There are those who wish to rewrite their destinies, to carve from stone their own tales. Those patrons of Lore, outcast by Archaea, who scorn Fate and tempt Death. Those too corrupt for good, and too good for darkness.

  They call themselves The Fractured Fate.

  ·??·

  “It really wasn’t that interesting,” the young woman insisted. For the third time.

  She pulled her rag across the wooden countertop with more precision that the task required. Anything, really, to avoid the curious stares leveled in her direction.

  She hated attention.

  And she hated when her bar was dirty.

  At least she could fix one of those problems.

  It was early evening at the Loreweaver’s Alehouse, and soft golden light drifted through the frosted windows along the far wall of the little tavern. The usual crowd — which was, in fact, a very unusual crowd — had begun to shuffle in, flashing warm smiles, toothy grimaces, and toothless grins when they glimpsed the young woman behind the bar.

  She cut a striking figure — even in her drab kitchen clothes. Strong cheekbones accentuated a pert nose, perfectly-pointed chin, and picturesque smattering of freckles. Ginger hair had been pulled into an effortlessly beautiful braid that tumbled down her back and heavy lashes framed soft green eyes.

  “Finally ‘scaped that dusty ol’ kitchen, Brea?” an older gentleman with a strangely pointed hat perched crookedly on his head rumbled as he slid into a knobby stool.

  Brea just smiled. “What can I get for you, Wiz?”

  The old man had been insisting on the ridiculous name since before Brea had begun working at the Alehouse. She had yet to see any evidence he lived up to it… “Jus’ the tap for me,” he grinned, flashing more than the average number of gold teeth.

  Brea nodded and, flicking her long crimson braid over one shoulder, swiped a tankard down from the hanging rack. That was one perk of escaping the kitchen for the day — no hideous hair caps.

  By now, the supper rush was in full-swing. The delicious smell of roasted meats wafted out from the kitchen window. Bodies large and small crowded around tables, an eclectic assortment of colors, shapes, and voices. As if it weren’t loud enough, a bard had pushed a stool bravely close to the large black horse by the fireplace, and plucked a lively tune.

  Brea had just slid Wiz his drink, nodded to a few new faces who stumbled in, and turned to take the next order, when a familiar smooth voice rose over the din. “I heard a very interesting story at the market today.”

  At least three heads at the bar turned to the newcomer.

  He shoved his unruly black hair back and tossed a twinkling grin at Brea, whose heart plummeted to her dusty work boots. At the other end of the bar, the silver-haired Loreweaver shot Brea a quick look, one corner of her mouth tipped up. She already knows.

  Brea shook her head. Of course her employer already knew. Brea refocused her sharp green gaze on the newcomer. He tilted an innocent look at her — and she stifled a groan. “Ronan…”

  He leaned one hip against the bar, taking his sweet time despite the rush. “You see,” he drawled, eyebrow raised, “it’s not every day your fellow guild member gets kidnapped by a dragon and lives to tell the tale.”

  The Alehouse fell silent. This time, Brea didn’t bother stifling her groan. “It really wasn’t that interesting,” she stumbled over her words. Trembling fingers unhooked the rag at her waist and she drew it over the counter. “And I’m not a guild member. Not really.”

  Being a guild member required actively looking for adventure. She actively avoided adventure…but sometimes it just…found her.

  “Wait, a dragon?” a curious voice piped up. A small form turned from one of the closest tables — the new girl, Brea recognized — and two bright magenta eyes pierced into her with unwavering curiosity. Next to her, Zev crossed his arms and stared with silent unbridled curiosity. “Like, an actual dragon?”

  Brea carefully finished wiping the counter, then looked up. Blew out a sigh, ruffling the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid. “Yes, an actual dragon,” she started. The whole Alehouse seemed to shift towards her. “I was just walking home after the morning rush…”

  ·??·

  Brenwan Caldwell had been just five years old when she’d decided she was cursed. Fate, she’d realized, staring down at the strange object that had sung her out of her bed in the middle of the night, calling her sleeping form into the woods just beyond her window, hates me.

  The egg-shaped thing at her feet pulsed with a soft green glow. Its song, a high-pitched whine that pierced through her skull like a baby’s wail, had faded the closer she slid. All around her, the forest had fallen silent. No creatures moved. No owls hooted. Not even the summer cicadas that sang her to sleep every night dared to chirp. Her blood, however, roared in her ears, begging her to touch the glowing thing.

  You want to, a voice whispered, and she’d almost believed it.

  Almost.

  She’d propped her little toddler-sized fists on her hips and glared at the glowy orb. “Mama and Poppa always told me not to trust strangers.”

  You can trust meeee, the orb implored. Pleasssseeee, help meeeee.

  Instead, she’d wrapped her little hands in the cloth of her tattered skirts, scooped up the egg — she’d decided it was an egg — and marched straight to the nearest guard tower.

  By the time the sun rose beyond the tips of the evergreen forest, Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell had found her sleeping soundly in her bed, like any ordinary little girl.

  And that was that.

  Except it wasn’t.

  Three years later, her mum had sent her out to the chicken coop nestled behind their little homestead in the early hours of the morning. Five minutes later, the chicken coop was a roaring blaze and Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell had run out to find her little Brea sitting on the ground at the center of the fire, staring at her hands.

  “Mama?” Brea had sobbed. “Mama…what’s happening?”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Mrs. Caldwell had knelt next to her, ignoring the soot that now stained her skirts, and gathered her baby girl in her arms. “Nothing, darling.” She rocked her back and forth. “We always knew you were special, that’s all.”

  Brea had sobbed harder — not because she was afraid, like her adopted parents assumed, but because she was angry. Angry at Fate. Angry at her curse. She didn’t want to be special.

  So she’d trained herself to control her fiery hands. Got a job at the local bakery, where she could keep the ovens warm with a flick of her fingers. Ignored the fire burning its way through her veins until it faded to a soft tickle, then nothing at all.

  And that was that.

  She wanted to be normal.

  And that’s what she’d told the men who appeared at their doorstep nearly six years later, demanding that they take her away to “a school for special people like her.”

  Brea had scoffed and tossed her crimson hair over her shoulder. “Thank you, but no, thank you.”

  The men in royal uniforms had exchanged glances. “But-”

  “Schools like that are expensive,” she’d told them, hefting her chin into the air. Behind her, Mr. Caldwell had opened his mouth to protest, but his sharp-tongued teenager shot him a look. “You know we can’t afford that. And I have a job here.” At the bakery. “I don’t need magic school.”

  And that was that.

  And, when she was sixteen and a tall, dark, and handsome stranger in his twenties had parked himself at the bakery, claiming to desperately need her help, she’d offered him a cinnamon roll and sent him on his way.

  “But-but the prophecy-” he’d sputtered as she shoved the sweet treat in his hands and turned him towards the door, “-the girl with the fire in her hair and her blood-”

  “Look, there’s Constance Willowby,” Brea had said, pointing across the street to a young woman much closer to the stranger’s age. “She’s a ginger and her family’s been blacksmiths for generations. Go ask her.”

  She’d pulled the door to the bakery closed with a definitive click and turned back to face Baker Terrance. He’d looked at her, mouth agape. “That…that was the prince,” he’d breathed. He’d looked at Brea, wide-eyed.

  She’d just wiped her floury hands on her apron and shuffled back behind the counter. “Huh.”

  Brea had enjoyed her job at the bakery — had stayed there until her infamy in town had grown to a nearly unbearable level. And so, the day she reached seventeen, she’d turned in her resignation, packed her bag, and made her way to the nearest city.

  Fate might have plans for her, but the Lady would have to find her first.

  And what better place to get lost than in a city?

  Golton had been the closest city in her path. She’d stumbled, tired and optimistic, into the first tavern she’d come across. And there the Loreweaver had been, her silver hair drifting in a soft halo around her head, her ancient eyes and young face taking in Brea’s entire existence with a single glance. Her eyes crinkling at the corners, and her faraway voice as she ushered her to a table, “You look like you need a drink.”

  “No drink,” Brea had said. “Just…a job. Please.”

  She hadn’t known the Alehouse was home to an adventurer’s guild until after she’d settled into the routine of the kitchen — but it’d turned out perfect.

  You see, there was always someone willing to investigate a strange magical object that accidentally fell into her hands, and there was always another redhead nearby to take on the latest world-ending prophecy, and the next time a stranger showed up desperate for her help? She could offer them a pint and point them towards the guild’s job board. I’m just the kitchenmaid.

  For the first time in her life, she’d found a way around her curse. No more bloody adventures.

  Until the stupid dragon.

  ·??·

  Brea’s steps echoed softly on the cobblestone streets of Golton. The sun was tucked carefully under a blanket of stormclouds, twisting and roiling across the sky like a swirling tapestry of steel grey, lavender, and blue.

  Golton itself was in the full swing of Market Day. Once a month, the parade of traders who brought their wares down to the port city of Nautilus Cove made a stop in Golton. They set up colorful tents and tables in many squares dotted around the city, peddling their wares. Over the years, Market Day had become something of a festival. Bards lined each street corner — well, more bards than usual — and temporary wooden platforms were erected at various parks across the city, inviting stage performances from faraway lands.

  Brea sighed and rubbed a hand over her face as she skirted around a particularly insistent street performer. She trained her eyes on her boots and moved faster. She both loved and hated Market Day.

  On one hand, it was hard not to be drawn into the general revelry of the event. The city, which at night carried an air of heart-pounding danger, seemed to come to life. Plus, it was hard not to smile when three children came barreling down the street, faces painted with chocolate and fingers clutching little carved animals.

  Brea pressed herself against the nearest stall flap as they scurried past.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” croaked a small voice behind her. She almost jolted when the older woman practically appeared at her shoulder. She looked to be in her late middle-ages, with gray and brown hair that tumbled out of her hair wrap in tight curls. Her eyes were lined with thick golden koal, and every other inch of her body seemed to be draped in some jewel-toned fabric.

  When she lifted a hand, as if to cup Brea’s cheek, rings glinted heavily on her fingers. “It’s you…” she breathed in that soft voice, rusted over with time and wear. “The one from the prophecy. You’re-”

  Brea spun on her heel and strode away. That was why she hated Market Day. More people meant more crowds. And more crowds meant more chances for-

  “You can’t run from it!” the old fortune-teller called after her. “The king needs you! The prophecy has been foretold for a century!”

  “Only a century?” Brea tossed over her shoulder. “The prophecy needs to try harder.” The last one had been foretold for at least a millennium. Written in stone, the Librarian had whispered to her over the dusty tome. Brea had just been trying to return a cookbook.

  “You laugh at Fate?” Affront dusted the older woman’s voice. “She won’t be denied! You won’t be able to run forever!

  Maybe not forever, Brea thought solidly. But for now? Absolutely.

  She wove through the stalls with aimless direction. She had a singular purpose for braving the stalls of Market Day when she could instead be tucked under her blanket in her small, one-room apartment for a mid-afternoon nap. Focus, she told herself, eyeing a stall that seemed to sell designer swords.

  The Winter Solstice was coming up — in a few months, but still — she needed something. A gift for-

  “My staff!” The distressed wail cut off her thoughts. A young man dove out of the crowd and latched onto her shoulders. “You have to help me. Please!”

  Brea considered the new interruption much like she would consider a cockroach under her boot. The young man was pleasant enough to look at — around her age with neatly combed black hair and a sharp jawline.

  “You have to help me,” he repeated, staring straight into her eyes.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “But you don’t understand!” Brea rolled her eyes, wincing as a crimson curl escaped from her braid and jabbed her in the face. I’ve never heard that one before, she drawled. In her mind, she could practically hear Fate’s soft chuckle. “My staff — it’s not just an ordinary staff-”

  “It never is.”

  “-the Orb of Thelma rests atop its wooden spire. The Orb has the potential to destroy the world. In the wrong hands-”

  Brea zoned out as he droned on, her eyes scanning the stalls. They lit on a stall of specialty glass panes. That’s it.

  It was then that she realized the young man had finished his tirade and was waiting for a response. Right. With careful but deliberate movements, she pried his trembling fingers from her shoulders. “That sounds like quite the situation.” The words came out dry and forced.

  Be nice, she reminded herself. It wasn’t his fault Fate had pushed him her way.

  “Have you checked the lost and found?”

  Confusion crinkled his nose. “The…what?”

  Really. Did she have to spell everything out? “There’s a bin at the guard’s table.” Her chin jutted over his shoulder. “They keep everything that’s been lost and turned in. I’d start there.”

  “I-you-”

  Teeth flashed in an expression that was more grimace than grin. “You’re welcome.” And she strode away.

  Hey there! Thank you for joining us for part 1 of Inciting Incidents (Tales of the Fractured Fate, 03).

  The latest installment will release in 2-3 parts in the second week of each month. Don't feel like waiting? You can read 'advance stories' up to 3 months ahead of time on Patreon

  Join Brea, The Loreweaver, and all the other misfit members of The Fractured Fate in this exciting collection of short dark fantasy adventures.