an innocent, right? So I thinks to meself, well, what’s more innocent than a baby carrot, eh? So I figured, why not, y’know?”
The Grand Harbinger froze, his expression blank, as if his brain had crashed while trying to decipher the logic. After a long pause, he finally sighed. “I suppose we have no choice. But we are going to have a long talk after this is over.”
The Underseer of Trivial Mysteries returned a sheepish grin.
“Tonight, we summon forth the Dark Lord, Emperor of Eternal Midnight, Devourer of Suns, Master of the Abyss, Scourge of All That Is Good.” The Grand Harbinger spoke with grave seriousness. “May his power rise once more to rain chaos and destruction upon the world.”
The group struggled to chant in unison. Their voices were a mismatched jumble of lows and highs, guttural and squeaky. As the Grand Harbinger raised his hands, signaling the next part of the ritual, he shot a glance at the Underseer.
“And now! The sacrifice of the innocent!” the Grand Harbinger said with an air of theatrics. The hooded figure remained oblivious.
The Grand Harbinger cleared his throat, murderous intent on his face.
“Hmm?” The Underseer finally looked up. “Oh, right!” With great enthusiasm, he upended the basket of carrots into the center of the group. They hit the ground with a soft thwump. He grinned expectantly at the Grand Harbinger, awaiting praise.
The Grand Harbinger returned a stiff, insincere smile. How did I get stuck with these morons?
His ruminations on the shortcomings of his underlings were interrupted by a low rumble that echoed through the clearing. The earth shuddered beneath their feet as a jagged rift tore through the soil. A chasm of molten flame erupted from the very bowels of the underworld. It cast an infernal glow that bathed the clearing in hues of violent orange and bloody red. From the depths of this hellish wound, a figure emerged. Cloaked in darkness so profound it devoured the very shadows around it.
The Dark Lord had arrived.
The Grand Harbinger wasted no time. He dropped to his knees. “Oh, mighty Lord, we have summoned you to bring forth chaos and despair upon this world!”
The Dark Lord’s eyes burned with the incandescent fury of a phoenix imprisoned in a sulfur mine, but as he gazed down upon the sacrificial offering, his expression softened into one of unfathomable bewilderment.
The group exchanged nervous glances. Each silently prayed that a carrot wasn’t about to end their pathetic existence. After a long, uncomfortable pause, the Dark One spoke, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble.
“WHAT . . . IS THIS?”
“A sacrifice of the purest innocence, my Lord!” the Grand Harbinger stammered, his voice wavering, his bow so deep that he could taste the ground.
“CARROTS?” The word hung in the air, heavy with disbelief, as if the Dark Lord himself couldn’t fathom the depths of their idiocy.
The Dark One crouched, as if unsure how to approach a vegetable. He pinched a single carrot between his fingers like it was the most fragile artifact in the universe.
“Baby carrots, my Lord,” the Grand Harbinger offered weakly.
“They’re organic!” the Underseer chimed in, a hint of pride in his voice.
The Grand Harbinger closed his eyes, despair tightening his chest. For the love of all that’s unholy, please . . . stop . . . talking! He didn’t dare open them again, bracing for the end. This is how we die. Sacrificed on the altar of stupidity.
The Dark Lord’s burning eyes swept across the group, his gaze sharp enough to gut a stone golem. A thick, suffocating silence fell over the mountaintop. Every muscle in the Grand Harbinger’s body tensed, bracing for the inevitable annihilation.
Then, with an ominous crunch, he took a bite.
“HMM. NOT BAD.”
The Underseer beamed. “Knew you’d like ’em!”
Without another word, the Dark Lord turned, his cloak billowed dramatically as he strode away. Around his neck, a heavy chain glinted in the dim light, the brilliant blue gem at its center practically humming with power — something that would probably be important later. The Grand Harbinger scrambled to follow, whispering frantic apologies and promises that next time, they would sacrifice something more fitting.
As the Underseer trailed behind, he couldn’t help but muse aloud, “Maybe next time we try cherry tomatoes.” As the group vanished into the night, somewhere, inexplicably, a magic sword blinked into existence, wondering how it had gotten there
CHAPTER 1
The Calm Before the Plot
“We fear them because we’re told to. We believe it because we’re supposed to. And that, my friends, is what makes us civilized.”
– Professor Ellard Grimsley, Imperial Ethnographer (Missing)
‘You must stop him, or your world will end!’
The frying pan’s voice echoed in her mind — crisp, imperious, and just a touch condescending.
To be fair, Tianna didn’t spend much time pondering grand existential questions like the fate of the world. Hers was a straightforward reality. But that evening, standing in the storeroom of The Cracked Tankard with talking cookware in front of her, reality jolted her with something unexpected and profoundly inconvenient.
But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.
* * *
Being a big sister, Tianna had learned two universal truths: first, younger siblings are born with an uncanny ability to find danger in the safest places, and second, they always manage to do it with a look of innocent triumph. These thoughts weighed heavily on her mind as she trudged into the Ashevale forest for what felt like the hundredth time that week. Rea, bless her adventurous little heart, had developed a fondness for a particular spot within the forest. However, that spot still required Tianna to tromp through every thorn bush, mud pit, and spider-infested thicket in their corner of the Empire. Yet, Tianna did it with little (maybe more than little) complaint, because at the end of the day, she loved her sister and couldn’t bear to see her harmed.
Not far from where Tianna had entered the forest, there lay a circular clearing of rich black soil surrounded by towering Gloamwood trees.1Legend has it that the Gloamwood tree propagates only under the light of a blood moon, when a coven of witches performs the primeval summoning of the deer spirit Cernu. In the flickering shadows of their fires, where innocent blood is spilled, Cernu is said to rise from the spirit world to dance with the witches; sometimes twice if he doesn’t have to get up early the next morning. Reality, however, is a bit more mundane. There’s just some guy who likes to go around planting them. I think his name is John, or maybe Jim. Something with a J, anyway. Those towering sentinels, armored in patchy white bark, stretched skyward, their canopies cascading outward with rich crimson leaves. During the day, the clearing was always full of light and warmth, but as evening fell, the darker creatures of the forest would often encroach upon the sanctuary.
Rea sat in the center of the clearing, a child no more than nine years old. She was a mirror image of Tianna yet reflecting eight years into the past. Her face was round and plain, eyes the color of ripe wheat, and locks braided down her back the color and smell of digested wheat. Her tunic, once a dignified weave of undyed wool, was now stained with what could only be blood, or possibly fruit juice.
On her left, a small ball of fur and chaotic energy sat in hushed watchfulness. The cat was black as the depths of an ancient chimney and just as dusted with soot.
Rea’s world had shrunk to the task at hand. She worked with a silent fervor, her small fingers interlacing a crown of forest leaves and vines, interweaving delicate red and white flowers — lava blossoms and frost petals. The crown was a work of contradiction, a fragile equilibrium of opposites intertwined into a single, delicate form.
As the sun began its leisurely descent to the west, the once vibrant clearing surrendered to the shadows of the surrounding forest. Little by little, the darkness crept closer, casting a dreary, dismal shroud over the scene. The air grew heavy with the scent of damp earth and the distant, nearly inaudible rustle of unseen creatures who were perhaps conspiring, perhaps attending to their own affairs, but ominous all the same.
Rea hummed a simple melody in the key of B sharp, a cruel coincidence, given the creature lurking in her shadow and its last victim’s final thought: I should have known those teeth would be sharp.
A chilling wind slithered in from the north, rustling the canopy with an ominous sigh. Crimson leaves from the Gloamwood trees, displaced by the draft, floated down in a slow, deliberate descent, finally settling on the somber soil like blood spilled on a battlefield, or a toddler toppling a dish of dried berries.
The trees behind her squirmed, their branches creaking in protest, as if grumbling about her lack of attention. But she remained unperturbed, completely consumed by her task. Her humming continued, cheerfully clueless of the arboreal discontent.
The cat, on the other hand, was not so complacent. He locked his stare on the tree line behind the girl, a guttural, ominous rumble echoing from the pit of his throat. He pressed flat to the ground, blending seamlessly into the ever-deepening shadows, muscles tensed like a drawn bowstring. His eyes dilated and unwavering like twin pools of chaos, fixed intently on the movement in the gloom. Waiting.
The forest seemed to hold its breath as the creature manifested from the shadows. Its gilded, serpentine eyes locked onto Rea with a hunger that far exceeded its small stature. The dragon whelp, barely a foot in length from nose to tail, was a pitiful echo of its once-mighty ancestors. Somber black scales covered its scrawny body, but they were dull and cracked, more reminiscent of a worn, weathered boot than the fearsome, gleaming plates they once were.
Its tiny horns, scarcely jutting from its skull, gave it an almost comical appearance, like a child playing at being fearsome. But the danger in its eyes was anything but playful. As it crouched low, muscles tensed in preparation to strike, there was no mistaking the lethal intent simmering behind those golden orbs.
Its maw opened wide, revealing saffron fangs wet with anticipation, dripping more saliva than seemed necessary or was medically advisable. The creature’s back legs tensed, stony talons dug into the soft soil, and with a sudden burst of speed that defied its small, scrappy frame, it launched itself toward Rea.
For a fractured moment, time seemed to slow. The dragon’s claws were outstretched, reaching toward the small child who remained blissfully unaware.
With a sudden pounce and a quick flick of his neck, the cat had the tiny creature in its jaws. The whelp let out a soft, pitiful whimper before falling silent forever. Dead but still twitching, as if its body hadn’t quite gotten the message.
“Nyxie!” Rea exclaimed, scrambling to her feet. She ran to the cat, her face a mix of awe and concern. “You saved me!”
Nyx puffed out his chest, the tiny dragon carcass hanging from his jaws.
Just then, Tianna stepped into the clearing, picking branches and leaves out of her hair. As she saw Rea, whole and unharmed, her breath hitched. Relief flooded through her, but it was short-lived. The dragon whelp’s corpse dangling from Nyx’s jaws stole the air from her lungs. “Astrea Celeste Amberbrook!” Tianna’s voice cut through the clearing, sharp and exasperated. Her braid swung behind her as she marched toward her sister, her face tight with worry.
Rea froze, the weight of her full name hitting her like a bucket of ice water. It was the verbal equivalent of being caught red-handed, and it stopped her in her tracks.2Every child instinctively knows the power of The Full Name. It’s an ancient force, older than magic, stronger than the toughest metal, and as inescapable as a mother’s glare. Uttered with precision, it can halt the fiercest tantrum, unravel the cleverest lie, and turn even the bravest warrior into a stammering puddle of guilt. The Full Name transcends time and culture, a universal incantation understood by all children, no matter how wild or unruly. Hearing it is like being struck by the very voice of justice, or worse, the promise of consequences.
“You had everyone worried sick.” Tianna planted her hands on her hips, her sharp gaze flicking from the dead dragon to Rea’s guilty expression. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you, wandering out here all alone?”
“I wasn’t alone!” Rea protested, pointing at Nyx. “Nyxie was with me.”
“I’m sure Nyx is very brave, but look at him, he’s just a cat. How is he going to protect you?”
“Nyxie isn’t just a cat! He’s . . . he’s a guardian, like in the stories! And he did protect me! Look!”
Tianna let out a sigh, her shoulders relaxing. “Fine. But what are you doing out here again? Didn’t I tell you not to come out here by yourself?”
“Nyxie wanted a crown,” Rea replied, her voice small and trembling, the words barely escaping her lips. It was such an absurd explanation that Tianna had to bite back a sigh of disbelief. The fact that her little sister was taking orders from a cat, of all things.
Brrrrup! Nyx the cat chimed in, as if to confirm he was indeed the mastermind of their grand adventure.
“Nyxie wanted a —?” Tianna repeated, blinking. “You’re letting the cat boss you around?”
“He’s very persuasive.” She said in all seriousness before her lips began to quiver and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Tee-Tee, I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
Tianna groaned, her anger evaporating as fast as it had appeared. She knelt beside her sister. “Hey, don’t cry. You’re okay, and that’s what matters.”
“I was going to surprise you with one too. Nyxie said I should practice first.”
Tianna focused her attention on the crown. “It is really pretty. You’ve got an eye for these things, you know. Maybe next time, we can work on one together.”
“Really? You’d want to make a crown with me?” Rea asked, wiping away tears with the back of her arm.
“Of course, Rea, what are big sisters for?” She gave her little sister a light bump with her elbow.
Nyx sauntered over and dropped the dragon whelp at Tianna’s feet with all the pride of a cat that had just conquered the world. Tianna stared at the tiny carcass.3Once upon a time, dragons were the ultimate killers. Claws, teeth, fire-breath, you know, the whole shebang. But the problem with dragons was that there were never very many of them. With the constant influx of those taking up adventuring as a profession, the issue only worsened. Over the centuries, questionable pairings arose. Today, there were enough dragons who were both their own sibling and grandparent that drastic biological changes were inevitable. “Well, at least Nyx caught dinner. Though, there isn’t very much meat on this thing.”
Rea giggled through her sniffles. “Nyxie says it’s more about the presentation.”
Tianna chuckled, watching as Rea, with the utmost seriousness, placed the forest crown upon Nyx’s head. The cat, to his credit, looked incredibly regal, at least for a moment. He sneezed, causing the crown to tilt sideways on his head. Nyx gave an exaggerated shake before resuming his proud posture, as if the sneeze was all part of his royal act.
“There,” Rea declared, satisfied with her work. “Now Nyxie’s a King.”
“Great,” Tianna laughed. “All hail King Nyxie, ruler of the cats.” She shook her head before continuing, “Let’s just get back before they send out a search party. Next time, wait for me. Deal?”
Rea nodded eagerly. “Okay Tee-Tee, I promise. I won’t come out here alone ever again.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Unless Nyxie says it’s really, really important.”
“You’d really listen to a cat over your big sister?”
“He doesn’t nag as much.”
Tianna groaned but couldn’t help the smile creeping across her face. “Come on, you two. I’m glad you’re both safe, but now I’m late for work. Gertie is going to kill me.” As they walked back toward the town of Nothing-to-See-Here, Rea skipped alongside Tianna, chatting away as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Nyx trotted a few paces ahead, tail held high, as if leading a victorious parade. Tianna glanced at the dragon whelp dangling from her hand and sighed.
CHAPTER 2
Destiny: Now in Nonstick
“A true calling comes softly, like a whisper. Followed shortly by screaming.”
– Manual of Prophetic Compliance, Volume I
At the far end of Nothing-to-See-Here, where even the cobblestones seemed to give up and turn to dirt, stood a tavern that had seen much better days, although no one could quite remember when those days had taken place. The Cracked Tankard, as it was rather ironically named, leaned slightly to one side, as if drunk on its own stock.
The exterior was a hodgepodge of crumbling stone and warped wooden planks, haphazardly patched together with whatever materials the locals could scrounge up — old shingles, broken wagon boards, and even a few grimy old socks stuffed into the smaller gaps. Moss and lichen had crept over the stonework, as if nature itself was embarrassed by the eyesore and was slowly trying to cover it up.
The inside wasn’t much better. The air smelled faintly of stale ale, boiled cabbage, and the windy whispers of past patrons. Cracked, uneven floors bore ancient stains, poorly concealed by scattered straw. Above, the wooden beams were thick with cobwebs, and the occasional drip from the ceiling suggested that the last rainstorm had been more successful at finding leaks than the tavern keeper had been at fixing them. A small hearth in the corner struggled to offer warmth, its embers crackling begrudgingly as if embarrassed to be there. Above it hung a crooked sword so rusted and dull it seemed better suited for scraping mud off boots than for combat.
The bar, once a grand centerpiece, was now battered and scarred, its surface stained dark by years of spills and neglect. Rows of dusty bottles lined the shelves behind it, their faded labels offering only ghostly hints of what they once contained — forgotten ales, obscure spirits, or perhaps something more exotic, like a potion to stiffen one’s resolve. On the wall above hung a crooked sign, its crude lettering boldly declaring: “Goblins: Killers, Pillagers, No Better Than Beasts!”4The Imperial Bestiary: A Comprehensive Guide to the Beasts and Botherations of the Realm (3rd Edition, pg. 472):
“Standing at a proud five feet tall on a good day (provided the wind wasn’t too strong), Goblins are the tricksters of the realms. On their own, a Goblin is more of a nuisance than a threat, the sort who might swap your sugar for salt or rearrange your furniture just to watch you trip in the dark. They’re the reason you can never find your left sock and why your keys are never where you thought you left them, at least, so the stories within the Empire go.
“However, gather four or more Goblins together, and you’ve got yourself a certified problem. Goblins operate on the Principle of Exponential Mischief: the more there are, the more dangerous and unpredictable they become, with the level of destruction increasing at an alarming rate. A quartet of Goblins might start with what seems like harmless mischief — stealing pies or knocking over market stalls — but give them enough time, and suddenly they’ve set fire to the village blacksmith’s shop, ‘just to see what happens.’ “Once you’ve got a full gaggle of Goblins, which for the record, is any number that causes an onlooker to ‘gaggle’ before running in the opposite direction, their antics escalate from minor chaos to outright destruction. These aren’t just petty thieves or mischievous tricksters anymore; they can dismantle a town in the time it takes to wonder what that strange cackling noise is. A group of four might liberate a village’s livestock, but a group of eight could have the entire place in ruins by lunchtime, and they’d probably blame it all on some unfortunate chicken.” The flaking paint and chipped wood couldn’t hide the message’s zeal, even if everything else in the tavern seemed to be falling apart.
Behind the bar stood the formidable Gertrude Stout, known to all as Gertie. She was short, sturdy, and built like a well-aged barrel of ale, one that could roll right over you if you got on her bad side. Her round, ruddy face was framed by twinkling eyes that saw everything and tolerated nothing. And much like the finest stout, Gertie was full-bodied, rich in character, and always left a lasting impression.
By the hearth, a group of fresh faces sat wide-eyed, hanging on every word from what could only be described as a Human-shaped pile of muscles. His name was Blarg the Unstoppable Doomhammer, though his parents stubbornly clung to his given name, Blargathor Smashington the Third.5Blarg’s parents had high hopes that their son would follow in the esteemed footsteps of his father and grandfather, both renowned chancellors in the Empire, navigating the intricate webs of law and policy with the same deftness they handled quills and legal tomes. They dreamed he would someday take over the family’s prestigious legal practice, arguing before the Empire’s highest courts and securing the family’s place among the elite.
However, despite their best efforts, they could never quite manage to squeeze Blarg’s bulbous head into one of those fancy, starched collars that symbolized their noble profession. They tried everything: custom-tailored shirts, enchanted tailoring spells, even the most delicate of shrinking charms. But no matter what they did, Blarg’s head remained defiantly… well, Blarg-sized. The final button, that stubborn emblem of their lofty hopes, refused to close. And so, much like every shirt that he has ever worn, their grand ambitions for Blarg slowly came apart at the seams. He was a seven-foot tall, walking mountain of muscle, with biceps that had taken on lives of their own, seemingly covered in their own, smaller, well-defined muscles. His chest was so broad that he could bench-press a tiny horse standing on top of an even larger horse. And his neck had all but disappeared beneath the bulging muscles, threatening to one day consume his head entirely.
Calling Blarg a blowhard would be an understatement so grand that even other blowhards would feel insulted, knowing they could never aspire to the sheer level of blowhardedness that Blarg had mastered. He was in the midst of one of his signature epics where, naturally, he single-handedly rescued the Elven princess Elwen from an entire army of Southern Ice Trolls, when Tianna strode into the tavern.
The tavern keeper glared icicles as Tianna slipped through the door. “Sorry, Miss Gertie,” Tianna said, catching her breath. “Nyx wandered off again, and I had to track him down before he caused any more trouble.” She held up the dead whelp like a peace offering. “But I brought dinner! Sort of.”
Gertie’s stern expression softened, her eyes twinkling with a touch of amusement. “You mean chasing that sister of yours into the forest again?” she corrected, her fondness for Rea softening the edges of her tone.
“It wasn’t her fault,” Tianna said quickly, shaking her head. “That cat of hers led her out there again. Rea was just trying to keep him happy.”
Gertie chuckled, the sound warm and inviting, a sharp contrast to the drafty, mismatched tavern around her. “That cat’s got the poor girl running circles. Smart beast, that one. Too smart for anyone’s good.”
“HO THERE, BAR WENCH! ANOTHER ROUND!” Blarg’s bellow echoed across the tavern. Gertie shot him a look so sharp that, had it been a dagger, could have passed clean through his skull and out the other side, and in Gertie’s opinion, wouldn’t have hit anything important during its flight. She turned back to Tianna.
“Well now, go on and drop that off in the kitchen and get downstairs. We’ve got a new delivery to unpack. I was going to handle it myself, but someone didn’t show up to work on time.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” Tianna hurried to the kitchen and tossed the whelp onto the counter before heading down to the storage room beneath the tavern.
If anything, the storage room was even more disheveled than the tavern above, if such a thing were possible. Old kegs lay on their sides in the corner, gathering dust as if they’d given up on life. In the farthest corner, a colony of spiders had been there so long they had not only developed into the Industrial Era, they were already unionizing.6Not only had they unionized, but they’d also formed a leadership council, with Comrade Webigail at the helm of negotiations, her eight legs already tangled in a web of bureaucracy. Tiny spider-sized hardhats and miniature protest signs were in production, while the webbing had grown suspiciously intricate, now resembling blueprints for what could only be called ‘The United Arachnid Workers’ Commune.’ Web banners hung proudly from the highest beams, declaring ‘Eight Legs, One Voice!’ Negotiations were well underway, with demands for better working conditions, a strict ‘No Brooms’ policy, more flies per hour, and a retirement plan involving cozy, dust-free window corners or prime real estate on the best sun-drenched windowpanes. If things continued at this rate, they’d probably be demanding coffee breaks, maternity leave for expecting spider moms, and paid time off for web maintenance. There were even whispers of a workers’ holiday in honor of the great web-builders of old.
Near the storage room’s back entrance sat a wooden crate, its top already pried off, with straw padding spilling out like a poorly wrapped gift. Inside were hempen sacks of potatoes. The kind of present every seventeen-year-old girl dreams of, if she’s really into root vegetables or bootlegging. Tianna began lifting the sacks out of the crate, one by one, with all the enthusiasm of someone counting sheep for the Imperial census. Something metallic caught her eye, jutting out from between two sacks. Intrigued, she cleared away the remaining potatoes, uncovering a frying pan. A very plain, run-of-the-mill frying pan. It glimmered faintly, as if trying to convince her it was far more important than it had any right to be.
Tianna knelt down for a closer look at the strange pan. She wondered if Farmer Grub had accidentally left it in the crate before delivering it, or were the gnomes finally repaying her for all the undergarments they’d pilfered? Whatever the reason, the pan clearly didn’t belong.
She reached out to pick up the oddity, but the moment her fingers brushed the metal, a flash of light, dense and overwhelming, like a physical weight, slammed into her, knocking her to the floor. As darkness closed in, Tianna’s last thought was of the baffling sensation of tasting the color blue.7Although most humans experience color purely through sight, except in the most extreme of conditions, the wizards of the Mystical Order of the Hasty Retreat have long been captivated by the idea of experiencing colors in other ways. Through a series of bizarre and often questionable experiments, using snow as the preferred base substance to enhance sensory interactions, the wizards have managed to taste various colors. After extensive sampling (and a few regrettable incidents), it was universally agreed by nearly all members of the Order that the color yellow was, without a doubt, the least appetizing hue in the entire rainbow.
Tianna was no stranger to dreams, but what passed through her mind then was unlike any dream she had ever experienced.
It began in a lush forest glade, where the air was thick with the scent of wildflowers and self-importance. Ancient trees surrounded the clearing, their gnarled trunks looking like they’d seen some things. The canopy overhead let only a few lazy sunbeams filter through, casting an ethereal glow like the entire forest was trying just a little too hard to set the mood.
Ahead, a waterfall cascaded dramatically down a rugged cliff, sparkling like liquid crystal. The rush of water felt suspiciously over-the-top, as though the forest was showing off, while the mist swirled theatrically, auditioning for a role in some fantasy painting. The water pooled into a serene pond that reflected the trees and sky so perfectly you’d think it had something to prove.
In the center of that pond, shrouded in the mist from the waterfall, was a small island — when isn’t there an island. The grass was an unnaturally rich emerald, dotted with tiny white flowers that sparkled like stars, in case anyone missed the memo about how magical this place was.
Right in the middle of it all (because no magical island is complete without one), stood a sword.
It sat half-buried in the soil, eternally patient, yet slightly bored. The hilt was adorned with intricate engravings, probably telling some grand epic tale long lost to history, or maybe a shopping list: milk, eggs, and a suspiciously large amount of cooking oil. The blade glowed faintly from within, with a sense of pompous flair, as if it were trying just a little too hard to be noticed, but only managing to seem a bit desperate.
Tianna was familiar with the idea of magic swords, though she’d never encountered one in real life. Still, she knew one when she saw, or dreamed one. They always appeared in settings like this, right before declaring some grand destiny to anyone brave enough, or foolish enough, to touch them. And, without fail, after pulling the sword from the ground, or often from a stone, every cute little animal nearby would immediately turn hostile and swarm the newly anointed hero.
She never quite understood that part. Why would a sweet, fluffy creature suddenly think, You know what would really liven up my vegetarian diet? That big, scary Human, freshly anointed in self-righteousness and swinging around a big, pointy sword!
In her vision, she felt herself drawn toward the sword, and as she touched it, another flash of light slammed into her, but this time it had the peculiar taste of purple. If she were conscious, she might have found this completely absurd, a bit redundant, and utterly unimaginative. But as she was merely observing this bizarre scene, Tianna just went with the flow.
The scene shifted abruptly, and the tranquil glade vanished, replaced by an overwhelming sense of foreboding. Tianna found herself hovering above a vast valley, the ground below shrouded in shadow. The sky was choked with dark, swirling clouds, as if even the heavens had decided they’d seen enough and stormed off. As her vision adjusted, the landscape came into focus, revealing a massive army, crammed into the valley like the universe’s largest can of sardines, squashed tighter than a dwarven tavern on half-price ale night.8To fully appreciate this comparison, one must understand that dwarven taverns, even on a normal day, are packed wall-to-wall with patrons, all vying for the best spot to enjoy their ale. Now, introduce the concept of half-price ale, a deal so irresistible that dwarves from miles around will squeeze themselves into the tavern with the sheer determination of a miner going after the last vein of mithril. Elbows are weapons, personal space ceases to exist, and if you’re lucky enough to find a stool, you’d better guard it like an ancient dragon hoarding treasure. Needless to say, it’s a scene of joyous chaos, assuming you like your chaos loud, bearded, and extremely tipsy.
The valley itself was a wretched, unwelcoming place, much like the back end of an ogre’s cave, where even light dared not venture, heavy with lingering despair and a whiff of something better left unspoken. The soil was dull, lifeless, and gray. No vegetation dared grow in such a cursed land, except for potatoes, because those things would grow anywhere. The only movement came from the countless figures that swarmed across the valley floor, their twisted forms casting long, sinister shadows in whatever passed for light.
As her vision sharpened, the individual figures became clearer. They were a grotesque and varied lot, each one uniquely armored in a mismatched assortment of materials. Some wore heavy plates of rusted metal. Others were clad in rough leather, dark and cracked, stretched taut over bony limbs and emaciated frames. While the majority of the soldiers wore little more than tattered, filthy rags so threadbare that they left far too little to the imagination.
The weapons they carried were as varied and terrifying as their armor. Some brandished wickedly sharp blades. Others held long, slender spears and pikes. Among the more bizarre weapons were those that defied all reason, blunt objects twisted into shapes that seemed to mock the very principles of common sense.
At the rear of the army stood a towering figure, draped in a flowing cloak so black that even the darkest shadows fled in terror. His presence seemed to exude a sort of anti-light, casting an unnatural shadow that flickered and writhed as if alive. Around his neck hung a heavy chain with a brilliant blue gem, glowing faintly, as if it, too, shared in his dark aura — because, let’s be honest, that would almost certainly matter later. Beneath the hood of his cloak, his face was obscured, save for two glowing eyes, burning embers of mild annoyance and maybe a touch of distemper.
His armor was cobbled together from the finest hand-me-downs from all the previous Dark Lords.9Throughout most of recorded history, the traditional garb of a Dark Lord had been firmly established. A wardrobe dominated by sleek, ominous blacks with the occasional crimson accent. An attire designed with a single purpose, to strike fear into the hearts of enemies and followers alike. Menacing capes, spiked armor, and shadowy cowls were practically a uniform. It was an unspoken rule. A sartorial standard. Passed down from Dark Lord to Dark Lord, ensuring that their sinister presence was recognized from miles away.
However, there was one exception. A single, rebellious Dark Lord — Maldrethian Von Malevolantus — or Lord Maldreth the Stylish, as he preferred to be called. He dared to challenge this long-standing tradition. Maldreth had a keen sense of fashion, or at least he thought so. He found the constant black-on-black ensemble dreadfully uninspired. Instead, he opted for something far more elegant. Robes of crisp white with shimmering silver trim. Designed to highlight his sharp, aristocratic features. His armor was polished to a mirror-like shine. His cloak, a pristine ivory.
Maldreth believed his bold choices would redefine the very image of what a Dark Lord should be. Perhaps even herald a new era of villainy with a touch of class. ‘Why must evil be so . . . dull?’ He often mused, while admiring his reflection in a burnished silver breastplate. In his mind, his radiant attire was a sign of sophistication, a Dark Lord who understood the power of both aesthetics and terror.
Unfortunately, his followers, simple-minded as they were, had certain expectations of how their master should look. They were minions, after all, and minions weren’t exactly known for their discerning taste in haute couture. To them, Dark Lords wore black, it was as simple as that. The moment they saw someone clad in white and silver leading their charge, they assumed a grievous error had been made.
And so, during one particularly dramatic campaign in the mountains, Lord Maldreth had taken a high, windswept peak to survey the battlefield below. His followers squinted up at him from the valley. “Who’s that up there?” one minion asked, scratching his head.
“Dunno,” replied another, narrowing his eyes, “but he’s definitely in the wrong place.”
They were convinced that the radiant figure was some unfortunate hero who had gotten lost. So, the minions, in their dedication to protect their true master, rushed to action. Before Lord Maldreth could wave them off, they had him surrounded. With all the enthusiasm and zeal of loyal henchmen, they promptly knocked him clean off the mountain. As Maldreth plummeted to the rocky depths below, his mind raced through the possibilities of what had gone wrong. Perhaps the cloak had been a bit too bright? Maybe the armor too shiny? Or was it the silver trim? As the wind rushed past him, all he could think was, ‘I should have stuck with black.’ It was etched with symbols of a long-forgotten language, so complex it would drive the reader to boredom. Spikes and jagged edges jutted out everywhere, as if he had rolled through a blacksmith’s scrap pile and decided to keep whatever had stuck, like some kind of emo porcupine.
The Dark Lord’s aura was palpable, like that sinking feeling you get when you wake up way too early and discover you’ve run out of coffee, forcing you to use instant. He fancied himself the embodiment of chaos and despair, though others might say he was more so the embodiment of working retail.
Whatever he was, it wasn’t good.
The scene around her faded into darkness, leaving only those two glowing eyes burning into her soul. As she blinked awake, the eyes transformed into the flickering flames of two lanterns hanging in the storage room — an eerie, yet oddly perfect cinematic transition more suited for a visual medium.
As she sat up, words echoed in her mind, the voice feminine and stern.
‘You must stop him, or your world shall end!‘
“What?” Tianna shook her head, glancing around the room, desperately hoping to locate the source of the voice.
‘Sorry, was the vision not clear? You know, I am kind of new at this. That big scary man. The one dressed all in black. That’s the one you need to stop. I mean, if it isn’t too much of a bother.’ The voice was slightly exasperated, but also cautious, as if she didn’t want to scare Tianna away.
“Where are you? Who are you?” Tianna stood up from the ground, still searching the room.
‘Really? Wasn’t I clear about that? I’m that sword. Oh dear, this is not going well at all. Actually, you see, I was that sword. Now, I’m . . . THIS!’ Tianna could almost feel the voice trying to gesture to herself, as if to say, Woe is me, look at what I’ve become.
Tianna slowly approached the crate and peered down at the frying pan, half-convinced she had lost her mind. The pan, in its own inanimate way, seemed to peer back up at her much like a frying pan shouldn’t. “Oh, hello there,” Tianna greeted it reluctantly, her thoughts spinning with the absurdity of the situation. She couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that the fall might have rattled her head more than she’d initially thought.
‘Oh, hello again! If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could you please take me out of this crate? It’s so dark and smelly in here.’
Tianna briefly wondered if a pan could smell, before quickly realizing that was probably the least important question she could be asking right then. “I would,” she hesitated, “but, you know . . . the last time.” She pointed to her head and mimicked an explosion with her hand.
‘Oh dear, I won’t do that again. It’s just . . . tradition, you know. One vision when we first meet, then we get out there and start cutting . . . err . . . bonking the baddies.’ The frying pan paused, then continued in a much faster, but quieter tone, ‘And maybe one teensy little vision later on, should the quest call for it.’
“You sure?” Tianna asked, eyeing the pan suspiciously.
‘Oh yes dearie. Quite sure,’ the pan replied, in a tone that suggested the opposite. ‘I mean, haven’t you ever read a book?’
If you couldn’t trust a sentient, talking frying pan, who could you trust? Tianna thought, her skepticism tinged with sarcasm as she slowly reached down. She winced as her finger touched metal, but nothing out of the ordinary happened, aside from the fact that she was, indeed, having a conversation with a frying pan.
She placed the pan on a nearby shelf and cautiously backed away. “Well, there you go . . . ugh . . . Frying Pan?” she said reluctantly. “And I appreciate the offer . . . really, but unfortunately, I’ve got a lot going on right now, so I’ll have to pass. Maybe you can talk to Gertie when she comes down later. I’m sure she’d be thrilled to take on your . . . ugh . . . quest . . . or . . . whatever.”
‘Oh, but it must be you, dearie,’ the pan said, a hint of worry creeping into her voice. ‘And please, call me Sword.’
“Right . . . Sword. Like I said, this really isn’t a great time.”
‘BUT YOU MUST!’ The voice seemed to wince immediately. ‘Oh, so sorry for that, I really didn’t mean to shout. It’s just . . . you know . . . untold consequences and such should you not accept the . . . umm . . . call to adventure, as they say.’
“I get that, but —” Tianna trailed off as she turned on her heels and bolted out of the storage room, leaving the frying pan alone.
‘Oh, fiddle-fuddle,’ Sword sighed glumly, alone once again in the storage room. ‘Abandoned once more. Forever forced to live alone . . . in darkness . . . and despair!’ Her tone grew more theatrical with each word, dripping with melodrama as though she were the star of her own tragic play. ‘A life of solitude for such a noble blade . . . or . . . well . . . pan. Oh, the indignity of it all!’
She continued her lament for quite some time, spinning grand tales of her misfortune and suffering. But, alas, there was nobody there to hear her woeful soliloquy. And for the melodramatic, that was the worst punishment of all.
* * *
Up in the tavern, Tianna skidded to a halt in front of Gertie. “Umm, Miss Gertie, I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well. I think I need to go home.” Her face was flushed, a bead of sweat trickled down her brow.
Gertie narrowed her eyes at Tianna, her expression shifting to one of suspicion. “Not feeling well, eh?” she said, crossing her arms. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, and not the friendly kind. What’s really going on, girl?”
“I think . . . maybe . . . something I ate?” Tianna offered weakly, avoiding Gertie’s penetrating gaze.
Before Gertie could press further, Blarg tiptoed up to the bar, clearing his throat delicately. “Umm . . . pardon Blarg’s interruption, good madam,” he murmured, speaking so softly it seemed he was afraid to disturb the air. The faint scent of garlic lingered as he spoke. He exchanged a quick glance with Tianna, a flicker of understanding passing between them. She couldn’t help but notice the fresh bruise forming around his left eye, turning a rather impressive shade of blue. “Another round of drinks for Blarg’s table, Mistress Gertie, if you don’t mind . . . and, uh . . . if such a request is agreeable to you,” he added, looking like a dog that had just chewed up its owner’s favorite slipper.
Gertie held up a stubby finger to Blarg without even glancing his way. “Yes, dear, you don’t look well at all. Best you go home and get some rest. I’m sure there won’t be any trouble in the tavern tonight.” She shot Blarg a look that was more warning than reassurance, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
“Thank you, Miss Gertie. I’ll make it up to you,” Tianna replied, seizing the chance to escape. She darted out the tavern door without another word.
“Yes, yes, move along now.”
As Tianna hurried out of the tavern, she couldn’t shake the strange feeling that something, or someone, was watching her. The cold winter air brushed against her flushed cheeks, but it did little to calm the uneasy flutter in her chest. She paused for a moment outside, glancing over her shoulder at the flickering lights of the tavern. Nothing seemed out of place, though a faint rustle echoed in the shadows, like the soft padding of unseen paws. The sensation lingered, sharp and curious, growing stronger with every step she took away from the comforting chaos of The Cracked Tankard.
Her pace quickened, boots echoing off the cobblestones as she passed through the quiet streets of Nothing-to-See-Here. Every shadow seemed darker, every sound exaggerated, as if the night was working overtime to be spooky. By the time she reached home, her heart was hammering in her chest, a relentless drumbeat of nerves. Great, now I’m scared of the wind. She fumbled with the key, her hands shaking slightly, before finally unlocking the door.
Tianna stepped inside and slammed the door behind her with a little too much force, the bang echoing through the house. She quickly set the lock with a satisfying click and leaned against the door. She took a deep breath. Her uncle’s snoring from the other room was as loud and steady as ever, comforting in its consistency. But the strange feeling lingered, clinging to her like damp clothes after a sudden storm.
She stood there for a moment, listening to her own breathing and wondering why everything suddenly felt like the start of a bad horror play. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind tapping the windows made her flinch. At one point, she even thought she saw a blur of movement, but dismissed it as the shadows showing off.
Just as she began to relax, a soft, barely-there whisper brushed against her ear.
‘You must stop him —’
Tianna froze, eyes widening. She spun around, half-expecting, well, she wasn’t really sure what to expect. A ghost? The pan sitting smugly on the table, ready to scold her for running away? But the room was empty, save for a lone candle flickering on the table and her uncle’s war horn hanging on the wall.
‘— or your world shall end!’ She swallowed hard, the whisper still echoing in her mind. Whatever was happening, she couldn’t escape it. Not even here.