The Trickstep Tree faded behind them, its final words echoing through the tangled woods like a smug bedtime story.
"YOU MAY HAVE WON THIS TIME," it had said, "BUT I'LL HAVE MORE TRICKS FOR YOU!""
"Let's never speak of that again," Mira muttered, brushing bark out of her hair. The shard pulsed in her satchel, harmonizing with the Die like an eerie duet only she could feel. She felt stronger somehow—like her thoughts had edges now, like the air around her bent just a little differently.
Pipla was already twenty paces ahead, dragging a confused-looking squirrel by the tail and mumbling something about "witnesses." Reeko lagged behind, plucking out a dirge on his lute that sounded suspiciously like a slowed-down version of "Careless Whisper." Jory, of course, was walking upside-down on a fallen log, flipping a coin that might've been bleeding.
"So…" Mira said, catching up to Pipla. "Where to now?"
"We regroup," Pipla replied. "Rest. Supplies. Then... war council."
Reeko perked up. "Ooh, will there be snacks?"
"Only if you don't sing during it."
He deflated slightly. "Can't promise that."
Jory dropped down beside them. "There's a place not far from here. Shifting directions, bad signage, moral ambiguity. We call it the Goblin Market."
Mira raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound safe."
"It isn't," he grinned. "But the pies are phenomenal."
The Goblin Market
The market wasn't in the forest—it was stitched to it, clinging like a leech made of tents, noise, and terrible bargains. As they approached, the air thickened with smells: cinnamon, hot iron, roasting meat, and something suspiciously like desperation in perfume form.
The entrance was marked by a giant goat skull with gold teeth and a bowler hat.
A goblin in a tweed vest appeared beside them. "Welcome to the Market. No fighting, no cheating, no refunds unless it's your soul. Mind your hands and your thoughts."
He snapped his fingers, and a glowing contract appeared in midair.
"Sign here."
Mira squinted at it. "What happens if I don't?"
"The market signs you instead."
The parchment leapt at her.
She dodged. "Alright, alright—fine!"
With a reluctant flourish, she scrawled her name beneath dozens of others: smeared signatures, eldritch runes, and at least one drawing of a very angry cat.
The scroll vanished in a puff of bergamot and poor life choices.
They stepped in.
Inside the Bazaar of Madness
The Goblin Market was less a place and more a swirling storm of capitalism, chaos, and questionable ethics. Stalls rose in mismatched stacks. Goods hung from ropes, floated in bubbles, or were carried on the backs of sentient chairs.
One goblin sold "pre-sabotaged armor for dramatic tension." Another offered memory wine—sip it and forget that time you called your teacher 'Mum' in Year 8.
A woman with clockwork wings was shouting at a cucumber.
Pipla immediately gravitated toward a weapon booth.
Jory disappeared into a tent labeled "Curses! Possibly Reversible."
Reeko wandered off toward what looked like a musical petting zoo, leaving Mira alone with her Die, her shard, and a gnawing feeling in her chest that whispered: Something's coming.
She turned to the nearest goblin vendor.
He was wearing sunglasses. At night. Under a roof.
"Got anything fate-related?" she asked.
He nodded, pulling a velvet box from under the table. "Stolen time, destiny coupons, ethically sourced omens."
She opened the box. Inside: a tiny hourglass that ticked backward, a blank scroll titled "Your Future Here," and a stone that hummed when she touched it.
The Die twitched.
"How much?"
"Half your voice. Temporarily."
Mira frowned. "Define temporarily."
"Depends how often you sing in the shower."
She hesitated—then remembered she never sang in the shower, because her landlord's plumbing screamed back.
"Deal."
He grinned with far too many teeth. The trade was made. Mira slipped the stone into her satchel and winced as her throat tingled.
A Familiar Stranger
She turned, and her breath caught.
Standing near a stall that sold emotionally unstable mirrors was a man in a grey cloak. Tall. Pale. Eyes like frostbite.
He was staring at her.
And when their eyes met, he smiled.
The Die surged in her bag—panicked, primal, pulsing.
Danger.
"Who's that?" Reeko asked, suddenly beside her with a face full of cheese bread.
"I don't know," Mira whispered. "But the Die really, really don't like him."
The man stepped forward. His cloak shimmered—shifting into armor laced with dark veins, pulsing slowly like a dying star.
"You're her," he said. His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of icebergs. "The Diebearer."
"Depends who's asking."
"I am called Maldrik. Envoy of Velcrath."
That name hit like a punch. The Die buzzed. The shard in her bag trembled.
"I have a message," Maldrik continued. "Surrender the Die. Surrender the shard. And your end will be… painless."
Mira blinked. "That's your pitch? That's awful."
"I don't do pitches. I do promises."
Reeko stepped forward. "Oi! She's under Halfling protection, mate."
Maldrik didn't even look at him.
Instead, he raised a hand.
The air around him turned to static.
Mira felt time lurch—the Die reacting again.
She reached for them instinctively.
But then Pipla barreled out of nowhere and slammed Maldrik with a warhammer to the chest.
He staggered, Looked down And laughed.
"You're not ready," he said.
Then he vanished in a swirl of shadows and the scent of burnt honey.
Smoke still curled in the air where Maldrik had stood. The goblins in the market didn't seem to notice—or pretended not to. Deals continued. Spells flickered. Somewhere, a chicken exploded in a burst of glitter and regret.
Mira stood frozen.
"Who was that?" she finally managed, her throat still raw from the trade she'd made. "He said he worked for Velcrath?"
Pipla spat. "Envoy, my hairy Halfling foot. That was a warlock if I've ever seen one. Cursed to the ears and eyes like a grave that remembers."
Reeko gave a nervous glance around. "Uh, guys? Are we sure we're safe here? Because I just saw a pair of shoes trying to eat a cat."
Jory reappeared with a jar full of teeth. "That was Maldrik," he said, unusually serious. "The first of Velcrath's Hands. If he's sniffing around, we're out of time."
Mira gritted her teeth. "Then we need to move."
But before she could say more, her satchel pulsed again. The Die were cold now—unnervingly still. And the shard? The shard was humming a high note, a sound like tension being stretched across a blade.
Suddenly, the stone Mira had traded her voice for glowed hot in her pocket.
A voice—not hers—spoke from it.
"Sun will fall where moon should rise. The path to the next key lies beneath what bleeds but never dies."
Then silence.
Mira blinked.
"What the hell does that mean?" she asked.
Reeko shrugged. "Prophecy? Riddle? Goblin market T&Cs?"
Pipla was already packing her bag. "Doesn't matter. We're moving. Whatever that freak wants with you, it's not hugs and sandwiches."
Jory held up one finger. "Actually—there is a guy here who sells cursed sandwiches. Gives you dreams of tax audits."
They left anyway.
Out of the Market, Into the Mire
The path from the Goblin Market twisted like a liar's signature. It led them through the Ashen Mire—a swamp that steamed in the moonlight, thick with frogs that whispered financial advice and trees that occasionally tried to sell you insurance.
Mira 's boots squelched unpleasantly.
"So… what's the plan?" she asked, trying not to breathe through her nose. "We've got a soul shard, a warning, and a shadow warlock on our tail."
"Now," Pipla said, marching confidently, "we seek the second shard. That message you heard—it's a riddle. The next piece of the Fatebinder's soul is hidden in a place beneath something immortal. 'Bleeds but never dies.' Sound familiar?"
"Literally everything here bleeds and doesn't die," Reeko muttered. "I stepped on a mushroom that insulted my haircut and then regenerated."
Mira frowned, thinking. "The Trickstep Tree said the shards were kept in places of deep history… old scars in the world. Could it mean... a battlefield?"
Jory's eyes narrowed. "Or a creature. There's one beast in these lands that's died a thousand times and always returns."
Pipla turned. "The Riven Drake."
Mira blinked. "That sounds unpleasant."
"It is," said Jory. "It nests in the Bonespire Peaks. Killed ages ago by a sky-paladin, but its blood cursed the land. Still flies, still screams. And bleeds."
Mira sighed. "Of course it does."
Campfire and Confessions
They made camp on the edge of the Mire, just beyond the reach of whispering willows. Jory rigged an alarm spell with teeth and old spoons. Reeko tuned his lute to a minor key called Desperation in D. Pipla sharpened her axe while glaring meaningfully at the stars.
Mira sat by the fire, Die in hand. She turned them over in her fingers, feeling the etched silver shift faintly beneath her skin. They weren't just reacting to her choices anymore. They were anticipating.
"Hey," Reeko said, flopping beside her. "You okay?"
Mira hesitated. "Honestly? No. I thought I was just some weirdo from London who got sucked into a fantasy fever dream. Now I've got a soul shard in my bag, a Die set that literally pulses when I'm anxious, and a shadow-dude promising painless death. This is… a bit much."
Reeko nodded. "Yeah, well, welcome to Tuesday."
He leaned back, looking at the stars.
"You know, in songs, the chosen one always wants the job. Or gets it after a wise old goat tells them a prophecy. You just… fell into it."
Mira smiled faintly. "A goat did look at me funny once. Back in Doncaster."
Reeko grinned. "See? Destiny."
They sat in silence for a bit. Then Mira asked, "What about you? Why'd you join this Halfling quest?"
He shrugged. "My dad was a bard. Real one. Wrote the song about the exploding bakery of Riverbend. Big hit. I tried to follow in his footsteps but… I'm more jokes and vibes than ballads and glory."
"You're good, Reeko," Mira said quietly. "Even if your lute sounds like a bag of cats during a hailstorm."
He laughed. "Thanks, Diebearer."
The fire cracked And in the distance, something screamed. Something with wings.
The scream echoed like a mountain cracking in half.
Mira stood, hand on her satchel. The Die inside shifted—one rolled without touch, landing on a 17.
"High enough to worry," she muttered.
Pipla was already on her feet, squinting into the darkness. "That's the Riven Drake's cry. It roams the skies when it's feeding. If it's hunting tonight, we're closer to its roost than I thought."
Jory slid in from the trees like a guilty thought. "Tracks. Talon marks on stone. Wind reeks of burnt feathers. We've crossed into its territory."
Reeko whimpered. "Would now be a good time to point out that I am delicious, musically inclined, and entirely unarmored?"
Mira ignored him. Her fingers closed around the Die.
"I need to be ready," she whispered.
The others turned to her.
"This thing... it's part of what I'm meant to face. The shard's near. I feel it."
The Die pulsed in her palm again. Stronger now. Not fear. Not warning.
She looked toward the darkened mountain ridge silhouetted against the stars.
"I think it's time we climbed."
Pipla gave a wide grin. "Now that's more like it."
Reeko sighed and adjusted his hat. "This is either heroic or colossally stupid."
"Why not both?" Jory said, twirling a throwing knife.
Together, they packed up camp and began the trek upward—toward a peak crowned in bones, haunted by an immortal beast, and guarded by fate itself And above them, in the night sky, the Riven Drake's wings cut through clouds like prophecy through hope.