The fog clings low over the forest, but it’s thinning. Beyond the trees, the Emerald Mist Mountains rear like gods’ teeth, jagged and blue. I built my house under this bridge for a reason—nothing bothers me here. Not the elves, not the humans, not even the screaming skybirds that sometimes drop fish from the clouds.
Peace.
Almost.
A low buzzing breaks the calm.
I sigh, long and low, and wait.
Seconds later, Charen zips in on her latest creation—a balloon of webbing big as a cow bladder, filled with whatever gas her foul little body produces. The balloon farts her gently to a stop on my ledge.
She scuttles down the anchor line, eight legs clacking, tiny humanoid face already sneering.
“Oi, bridge-dick!” she chirps. “You got any booze for the queen?”
I glance at her. “Depends. You got any gossip worth the trade?”
She plops onto the old toadstool stool by my stew pot and sighs theatrically. “Ogres. Big ones. Squishing pinkies in the forest. Gods, it was funny. One got smashed so hard his legs kept running.”
I stir my pot. “Sounds messy.”
“Oh, it was divine. Blood, guts, the whole buffet. Some Ranger types, I think.” She flicks one leg toward the smoke hole. “They were creeping toward Kyrdonis. Real hush-hush. Didn’t end well.”
Something twists in my gut—not guilt, but something like… nostalgia. The last time Rangers came this way, it ended with fire and broken teeth. But Charen’s always full of shit, so I don’t pay it too much mind.
“Any survivors?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Maybe one. I dunno. Got swept off the cliff. Probably soup by now.”
I grunt. “Soup sounds nice.”
“Speaking of soup,” she says, sniffing, “what’s in the pot?”
“Lemurian bone marrow, swamp carrots, and red root.” I lift the lid. The stew’s thick and bubbling, brown and fragrant with spice and smoke. My mouth waters. “Veeto’s supposed to bring smoked squirrel.”
Charen snorts. “If he shows up sober, I’ll eat my own web.”
I hand her a thimble of shine. She sips and immediately starts hacking.
“Shitballs, Krag, that’s strong enough to polish metal.”
“Thank you.”
The mountains hum around us—low, slow, like the earth itself is thinking.
I sit, breathe, watch the fog roll over the trees like a blanket. My claws tap against my cup.
Something’s coming.
I don’t know what.
But I feel it.
I always do.
Charen’s half-passed out on my stew pot lid when Veeto comes clomping up the slope, whistling something obscene.
He’s got a bag slung over one shoulder and a bottle in his fist. His hooves leave little dents in my stone path, and his eyes are bloodshot. Typical.
