The well had foamed for six straight days. It wasn’t just the foam, of course—it was the onion stink. It clung to everything. Bread tasted like it had secrets. Socks absorbed moisture and flavor. One child had licked the bubbles and spent the next three hours narrating the inner life of carrots. By the end of the week, the villagers had stopped calling it “an accident” and officially named it The Great Effervescent Allium Event, or—less formally—The Foamening.

  Naturally, someone had to be held responsible.

  The emergency town meeting was called on a damp Wednesday morning, which was unremarkable because every morning in Drizzle was damp, and most were Wednesdays unless corrected. The meeting was held, as all important things were, in the back room of Greela Cobb’s bakery—specifically, the flour storage, because it was the only place dry enough for public complaint. The chairs were crates. The table was a sack of underwhelming potatoes. The tension was medium-rare.

  Father Whifflepence arrived late, claimed a stool, and immediately began pretending to be asleep. Old Varn, who had assumed the unofficial role of moderator after chairing the Great Butter Disagreement of ’92, cleared his throat with the authority of someone who had once shouted down a cow.

  “Right, then. I think we all know why we’re here.”

  A murmur of resigned groans passed through the gathered townsfolk. Even the Blessed Goat, tethered near the door, rolled its eyes. Varn continued, “It’s the boy. The… foam thing. And the silence. And healing the healing goat. And that moment where the bakery’s chimney tried to chant.”

  “That was unrelated,” Greela Cobb cut in defensively. “My yeast has spiritual tendencies.”

  “The point is,” Varn said, plowing ahead before theology could break out, “things have gotten… odd. Ever since that vigil. Ever since… well. Him.”

  He jerked a thumb toward the back wall where, unnoticed and entirely present, Derrin sat on an overturned milk crate holding Morinxandar like a judicial gavel.

  “I am here, you know,” Derrin said brightly, raising his hand.

  No one responded. Greela coughed. Whifflepence audibly fake-snored. The discussion began in earnest.

  “We can’t kick him out,” said Marta Potts, a woman made entirely of elbows and guilt. “He was born here.”

  “Well, he was found here,” said someone else. “Wrapped in a goat blanket and humming.”

  “Still counts,” Marta snapped. “And besides, wouldn’t be right. He’s ours, in a ‘we-accidentally-adopted-a-mystical-nuisance’ sort of way.”

  There was general agreement. People in Drizzle were not cruel, just deeply exhausted. And Derrin had never truly done anything malicious. His disasters were sincere, if deeply inconvenient.

  “What about an apprenticeship?” someone offered. “He’s old enough. He could train under the priest.”

  All heads turned to Whifflepence, who cracked one eye open.

  “No,” he said.

  “...Any particular reason?” asked Marta.

  “Yes,” said the priest, and closed his eyes again.

  “Well, then,” said Old Varn after a long, awkward silence. “No apprenticeships. No exile. We still need a solution.”

  Greela tapped her chin with a flour-dusted finger. “What if we… charged him rent?”

  There was a pause.

  “You mean make him pay… to stay in the barn?” asked Marta.

  “Well, yes. Might encourage him to move on. Or, you know. Mature.”

  “Won’t he just try to earn it?” asked Varn.

  “Exactly,” Greela said grimly. “And then he’ll be the world’s problem.”

  After a few minutes of muted debate and a vote conducted by counting who sighed the loudest, the motion passed. Derrin, who had been trying to contribute a thoughtful comment about divine foam dynamics, was once again not acknowledged. Later, outside the barn, now listed officially as Derrin's Rented Dwelling: 1 Turnip per Month, he and Morinxandar sat in the drizzle processing the meeting.

  “Well,” Derrin said, hugging the muffin to his chest, “we’ve been promoted. We're officially… a burden worth billing.”

  Morinxandar, crumbling quietly in a woven pouch-altar, offered no argument.

  “We’re going to need income,” Derrin went on, pacing now. “The gods don’t pay in coin. Yet. But people do. If they see value.” He paused. His eyes lit up. “We’re not a problem. We’re a service.”

  He turned toward the duck pond with purpose. Three days later, notices began appearing in nearby villages, carried by a wide variety of reluctant creatures:

  DO YOU NEED A MIRACLE?

  Derrin of Drizzle, Certified Cleric of Possibly Real Divine Powers, offers:

  – Healing (Side Effects May Include Goose Frenzy)

  – Minor Blessings (Foam Control In Progress)

  – Spiritual Consultation (Muffin-Verified)

  Now available! Rates negotiable! All work guaranteed or shrugged at politely.

  Delivery was handled by a flock of semi-trained ducks, a very sullen badger, three socially anxious chipmunks, and a weasel who’d been bribed with a belt loop. The plan, Derrin declared, was elegant. Divine gig work. A Cleric For Hire. Maybe Rent-A-Blessing. He was still workshopping the title. Money would pour in. Probably. Or turnips. He’d accept those too.

  On the fourth day, as he polished his altar-goat’s shrine and added glitter to his latest proclamation (“MIRACLES 20% OFF WITH PROOF OF CURSE”), a system message flickered at the edge of his vision:

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  > Main Quest Progress: 3%

  > World Stability Metrics: Fluctuating

  > Note: Ambient probability distortion has increased

  Derrin frowned.

  “...Progress?” he whispered, squinting skyward. “Stability? Metrics?”

  He turned slowly toward Morinxandar, who now had three crumbs forming a shape that might’ve been a spiral. Or a duck.

  “Well,” he said softly, “either the world is finally listening…”

  He paused. Blinked.

  “…or we’re about to break something big.”

  ****

  It had been four weeks since the Foamening, and nothing strange had happened in twelve days. Derrin was starting to worry something was wrong. Not wrong in the cosmic, collapsing sense—just wrong in the “maybe Voherin’s lost interest and gone back to divine napping” sense. He had performed two minor blessings (both on plants, both resulted in the same tomato growing eyes), three funerals (only one for a dead thing), and one very polite exorcism of a cupboard that kept groaning during lunch. But there had been no system messages, no divine hiccups, not even a sarcastic sigh from above.

  “I think we’re in a lull,” he muttered one morning as he sorted through the crumbs Morinxandar had shed overnight. “A divine silence. A test of patience.”

  Morinxandar did not comment, though one crumb had fallen in a rough spiral, which Derrin briefly considered an omen before stepping on it. That’s when the message arrived.

  It was not delivered by a bird, or a courier, or a clap of thunder.

  It was delivered by a sock. Specifically, one of his own socks, which he had long ago sacrificed to the Onion Foam and presumed lost. It waddled toward him, dragging a tiny, overstuffed envelope stitched to its top by what looked suspiciously like enthusiastic chipmunk handiwork. The sock collapsed at his feet, wheezing faintly.

  Derrin blinked, knelt down, and carefully untied the thread with reverence. The envelope smelled like trail mix and poor judgment. When he flipped it over, he saw that the note had been written on the back of one of his own divine advertisements—the one with a stick-figure goat performing a miracle while wearing a cape. In thick, spidery handwriting (done in a heroic shade of mauve ink), the message read:

  

  Derrin read the letter twice. He turned it over and examined the drawing of the goat again. “They answered,” he whispered. “Someone answered. Someone wants me.” Morinxandar, now seated on a pillow of stolen handkerchiefs, gave no objection. One crumb flaked off his right flank and settled in the shape of a spoon. Derrin took this as a sign of hospitality.

  By nightfall, he was packed. His “travel kit” included: Three holy symbols (one made from a button, one from a bent fork, one from actual divine sarcasm), a not-quite-empty jar of blessed pickles, Morinxandar in a tightly woven pouch (with a little cape stitched on “for presence”), and five copies of his new flyer: “Cleric for Hire: Cheap, Cheerful, Occasionally Accurate.” He knew the monastery’s general location—somewhere near the Gently Used Mountains, a region where the peaks looked like they’d once been taller but had since deflated out of spite.

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  The Sandstitched Monastery, as rumor went, lay halfway between the collapsing peaks and the edge of the Plaid Wastes, where wind howled through tartan dunes and reality occasionally took tea breaks. The mountains were inhabited mostly by over-the-hill dwarves, miners who now mined excuses, and dragons who had technically retired but still kept a toe in the hoarding business. Mystical mists drifted in from valleys that had forgotten to fully collapse, and people swore the fog smelled like laundry that had been left too long in celestial hampers.

  The desert beyond was worse. The Plaid Wastes were stitched together with ancient spells whose original owners had clearly been drunk, blind, or Scottish. The sandstorms came in predictable plaid patterns. The heat shimmered with sass. And no one sane crossed it without first offering a joke, a sacrifice, or both.

  But the monastery?

  The monastery was a place of patchwork wisdom—a haven for those who spent their lives mending the worn seams of the world. It was said their head seamstress could darn holes in time. Their head cook could salt paradoxes. And their abbot once managed to rebutton a collapsing dimension with a thimble and prayer. Derrin, naturally, saw this as a clear sign that he’d found his people. As he finished tightening the straps on his overburdened pack and clipping a holy ladle to his belt, the system coughed awake:

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  > Main Quest Progress: 3%

  > World Stability Metrics: Fluctuating

  > Sandstitched Monastery Request Logged

  > Suggested Action: Go there. Gently.

  He squinted. “Stability metrics?” There was a long pause. Then:

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  > Yes. Stability. Try not to break anything on arrival.

  He patted Morinxandar, nodded to the sock (which had expired from its long journey), and stepped out into the drizzle.

  “Well, my holy friend,” he whispered, “it looks like we’ve got patching to do.”

  ****

  The Sandstitched Monastery did not appear so much as it happened—slowly, like a sneeze that didn’t quite arrive. Nestled in a crease between two half-hearted hills that hadn’t yet decided if they were mountains, the monastery slouched beneath heavy mist that smelled faintly of mothballs and peppercorns. Its roof tiles were mismatched, its bell tower had leaned out of habit rather than wind, and the main gate bore a sign that read: “Please knock gently. Reality is thin here.”

  Derrin stood before it, holding a slightly steaming travel-muffin in one hand and a note in the other, still unsure if this counted as divine purpose or just a very elaborate prank from a god with too much time and unresolved resentment.

  Morinxandar, perched nobly in a side pouch, remained as crumbly and unreadable as ever.

  He had nearly made it without incident, which was saying something for a cleric whose divine designation involved the phrase "Annoyance Slot – Tier 0" and whose spellbook had recently attempted to bless a pigeon into sainthood. But three miles before reaching the monastery, he had tripped over a wooden post buried in soft moss and landed face-first into a patch of enchanted turnips. The turnips, offended, had immediately changed flavor. His tongue now tasted vaguely of regret and root beer.

  The signpost, once excavated, turned out to read: “Warning: Terrain ahead may contain narrative significance.” It was the most accurate thing he’d read all week.

  He approached the gate and gave a tentative knock—not too soft, not too loud, just the sort of knock a person makes when they’re unsure if the door is holding back spiritual enlightenment or sentient mildew. There was a pause. Then a scraping noise. Then a clang. Then something that sounded like someone falling down a ladder very politely. The door creaked open a few inches, revealing a single eye beneath a dented helmet and an eyebrow that had not, apparently, received the retirement notice.

  “You’re late,” said the helmet.

  “I wasn’t aware I had a—”

  “Everyone is always late to prophecy. That’s why it works.”

  The door swung open fully to reveal Sir Wobblethighs, retired knight of something that had once mattered, wearing a suit of armor that looked like it had been held together with string, honor, and a generous amount of divine apathy. He extended a hand wrapped in a gauntlet that promptly fell off and clanged to the ground.

  “I’m Sir Wobblethighs,” he said, ignoring it. “Order of the Spindle. Curator of the Left Sock Archive. First Binder of the Mismatched.”

  Derrin blinked. “I… received your letter.”

  “Yes,” the knight said. “So did a badger, three birds, and a child in the wrong time zone. The sock delivery system is still in beta.”

  “I’m here about the...” Derrin asked and trailed off.

  “The Cup of Minor Discomfort, yes, yes, yes.” Wobblethighs waved a hand in dismissal, which unfortunately dislodged the other gauntlet. “The Holy Grail of Slight Inconvenience. A vessel of legend. Endlessly refills with tea, but always just a little too hot. Just enough to remind you that perfection is a lie.”

  “That’s… oddly thematic.”

  “It’s the most honest relic I’ve ever quested for. Besides, the Order never recovered after the Great Teapot Schism. I must restore honor. Or at least kettle discipline. And I need your help.”

  Derrin nodded solemnly. “Of course.”

  The silence that followed was broken only by a small clattering noise as a pauldron slid off Wobblethighs’ left shoulder and landed neatly in a flowerpot.

  The knight glanced at it, sighed, and muttered, “Cursed fastenings.”

  Inside the monastery, things smelled like old parchment, warm socks, and ambition long since gone to seed. Tea was already steeping in a kettle that looked suspiciously sentient. A tapestry on the wall depicted two monks darning a hole in what appeared to be time, with a caption that read, "Please Patch Responsibly."

  They sat in the refectory, which Wobblethighs called “the Hall of Infusions,” and which most people would have called “a small dining room with a lot of coasters.”

  “I sent for you,” Wobblethighs said, sipping from a chipped mug that hissed when he got too close, “because the monastery received a vision. A vision of you. Standing in flames. Holding a mug. Laughing like a man who had seen the end and decided to brew something anyway.”

  Derrin opened his mouth to ask questions—any of the normal ones, like "What flames?", or "Why me?", or "Is this tea hissing at me?"—but stopped short when he noticed a system flicker across his vision:

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  > Side Quest Activated: The Holy Grail of Slight Inconvenience

  > Objective: Retrieve the Cup of Minor Discomfort from the Bargain Bin Caves

  > Companion Assigned: Sir Wobblethighs, Enthusiastically Unstable

  > Warning: Armor Integrity 13%

  > Reward: +XP / Relic / Possibly burnt tongue

  He blinked. “Do you always get visions here?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes we just get tax paperwork. But occasionally, the threads of fate bunch up like a bad hemline, and we’re forced to patch it before someone falls through.”

  “And you think this cup matters?”

  Wobblethighs squinted into the middle distance. “I think you do.”

  That surprised Derrin more than anything so far. “Me?”

  “Well, mostly because everyone else we asked was busy or dead. But yes, you. You’ve got that look of a boy who annoys gods and survives by accident. That’s rare. That’s fate’s favorite flavor.”

  There wasn’t much to say to that. So Derrin sipped the tea. It was, of course, too hot.

  Sir Wobblethighs then led Derrin on a tour like a man who had once read an instruction manual on pageantry but had dropped it into soup halfway through. His steps clanked unevenly—though whether that was age, pride, or armor held together by prayer and string was anyone’s guess. At regular intervals, he dropped a piece of his plate mail, paused, bent with a dramatic grunt to retrieve it, and attempted to reattach it in a way that suggested he believed no one had noticed.

  Derrin noticed. Morinxandar, safely nestled in his pouch, noticed. A passing monk noticed and quietly laid down a safety mat.

  “This,” the knight declared as they stepped into a vaulted chamber no larger than a generous pantry, “is the Reliquary of Almost-Holy Objects.” He gestured broadly to a display case containing what looked like a broken ladle, a slightly offended candlestick, and a monocle on a velvet pillow.

  “This ladle,” Wobblethighs intoned, “once stirred the Stew of Destiny.”

  “That smells like regular onion soup,” Derrin offered, pointing to the dried stains.

  “Precisely,” the knight said, with the air of a man unburdened by doubt. “It teaches us humility.”

  “And the monocle?”

  “Ah! That belonged to the Blind Seer of Threadmere. Wore it every day.”

  “But he was blind.”

  “Exactly. Symbolic clarity.”

  Derrin opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it. One of Wobblethighs’ knee guards fell off with a metallic clink. He picked it up and tried to strap it back on without stopping the tour. They moved into the Tapestry Hall, which was less hall and more hallway, where mismatched, questionably enchanted cloths depicted events that may have happened, might be happening, or were allegorical warnings against eating late-night cheese.

  Derrin paused in front of one labeled The Darning of the Realms, which appeared to show two monks literally stitching the world back together with a giant needle and thread while a goat watched disapprovingly.

  “So… what exactly does the Order do?”

  Wobblethighs made a vague gesture with his gauntlet. “We… preserve. Patch. Guard. Maintain the seams of existence.”

  “Seams?”

  “Well, it’s all held together by something, isn’t it? Time, space, causality, the bits that hold your thoughts in the right order. Most people don't think about the stitching. Until it unravels.”

  “That’s... sort of comforting.”

  “Isn’t it just?” the knight said, then accidentally stepped out of one of his boots. He retrieved it with practiced indignity.

  They passed a small reading alcove labeled and came to a stone archway leading to a balcony. Beyond the railing, the terrain sloped away toward distant, half-hearted hills, and just beyond them, the horizon shimmered with warm distortion and bold, shifting color.

  “That,” Wobblethighs said, pointing with his sword arm, which promptly shed its bracer, “is the edge of the Plaid Wastes.”

  Derrin leaned against the railing. “It’s... not what I expected.”

  “No one expects plaid,” the knight said solemnly. “That’s what makes it powerful.”

  “And we’re going toward that?”

  “Correct.”

  “And the Cup is… where again?”

  “In the Bargain Bin Caves. Naturally.”

  “Naturally.”

  Wobblethighs adjusted his helmet. It flopped slightly to one side. “We leave at first light. Unless the tea’s still steeping. Then second light.”

  Derrin, unsure whether that was a joke, nodded slowly. “I… I think I need some time. To think about it.”

  “Of course,” Wobblethighs replied with a dismissive wave. “The Order of the Spindle spares no expense in hospitality. Contemplation is sacred. You shall have full use of the meditation cloisters. And the reflective fountains. And the indoor moss.”

  “Actually,” Derrin said, glancing toward a hallway, “I meant… I need to consult my spiritual advisor.”

  The knight squinted. “Your… muffin?”

  “Correct.”

  “Ah,” Wobblethighs said, and nodded as if this confirmed something important. “Very wise. Do you need a chapel?”

  “A bathroom will do.”

  The monastery lavatory was damp, drafty, and deeply private—perfect for both sacred clarity and talking to baked goods. Derrin leaned against the sink, staring into the mirror, where his reflection looked marginally more heroic than he felt. He unhooked Morinxandar from his pouch and set him reverently on a folded towel beside the basin.

  “Well, Morin,” he whispered, “what do we think?”

  The muffin, as always, offered no verbal reply. But the crumbs around his edges had begun to settle into a ring, which Derrin took as a symbol of cycles, or tea cups. Or possibly plates. Either way: relevant.

  “I mean, it’s not the worst quest,” he continued. “Tea’s fine. Even if it’s too hot. And the caves are called ‘bargain bin,’ so how bad can they be?”

  The silence felt conspiratorial.

  “And he thinks I matter. He said fate likes me. Or at least... notices me.”

  More silence.

  Derrin took a breath. “I think I want to do it. I want to help. Even if I don’t know why yet.”

  The mirror flickered slightly. The plumbing made a low sound of divine agreement. Probably.

  He smiled. “Right then. Back into the drizzle.”

  He stepped out into the hallway feeling more centered than he had in weeks. Ready. Steeled by faith. Buoyed by resolve. And immediately startled by Sir Wobblethighs, who was standing directly beside the bathroom door, staring at the hinges with exaggerated casualness.

  “Great!” the knight exclaimed. “You’re in.”

  “I—wait, how long were you standing—”

  “Time is subjective in these halls.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll fetch my pack,” Wobblethighs said brightly.

  “You’re… coming?”

  “Of course I am,” the knight said as if it were obvious. “You didn’t think I’d send someone else to recover the Holy Grail of Slight Inconvenience, did you?”

  “I... thought it was my quest.”

  “It is. And I’m here to support you. By leading.”

  “But I just said I wanted to—”

  “Perfect! I shall be your companion. Or possibly your superior. We'll work it out.”

  Derrin opened his mouth. Closed it. Re-opened it. Looked at Morinxandar. The muffin appeared resigned.

  Wobblethighs thumped a breastplate that was only half-attached. “Fear not, young cleric. The Order marches with you. The Cup or Mug awaits!”

  He turned to go, leaving behind one glove and a trail of loose screws. Derrin looked at the retreating knight, then down at the muffin in his hand.

  “Well,” he muttered, “it’s still technically my quest.”