Our first mistake was assuming the forest was empty.
Our second mistake was not noticing the giant woven net trap under our feet until Iria tripped it by accident and launched all five of us into the trees like confused acorns.
I dangled upside-down, tangled in a net of surprisingly soft vine-rope, staring at the sky and wondering how many times a person could get caught like this before it counted as a kink.
Then I heard a voice.
High-pitched. Serious. Full of righteous fury.
"State your names, outsiders! You trespass on sacred Whiskerstep soil!"
I looked down—or up. Hard to tell from this angle.
A small cat-eared girl in leaf-green armor was pointing a spear at my head. Her tail was swishing with such intensity it might've generated a breeze.
She couldn't have been more than five feet tall. Probably less.
She was flanked by more beastmen—some with fox ears, others with lupine tails or twitchy rabbit reflexes. All dressed in forest-leaf armor. All armed.
"Uh," I said, swinging gently. "Hi?"
Velis, still upside-down beside me, sighed deeply. "Of course they have a spear militia."
It took two hours, a very awkward negotiation, and one near-duel between Iria and their hawk-eared honor guard captain before we were untied and led—still very much under suspicion—into the village proper.
Whiskerstep was a cozy forest town built into the roots and branches of a massive old tree. Rope bridges crossed between huts made of mossy wood, flower-covered balconies jutted from trunks, and everything smelled faintly of cinnamon and fur.
I tried to admire it.
But it was hard when every five steps, someone hissed "invader" under their breath or pointed at Silas like he owed them money.
He might.
We were taken to a small guest hut near the edge of the village.
"Temporary," said the squirrel-eared diplomat who escorted us. "You stay, you eat, you do not wander."
Velis inclined her head. "Understood. We appreciate your trust."
Lyra muttered, "Your paranoid trust."
Iria, still bristling from earlier, added, "If you wish honorable combat, I accept."
"No one wants to fight you," I whispered.
"Yet."
Dinner was... strange.
I still don't know what it was.
Some kind of glowing root stew and something called "skyworm jerky" that tasted like licorice and guilt.
We were seated at the edge of the common hall while the village elders conferred quietly across the fire pit.
One of the local kids—maybe 12, bunny-eared, curious—approached and pointed at me.
"Are you the Clumsy Blade?"
"I'm sorry, the what now?"
"There's a story," the child whispered, "about a human with chaotic energy who dodges death by accident and makes enemies trip over their own swords."
Silas leaned over and stage-whispered, "It's about you."
Velis blinked. "That's... disturbingly accurate."
"I don't even use a blade," I said.
The kid stared. "Even better."
We learned about the ruin the next morning.
"Forbidden dungeon," said the raccoon-eared scout. "Old magic. Broken wards. Nothing but slime and shame down there."
So, naturally, we went.
Velis claimed it was for preemptive investigation.
Iria said it was better than sitting still.
Lyra said we were all idiots and packed extra burn ointment.
Silas just smiled and muttered something about "classic adventuring energy."
The dungeon greeted us with the enthusiasm of a tired game designer.
Just past the moss-covered entry archway was a perfectly square room with a single stone tile that looked a little too clean. The kind of clean that says "I'm either a welcome mat or a death sentence."
Naturally, I stepped on it.
There was a soft click.
Then a very hard thwack.
And then I was airborne.
Launched sideways into the wall like a sack of poorly animated meat. I hit the stone with a thump, slid down, and lay there blinking while dust fluttered gently onto my face.
Velis crouched beside me, examining the tile with interest.
"Basic pressure trap. No rune work. Probably manual."
I raised a hand. "So I'm fine?"
"You're alive. Which is a start."
The next room had a pit.
Not a dramatic chasm. Not an abyss full of teeth. Just... a pit. Shallow. Unassuming. Filled with translucent, bubbling goo that pulsed in rhythm with my regret.
I didn't see the edge in time.
One step, one skid, one incredibly undignified yelp later—
SPLORCH.
I was inside it.
The slime was warm. And wet. And somehow gritty in a way that made me rethink every jello-related memory I'd ever cherished.
It moved around me like it was disappointed in my choices.
"Why is it textured?" I gasped.
Lyra crouched at the rim, expression unreadable. "You tell me. You're the one bathing in it."
"I tripped."
"You launched yourself."
Silas leaned in next. "So, how's the existential horror bath?"
"Touch me and I swear I'll share it."
Once the slime was hosed off—or rather, once I was awkwardly scraped free using a rope and Iria's sword hilt—we moved on to the next chamber.
That's when Velis stepped through the door and—
BOOM.
A small, precise burst of flame whooshed past us, licking the edges of her cloak and immolating a spider the size of my hand that had been nesting in the ceiling.
Velis stood unfazed, brushing ash off her shoulder.
"Well," she said calmly, "I'd say that one was efficient."
The smell of charred arachnid lingered.
Iria nodded with all the stoic wisdom of someone who'd once set fire to an entire camp "accidentally" during a training exercise. "Efficient," she agreed.
The hallway beyond was narrower, its walls etched with old runes that glowed faintly as we passed.
Iria was in the lead now, sword drawn.
And it became immediately clear that this section of the dungeon was not prepared for her.
The first trap—a set of spring-loaded darts—bounced harmlessly off her armor with an almost apologetic plink.
The second—a pressure plate meant to trigger a falling net—collapsed before it could even activate, crushed under her boot like a bug that made the mistake of looking threatening.
The third trap was... confetti.
There's no other way to put it.
She stepped across a faded tile, and a gentle poof echoed from the ceiling, followed by a slow flutter of glitter and paper streamers that drifted down like awkward snowfall.
We all just stood there, blinking.
Iria looked up, then at the ceiling, then back to us.
"I believe," she said in complete seriousness, "that one was celebratory."
Lyra squinted up at the fluttering ribbon now tangled in Iria's ponytail. "For your survival or the trap's death?"
"Unclear," Velis murmured.
Silas plucked a streamer out of the air and examined it. "Was this dungeon... sponsored by a novelty party supply guild?"
"I'd believe it," I muttered, still picking slime out of my collar.
The tone had been set.
This dungeon wasn't trying to kill us.
It was trying to mildly inconvenience us to death.
And judging by the tiny sign in the next room that read "WELCOME TO FLOOR TWO – PLEASE MIND THE MIMICS", I was only just beginning to understand how personal that inconvenience was about to get.
Then we found the treasure room.
And by "found," I mean I saw a chest.
A glowing, ornate, definitely-too-obvious-to-be-real chest.
"Guys!" I shouted. "Loot!"
They all yelled "No!" at the same time.
Too late.
It bit me.
"HEEELP!" I screamed from inside the chest.
It was dark. It was slimy. I think it had teeth in places teeth didn't belong.
Something tugged on my leg.
"IS THIS HOW I DIE? INSIDE FURNITURE?!"
Silas's voice from outside: "Is it too late to warn you about the mimic?"
Velis: "Why are you even surprised?"
Lyra: "Hold still so I don't accidentally heal the mimic."
With a crunch and a yelp, Iria cleaved the lid off.
The mimic let out a wet gurgle and dissolved into ectoplasm.
I emerged, goo-covered, wheezing.
The chest's only remaining item: a pink shield.
I picked it up.
It gleamed with an almost insulting level of polish.
Bright pink.
The front bore a Victorian-style illustration of a nyan cat, tail trailing ribbons, framed in gilded curls and tiny painted roses.
I held it up.
It sparkled.
No one said anything.
Then Velis: "It's magically warded."
Lyra: "...Of course it is."
Silas: "Your destiny is loud, weird, and shaped like cat art."
I slung it over my back.
Might as well lean in.