They stood before the door like it might blink first. It didn’t, of course. It wasn’t that kind of door. The Antechamber of Uncertain Outcomes loomed—not majestically, not ominously, but awkwardly, like a teenager trying to lean on a locker without admitting they wanted attention. It was less “threshold of destiny” and more “abandoned utility closet repurposed by cosmic interns.”

  Stickers plastered every inch of its surface, peeling at the corners. Some bore labels like “Narrative Trial #42 – Please Knock First”, while others were crossed-out genre tags: “Romantic Subplot? Nope.” and “Psychological Thriller (Rejected Due to Lack of Tension)”. A neon sign hung overhead, blinking with mild passive aggression: FINAL CHECKPOINT: ARE YOU EVEN READY?

  To the side, the Entryway Statue had followed them once again—despite having no visible wheels and no clear reason to exist beyond emotional continuity. She was currently deep in conversation with Sir Wobblethighs.

  “I just think,” the statue said, leaning slightly toward him with a creak of ancient marble, “that you need to start seeing yourself as more than just a knight.”

  “I was more,” he muttered. “I was a pastry judge for three glorious months.”

  “You could be again,” she whispered. “But maybe with fewer casualties this time.”

  Wobblethighs looked like he was trying to blush but had forgotten how. He adjusted his chestplate with unnecessary ceremony and made a strangled noise that could have been affection or indigestion. Meanwhile, Calla stood beside Derrin, staring up at the door with theatrical reverence and what she probably believed was a poignant expression. It was hard to tell, given the glitter on her eyelids and the fact that she’d wrapped a scarf around her head like a prophetic babushka.

  “So,” she said, arms crossed and voice pitched like a bard setting the stage for Act Three, “this is it.”

  Derrin didn’t answer right away. He was squinting at the folder they’d been handed by the ghostly bureaucrat—the one titled “Endgame: Cup of Minor Discomfort (Handle With Lukewarm Enthusiasm).” It had taken them fifteen minutes just to find the table of contents, another ten to decipher the index, and seven full pages had been devoted to the historical significance of beverage temperature.

  “I think this might be the last trial,” he muttered, flipping past a diagram of an existential teapot. “Or possibly a legally binding metaphor.”

  “Either way,” Calla said, “it’s very well curated.”

  Derrin sighed and turned to Morinxandar, who was nestled in the crook of his elbow like a squishy talisman of underachievement. He held the muffin up like a sacred relic.

  “Well,” he whispered, “what do you think?”

  Morinxandar, being a muffin, said nothing. But one slightly crispy crumb fell off his side and landed on Derrin’s palm like a solemn benediction.

  “That’s a yes,” Derrin said, nodding grimly.

  Calla smiled brightly. “Oh good. Then you’re ready!”

  He frowned. “I’m not sure I am.”

  She waved him off. “Derrin, listen. My entire life has been a series of failed classes, failed auditions, failed choreographies, failed attempts at understanding sheet music, and one catastrophic kazoo recital that broke a mayor’s hip.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “No, but it’s inspiring,” she said. “Because all those failures... led to this.”

  Derrin blinked. “This being...?”

  She gestured broadly. “This! Right here. You. Me. Us. A magical muffin. A knight possibly in love with a statue. And a quest that’s gone on long enough for us to qualify for genre insurance.”

  Derrin sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Calla, you just turned encouragement into an existential spiral.”

  She beamed. “It’s a talent.”

  They stood in silence a moment longer.

  Behind them, Wobblethighs cleared his throat loudly. “The statue and I have agreed to... keep things undefined for now. She’s got some baggage. I’ve got arthritis.”

  “Congratulations?” Derrin offered, unsure what the social protocol was for relationships with inanimate objects.

  Calla bounced once on her heels and threw her arms wide. “Well, team, shall we uncertainly outcome ourselves into destiny?”

  Derrin stared up at the door one last time. He held Morinxandar close, offered a prayer to a god he wasn’t sure was listening, and whispered, “Please let this be survivable.”

  The neon sign flickered.

  PLEASE HOLD ON TO YOUR NARRATIVE THREADS. SLIPKNOTS NOT ADVISED.

  The door creaked open like it, too, had doubts. The moment the party stepped through the door, the fog took their ankles hostage. It wasn’t threatening fog, exactly. Just the sort that lingered with suspicious familiarity—like it had known you in a past life and wanted to sell you poorly made insurance. The floor below it may or may not have existed. Derrin chose not to test it by jumping. Wobblethighs gave it a solid stomp and declared it "structurally whimsical," which was somehow worse.

  The room itself was a wide, circular gallery—though “room” may be generous. “Unfocused fever dream of a gallery curated by bored divinities” was closer. The walls didn’t stay still. They shimmered, changed texture, and occasionally flickered into copyright disclaimers. Floating above them, evenly spaced, were portraits that weren’t really portraits. More like moving windows into possible futures, rendered in unstable magic and outdated visual software.

  Each painting hovered in midair, slightly out of sync with reality. One glitched and showed a scene involving a dragon, a teacup, and what might’ve been a sentient tax return. Another depicted a vast desert made entirely of eyebrows. No one wanted to ask why.

  “What is this place?” Calla breathed, awestruck, already spinning slowly like she was absorbing the ambiance through her fingertips.

  Wobblethighs tilted his head. “Either a museum... or a very judgmental prophecy carousel.”

  The System did not clarify. Derrin squinted at a sign that blinked briefly into existence on one of the walls:

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  > Welcome to the Gallery of Unlikely Futures?

  > All Visions Are Non-Refundable

  > Note: Reality Rendering May Vary Based on Emotional Stability and Snack Intake

  At that moment, Pip—the chipmunk, curled in his usual chaos-lump atop Calla’s shoulder—sat up straight, squeaked six times, then slapped Calla on the ear with his tail in what could only be described as urgent melodrama.

  Calla nodded solemnly. “Yes, I know. We’re in a temporal intersection of improperly sorted destinies and meta-awareness thresholds. Thank you, Pip.”

  Derrin blinked. “Wait. You understand that?”

  Calla shrugged. “Not really. But he sounds confident.”

  Each of them, as if magnetized by irony, was pulled toward one of the hovering visions. The room darkened slightly, fog thickening around their ankles as the paintings flared to full illumination.

  Derrin’s shimmered like cheap foil wrapping. It showed a city—a temple, actually. Vast, ornate, glimmering with incense smoke and holy symbols too symmetrical to trust. There he stood: Derrin the Exalted, high priest, spiritual guide, beloved of thousands. His sermons echoed across marble courtyards. His followers wore matching robes and enthusiastic expressions. And on his head... was a sock. A very familiar sock.

  As he watched, one cultist leaned to another and whispered, “The Blessed Footwrap speaks again!” and promptly misunderstood the tenets of mercy so thoroughly it caused three small wars and an interpretive crime wave.

  Derrin staggered back from the painting. “They worship me,” he whispered. “But they don’t get me.”

  “Sounds accurate,” Wobblethighs muttered.

  Next was Calla. Her vision burst to life in waves of color and applause. A stage. No—a coliseum. The crowd chanted her name (though one banner misspelled it as "Cilantro Vent"). She twirled in dazzling, contradictory fabrics. Her scarf had its own entourage. At least two nations had declared the day a holiday in her honor. But every face in the crowd blurred into one. And when the lights dimmed, she stood alone on stage. Just her. And the silence. She stepped back, arms folding across her stomach.

  “I thought that’s what I wanted,” she said, voice tight. “But I didn’t think it would be so quiet.”

  Even Pip sniffled.

  Wobblethighs approached the last vision, which blinked into a rustic kingdom constructed almost entirely out of refurbished statues and cheese wheels. The villagers cheered. He sat on a throne made of mosaic grout and melted cheddar. He was safe. Adored. Bored out of his ever-loving skull.

  He stared for a long moment. “It’s peaceful,” he said at last. “But not right.”

  Silence fell between them—not the tense kind, but the heavy kind that suggested the room itself was listening. Or judging. Or both.

  Derrin finally broke it. “So… what now?”

  The gallery’s fog pulsed. The System stirred. One more frame descended from above, blank and shimmering. A new prompt blinked softly into existence:

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  > Final Alignment Pending...

  > Please Select One Vision to Abandon

  > Sacrifice Required: One Future Must Be Let Go

  > Reminder: Not All Paths Can Be Walked.

  > Warning: Nostalgia May Cause Irrational Decisions

  The fog had stopped moving. It wasn’t gone—it was still there, curling around their boots like it was too tired to menace properly—but now it just sat, waiting. Watching. Like a bored cat or a judgmental in-law. The shimmer in the air had faded from prophetic mystery to awkward stillness.

  Derrin sat cross-legged on the oddly warm floor, Morinxandar in his lap, cradled like a comfort object he was trying very hard to pretend was an ancient relic of religious significance. Sir Wobblethighs leaned against a wall that was only mostly there, arms folded, expression unreadable under the dented helmet. The statue had wandered off again—either embarrassed by the emotional tone or flirting with a mop. Calla sat beside Derrin, scarf flopped over one shoulder like a defeated flag. Her glitter had smudged. Her optimism had not.

  “So,” she said softly, “that was a lot.”

  Derrin nodded without looking up. “Yeah.”

  More silence. Not uncomfortable—just... big.

  “I didn’t expect mine to be so shiny,” Calla offered. “I mean, the lights! The crowd! The commemorative spoons!”

  “You had spoons?” Wobblethighs asked.

  She nodded. “Two different collector sets.”

  Derrin blinked slowly. “My cultists had a chant, but I don’t think any of them knew what it meant. One of them thought ‘mercy’ was a kind of root vegetable.”

  Wobblethighs chuckled. “That’s nothing. My kingdom had five holidays just for the regulation of cheese softness. The people were happy. I was miserable. Peace is exhausting when it’s quiet.”

  Calla nudged Derrin’s shoulder. “You were really... respected. Even if it was for the wrong reasons.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t want to be misunderstood into sainthood. I just wanted to matter. Maybe be heard. Maybe not have every divine conversation end in static or sarcasm.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Static,” Wobblethighs said, rubbing his chin, “would’ve been an improvement. Mine ended with budget proposals.”

  Another beat of quiet.

  “Do you think,” Calla asked, voice softer now, “that we’re ever going to feel like we’re... enough? Like we’re doing the thing we’re supposed to do? That we’re not just—”

  “Failing upward with style?” Derrin finished for her.

  She nodded. “Exactly.”

  “I hope not,” Wobblethighs said suddenly. “If we ever do feel that way, it probably means we’ve stopped asking the right questions.”

  Calla blinked at him.

  “That was... oddly profound,” Derrin said.

  “I had a good nap while you two were busy emoting,” the knight said with a shrug. “Clarity follows sleep.”

  The fog pulsed gently, like it had grown tired of waiting. Then the System whispered again, not aloud, but across the backs of their minds like a guilty conscience:

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  > Alignment Required.

  > One Vision Must Be Released.

  > Not All Paths Can Be Walked.

  > You May Proceed Only When One Future Is Let Go.

  > This Is Not Punishment. This Is Permission.

  They all stared at one another.

  Derrin swallowed hard. “So... we have to pick one to delete.”

  “It’s like a bad group project,” Calla muttered, “and someone has to drop the class.”

  “I’ll do it,” Wobblethighs said. “Mine was just... comfort. And I’ve had enough comfort to last several lifetimes. I’d rather die with purpose than rule with cheese.”

  Derrin hesitated. “Are you sure?”

  Wobblethighs nodded. “You’ve both still got something to find. I already found mine, once. It didn’t fit.”

  Calla reached out and touched his arm. “You’re kind of a disaster, Sir Knight.”

  He smiled faintly. “Only the noble kind.”

  The vision of his future flickered. Folded. Disappeared like it had never been real, which, in a way, it hadn’t. The fog stirred. The door appeared. And Wobblethighs stepped through it first, shoulders squared, back straight, as if he hadn’t just deleted the only peaceful ending he’d ever been offered.

  Derrin exhaled slowly. Calla leaned her head on his shoulder, just for a moment, and said, “I don’t think I would’ve let you give yours up.”

  He chuckled weakly. “Good. Because I think I was about to.”

  And for once, in the vast, stitched-together absurdity of their quest, they didn’t rush to follow. They just sat there—tired, alive, and ready. Ready, at last, to face what came next. Another blinking message appeared:

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  > Narrative Integrity: Threadbare,But Holding. Stabilized (Barely)

  > Emotional Alignment: Chaotically Acceptable

  > Congratulations.

  > Destination Unlocked: The Shelf of Perpetual Steam (a.k.a. The Grail Chamber) The Cup Awaits.

  > Final Note: Not All Futures Are Real, But All Choices Are.

  > Proceed to: The Shelf of Perpetual Steam

  > Proceed With Intent, But Not Too Much Intent. The Cup Is Temperamental.

  Derrin stared at the door, then down at Morinxandar. The muffin was quiet. But one crumb fell off like a nod.

  He took a deep breath, straightened his satchel, and said, “Let’s finish this.”

  Calla wiped a tear that might have been sweat. “Final act, here we come.”

  And Wobblethighs, with an overly dramatic stretch of his back, declared, “If this cup doesn’t come with a biscuit, I riot.”

  They stepped through the fog, into the final chamber.

  Behind them, Pip saluted the shattered visions with his tail and whispered something that sounded like, “You’ll always have your weird.”

  And so they left the Gallery of Unlikely Futures—not certain of what would come next, but finally, gloriously, unsure together.

  ****

  The room did not so much appear as it unfolded, like reality had been holding onto it for a rainy day and finally decided today was overcast enough. They stepped through the final door and into a showroom. Not a grand hall or a vault of divine relics, mind you—no. This was an aggressively mid-tier discount showroom, the kind that looked like it once hosted an estate sale for a half-retired teapot collector who dabbled in eldritch contracts. Shelves lined every wall and jutted from the center in uneven rows, each one groaning under the weight of cups.

  Teacups.

  Mugs.

  Goblets.

  Tumblers.

  Tankards.

  One item was suspiciously labeled “Worship Chalice, Slightly Cursed (Still Holds Soup)”. The lighting flickered like it was trying to wink and failing at it. Somewhere, a harp was being played just out of tune. The ceiling leaked softly with ambiance. The air smelled faintly of forgotten infomercials and lemon-scented destiny. And seated calmly behind a counter shaped like a credenza that had lost a legal battle with time and a possum, sat a woman.

  Well—mostly a woman. Part woman, part managerial archetype, part swirling mist of deadline anxiety. She wore a cardigan that could only be described as passive-aggressive and sipped from a mug shaped like a disappointed aunt.

  She smiled at them, slowly. “Welcome, travelers. You have reached the final selection chamber. Inside this room is the cup you seek. Choose wisely... or everything ends rather poorly.”

  Calla beamed. “Oh! Like a sales floor for fate.”

  The woman blinked. “Sure.”

  Derrin stepped forward cautiously, Morinxandar tucked protectively in the crook of his arm. “You said... everything ends poorly. Could you be more specific?”

  “I could,” she said, sipping from her mug. “But it wouldn’t help.”

  Sir Wobblethighs narrowed his eyes. “You’re the Caretaker?”

  She nodded. “Among other things. I also do cataloging, artifact rotation, and regional prophecy auditing.”

  Calla had already begun weaving between shelves, fingers fluttering over the handles of teacups as if trying to gauge their narrative potential by touch alone. “Look at this one!” she gasped, holding up a slightly cracked cup shaped like a goose. “It’s whimsical! That has to count for something.”

  Wobblethighs cleared his throat in the way that only knights with a background in over-explaining can. “Now hold on. Legend has it that the Holy Grail of Slight Inconvenience—also known as the Mug of Minor Discomfort, the Teacup of Eternal Tepidness, or, in one particularly unhelpful translation, 'The Vaguely Dissatisfying Vessel of Maybe'—was forged during the collapse of the Fifth Metaphorical Empire.”

  Derrin blinked. “There were five metaphorical empires?”

  “At least,” Wobblethighs muttered. “Some say it was created by a half-forgotten god of mid-afternoon rituals. Others claim it was lost at the bottom of a sentimentally powerful sink.” The knight gestured vaguely at the shelves. “In theory, it should be unremarkable. Practical. Useful. And just slightly annoying. The cup, not the god. Though... both.”

  “Then that one!” Calla pointed to a squat mug with “#1 Hero (Insert Name Here)” scrawled on it in flaking gold leaf.

  “No, no,” Wobblethighs huffed. “Too obvious. It’s trying too hard.”

  “Like me!” Calla chirped, then wandered off to ask the caretaker about the cultural intersection of scone etiquette and scarf merchandising.

  Derrin stood very still. He turned toward Morinxandar, who stared back with the same eternal, crumb-flaked solemnity he always wore. The muffin, as always, offered no answers. Just presence. And the vague implication that disappointment was imminent. He looked to Pip, who had perched on a low shelf and was investigating the intricacies of a crocheted doily like it held the secrets of the cosmos. Which, to be fair, it might.

  “So it’s just me, then,” Derrin said aloud.

  The room said nothing.

  He paced between the shelves, fingers brushing cups that buzzed with narrative tension. One had a handle that constantly rotated. One emitted a faint, smug hum. One had the words “World’s Okayest Savior” carved into the base. Each one whispered possibilities. Each one felt wrong.

  Until he came to the end of a crooked shelf. Tucked behind a gaudy stein with antlers and next to a porcelain thimble marked “Regret”, sat a plain ceramic mug. Pale blue. Small chip on the rim. No design, no inscription. But the steam rising from it smelled faintly of slightly-oversteeped chamomile.

  Derrin picked it up. It was... warm. Not hot. Not comforting. Just... a little too warm to be pleasant. Like tea that had been reheated one too many times but was still drinkable if you were polite about it. The caretaker watched him carefully, her mug paused mid-sip.

  He turned to Calla and Wobblethighs. “Are we ready?”

  Calla gave a thumbs-up while still describing the difference between ribbon loops and performance sincerity. Wobblethighs raised a gauntlet in solemn half-salute. Derrin looked down at the cup. He took a breath. And drank.

  The moment Derrin took a sip, the room held its breath. Which was difficult, considering the room didn’t technically have lungs—or even, strictly speaking, exist in a respiratory-compatible dimension—but it did its best. The fog tightened. The shelves leaned in ever so slightly. The caretaker raised one eyebrow and lowered her mug, as if expecting Derrin to either burst into song or catch fire.

  He did neither.

  He simply blinked, lowered the cup, and muttered, “Oww.”

  It wasn’t a scream of agony. More a wince. The sort of noise someone makes when they step on a Lego shaped like disappointment. His tongue flailed in his mouth like a panicked eel, desperately trying to recover from the betrayal of believing the tea might be drinkable.

  “Too hot?” Calla asked, poking her head around the corner, still draped in three scarves and holding a promotional flyer from the caretaker about “Tea and Destiny Etiquette: A Beginner’s Scroll.”

  “Barely,” Derrin said, eyes watering. “Not enough to sue. But definitely enough to feel judged.”

  Wobblethighs looked at the cup with something like reverence. “That’s it then. The Cup of Minor Discomfort. The grail of myth. The vessel of destiny. The eternal reminder that perfection is for cowards.”

  The fog gave a dramatic sigh and promptly evaporated. Lights flickered overhead like a game show had just finished loading. Somewhere in the walls, a bell dinged—not triumphantly, but with the passive-aggressive enthusiasm of a bored office intern who just found out the coffee machine was broken again.

  And then—

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  > Quest Complete: “The Holy Grail of Slight Inconvenience”

  > Quest Item Acquired: [The Cup of Minor Discomfort]

  > Effects: Infinite Beverage Generation

  > Comfort Level: 73%

  > Curse: Beverage Temperature = Just Over Acceptable

  > Warning: May Burn Tongue. Or Ego.

  There was a beat of silence. Then another message.

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  > Level Up!

  > DERRIN: Level 3 Achieved

  > CALLA: Level 3 Achieved

  > Processing Perks and Abilities...

  Derrin blinked as the data scrolled across his vision in slow, bureaucratic majesty. He could almost hear a spectral quill scribbling somewhere in the back of his skull.

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  > New Spell Gained: [Will of the Begrudged]

  > Description: Effects vary. Power activated *only* if Voherin feels like it.

  > Disclaimer: This spell may trigger unexpected silence fields, cosmic shrugging, or mild divine grumbling. Use at your own existential risk.

  Derrin frowned. “So... the spell only works if he’s in the mood?”

  Pip squeaked from his perch on Calla in a tone that she translated as, “Honestly, that tracks.” Calla’s system prompt scrolled by much more enthusiastically. It sparkled slightly. With confetti.

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  > New Class Feature: [Interpretive Catastrophe – Bardic Outlier]

  > Spell List Pending.

  > Contents will be delivered via enchanted post in 6–8 business realities.

  > Included: 1 (one) nondisclosure scroll, 1 (one) complimentary legal familiar, and a liability waiver for spontaneous interpretive combustion.

  Calla squealed in delight and immediately attempted to pirouette, only to trip over Pip, who screamed something in Chipmunkese that probably violated local decency laws.

  Wobblethighs clapped once. “Excellent. We have the cup. You’ve leveled. The world, for now, continues to exist.”

  Derrin looked down at the mug. The steam still curled gently, self-satisfied, as if it knew it was just slightly too hot and liked it that way. He raised the cup again, eyes narrowed.

  “Cheers,” he said softly.

  Then took another sip and immediately burned the tip of his tongue.

  He hissed through his teeth. “Still too hot.”

  Calla grinned. “Perfect.”

  And somewhere far above, possibly in a realm stitched together with silence and long-suffering divine apathy, Voherin the Begrudged let out a low groan, turned over in his dusty slumber, and whispered,

  “Fine. Let them have their ending.”

  The lights flickered once more. The quest was complete. And the tea, as ever, was nearly tolerable.

  ****

  They arrived back at the Sandstitched Monastery just as the sun was beginning to sag against the horizon like it had given the whole day its best and was now reconsidering that decision. The stone steps were just as uneven as when they left, and the ivy still hadn't decided whether it was ornamental or slowly conquering the west wing. But there was a peace in the silence, the kind that only follows unlikely victories and confusing miracles.

  Sir Wobblethighs stepped through the front arch with his usual creak and clank, cradling the Cup of Minor Discomfort like it was an old friend or possibly a reluctant hostage. The mug, to its credit, emitted a steady wisp of steam and the faint aroma of over-brewed lavender. A perfect fit.

  Trailing closely behind him was the entryway statue—now mobile, possibly sentient, and definitely infatuated. She rolled gently beside him, pausing only to adjust the roller skates someone had hastily affixed to her base. They conversed in soft murmurs that drifted between poetic and profoundly unhinged.

  “Are they... a couple now?” Calla whispered, adjusting her scarf, which had acquired a few new embellishments and at least one unauthorized signature from a talking boulder encountered during their misadventures.

  “I think so,” Derrin replied, shifting the strap of his mostly-empty satchel. “Or maybe they’re just in a very niche performance piece about love and sediment.”

  “Same thing, really,” Calla said with a shrug.

  They stood there a moment longer before Wobblethighs turned, reached into his bag with all the solemnity of a knight bestowing a sacred boon, and handed Derrin… a burlap sack.

  It squished in a way no heroic treasure should ever squish.

  Derrin opened it. “Turnips,” he said flatly.

  Wobblethighs beamed. “The finest from the monastery cellar. A bonus, really. And the spiritual enlightenment of a completed quest, of course.”

  He gave a crisp nod, turned, and marched up the monastery steps. The statue followed, her wheels squeaking slightly with hope or maybe poorly lubricated devotion. Without another word, the great doors shut behind them with the quiet finality of a chapter closed—firmly and without the option for reader feedback.

  Calla, who had been rummaging through her own satchel, glanced up. “Well! That was invigorating. But I really should be getting back. Second term starts soon, and I promised Professor Clatterfeather I’d stop using interpretive dance to explain historical invasions.”

  “Did he say it wasn’t accurate?”

  “No,” she said brightly, “he said it was ‘existentially unsafe.’ Which I took as a compliment.”

  Pip, her chipmunk companion, perched on her shoulder and gave a shrill little warble that might have meant 'goodbye' or 'I found lint!' It was always hard to tell.

  And just like that, she was off, scarf trailing behind her like a streamer caught in a contradiction. She waved once, called something about “next performances” and “experimental tambourines,” and vanished down the path, laughing at something only she could hear.

  Derrin was alone. Well, mostly. He looked down at the bag of turnips. He looked at the road stretching in both directions, neither of which offered instructions or certainty. And finally, he looked at Morinxandar. The muffin, nestled in his side pouch, had somehow acquired a small crumb crown again. He stared at Derrin with the calm intensity of someone who had been dropped, worshipped, and ignored in equal measure—and had developed opinions about it.

  “Any ideas?” Derrin asked softly.

  Morinxandar offered no reply.

  But a single crumb drifted to the ground like punctuation. Not helpful, not hopeful, just… judgmental. Derrin sighed. He slung the sack of turnips over one shoulder, adjusted his now slightly singed cloak, and took a step toward whatever came next. The sky was still stitched and fraying at the edges. The wind smelled faintly of misplaced quests and the eternal promise of lukewarm tea. And for the first time in a long while, Derrin didn’t feel like he was waiting to be chosen.

  He just felt... present. Grumbling, hopeful, uncertain—and a little burned. But walking anyway. Because sometimes, that was enough.