Morning broke over the Plaid Wastes like a creaky folding chair: hesitant, slightly askew, and carrying the faint smell of burnt something. The group stirred from their respective sleeping configurations—Derrin from a makeshift mound of ambiguity, Calla from a nest of scarves and dreams of applause, and Sir Wobblethighs from a position that might have once been comfortable but was now just medically questionable.

  Breakfast had already begun its slow descent into disappointment. Sir Wobblethighs had prepared what he referred to as “hot travel mush,” which turned out to be tepid oats, reconstituted from something that may have once been food but had since filed for retirement. He stirred it with his gauntlet and passed the bowl around like a sacrament nobody wanted to receive.

  Derrin peered into his portion with suspicion. “Is it supposed to smell like upholstery glue?”

  “It’s traditional,” the knight said proudly. “The scent keeps away bugs. And people.”

  Calla sniffed hers, twirled a spoon like a wand, and muttered, “It’s giving me notes of desperation and beige.” Then, with great fanfare, she dumped it back into the pot. “I’m fasting for creative reasons.”

  Pip attempted to bury his face in a discarded scarf. Morinxandar, ever stoic, remained unmoved in his pouch. A crumb fell. It made more of an impact than breakfast had. After several minutes of determined chewing and quiet disappointment, Derrin unfolded the quest map with all the confidence of a man handling something that had once caught fire just from being looked at. The paper crackled ominously.

  “All right,” he said, smoothing it flat on a nearby rock that was humming faintly in a minor key. “We should be somewhere near the third curl of the leftmost dune just past the bendy cactus.”

  “Or,” Wobblethighs said, leaning over the map and squinting, “we’ve been bamboozled.”

  Derrin frowned. “What?”

  “Maps,” the knight explained, as though revealing a state secret, “were invented by a seedy merchant and a disgraced cartographer in the Year of the Slightly Tilted Goat. Pure fabrication. Designed to confuse travelers and sell more parchment.”

  “That… feels unlikely.”

  Wobblethighs jabbed at the parchment with his fork. “Have you ever met a map that told you something useful at the time you needed it? Didn’t think so. You trust your feet. And your instincts. And, if necessary, a divining fork.”

  “That’s just your eating fork,” Calla noted, eyebrow raised.

  “It’s multi-purpose,” the knight sniffed.

  Just as Derrin opened his mouth to object, the air shimmered. Not in a magical, awe-inspiring way—but in the twitchy, flickering stutter of divine machinery hitting a loose circuit.

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  > You are approaching: [BARGAIN BIN CAVES]

  > Warning: Patchwork Reality Stability Below Acceptable Threshold

  > Reminder: All Sales Are Final. Even Destiny.

  The map, reacting to the system ping, glitched violently. One moment it displayed a tidy path toward a cave entrance; the next, it showed a bakery, a crater, and an optometrist’s office stacked on top of each other in the same coordinates.

  “Okay, what is that supposed to mean?” Derrin asked aloud, as the map folded itself halfway and began humming something that sounded like a children’s jingle about lemon-scented socks.

  Calla leaned in. “I think it means we’re exactly where we need to be, just possibly in the wrong dimension. Or emotional state.”

  Wobblethighs was muttering to himself and poking the map with his boot. “If this thing starts suggesting laundromats again, I’m throwing it into the next dune.”

  Derrin stared helplessly at the shifting paper, then turned to the sky. “System?” he asked, hopefully.

  There was a long pause. Then a flicker.

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  > SYSTEM RESPONSE UNSTABLE

  > Directions: Mostly Correct.

  > Context: Questionable.

  > Morality Alignment of Nearest Caves: Meh.

  > Adjusting interface tone… Please hold…

  The map twitched once more, then settled into a vague, crumpled shape that resembled a frowning loaf of bread wearing a monocle.

  “I give up,” Derrin muttered. “Let’s just follow whichever direction the hallucinations aren’t sneering at.”

  “I vote for that hill,” Calla said brightly, pointing to a rise that pulsed with faint chartreuse plaid and had a distinct aura of misunderstood ambition. “It looks full of artistic potential.”

  “You mean certain death.”

  “Same thing, usually.”

  They packed their things. The breakfast fire sputtered out with a final whimper, and the wind picked up again, whispering directions no one trusted and jingles no one remembered. They set off, not because they knew where they were going, but because standing still felt like admitting defeat.

  ****

  Despite all reason, common sense, and the best statistical efforts of thirteen highly caffeinated casino odds-mages—who were, even now, staring in disbelief at massive enchanted scrying screens and arguing over whether the word "party" legally applied here—our heroes made it.

  Or near it. Well, near-ish.

  The landscape had changed in subtle but unmistakable ways. The plaid of the Plaid Wastes had faded into a more subdued houndstooth of ominous anticipation, and the dunes had receded, as if even the sand had given up trying to explain itself. In their place rose a crooked escarpment of stone shelves and stacked debris, jutting from the earth like the forgotten corner of a divine garage sale. Faded signs carved into the rock bore warnings in multiple languages—none of which seemed to agree on whether this place was sacred, haunted, or just deeply under renovation.

  Derrin stood at the edge of a tangle of stone and fabric, squinting up at what looked suspiciously like a cave mouth adorned with half a curtain rod and a weathered banner that read: “FINAL CLEARANCE – ENTER AT OWN RISK (NO EXCHANGES).”“So…” he said, shifting the weight of Morinxandar’s pouch at his side. “I think this is it.”

  Sir Wobblethighs peered up at the jagged cliffs, squinting with the practiced distrust of a man who had once been ambushed by a decorative archway. “Hmm. Looks... unsettled. Possibly sacred. Almost definitely poorly ventilated.”

  Calla, standing with one foot on a suspiciously flat stone and a dramatic wind catching her scarves at just the right angle, declared, “It’s perfect. I can feel the destiny vibes. And possibly mold.”

  Pip squeaked quietly, having taken refuge in the folds of Calla’s sleeve, and muttered something that sounded like a disclaimer. Just then, the air thickened—not with menace, precisely, but with that queasy anticipatory hush that usually precedes either a revelation or a cheese tray.

  A shimmer passed across the mouth of the cave. And then it appeared. The Custodian of Unclaimed Wonders emerged with the solemn grace of a riddle that had forgotten its punchline. Floating three feet above the stone threshold was a being composed entirely of mismatched socks, coat hangers, and flickering fragments of discarded system memory. It hummed softly, a sound halfway between divine awe and the dial-up noise of a forgotten age. Its eyes were glowing buttons. Its arms were long, swirling sleeves of lost laundry and errant tax documents. Its presence was both majestic and deeply inconvenient.

  It spoke with the voice of a bored manager trying to close early on a Thursday.

  “Welcome, seekers of the Slightly Discounted Path. You stand before the Bargain Bin Caves, sacred vault of treasures nobody claimed, where even fate comes with a restocking fee.”

  Derrin stepped forward, eyebrows furrowed. “We’re here on a quest. There’s supposed to be a grail. Possibly minor. Definitely inconvenient.”

  “Ah yes,” intoned the Custodian, shifting slightly as a sock drifted loose and reattached itself with a sigh. “The Cup of Slight Inconvenience. Very popular. Rarely cleaned. Before passage may be granted, each of you must present an offering.”

  “What kind of offering?” Calla asked, visibly preparing to perform something unspeakable in interpretive movement.

  “Something of sentimental inconvenience,” the Custodian declared. “That which you carry not for power or utility, but out of stubbornness, embarrassment, or ill-defined hope.”

  “Also,” it added, almost as an afterthought, “I will accept riddles. Or cheese dip.”

  Sir Wobblethighs grunted. “I have neither cheese nor riddles. But I do have this.” He unbuckled the sheath of a sword he had never been able to draw, the one that squeaked and moaned whenever polished. “Been carrying it since the Siege of Whatever-That-Was. Useless as elbows on a jellyfish. But oddly... nostalgic.”

  The Custodian accepted it with a sound like a polite cashier receiving expired coupons. “Sentiment received. Transaction noted.”

  Calla twirled in place, pulled a crumpled napkin from her scarf, and unfolded it carefully. On it was a stick-figure sketch titled “When My Mother Said I Should Try Accounting Instead.”

  “I never performed this piece,” she said softly. “Too raw.”

  The Custodian nodded. “Painful. Mildly avant-garde. Acceptable.”

  Derrin hesitated. Then slowly reached into his pack and pulled free a small, wooden spoon with a crack down the center. He held it out, voice quiet.

  “This was the first thing I ever carved. Meant to be an offering. I... don’t think it was ever accepted. But I’ve kept it. Just in case.”

  The being hovered closer, absorbing the spoon into its swirling form. “Sentimental inconvenience confirmed.”

  Morinxandar, of course, remained silent. He had already given enough by simply continuing to exist.

  “Very well,” said the Custodian, rising with the gentle whoosh of a filing cabinet being spiritually reorganized. “You may enter. But beware—within the caves, all that is forgotten gathers. Objects, memories, narrative threads... and expired fate coupons.”

  A breeze stirred. The cave beyond gaped wide, lined with glimmering signs like “BUY ONE DOOM, GET A CURSE FREE” and “MANA SCROLLS – HALF-OFF, HALF-SPELLED.” Derrin looked at the others. Calla cracked her knuckles like an actress stepping onto a stage. Wobblethighs grunted and tightened his armor, one strap already coming loose.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  They stepped forward. And the Caves welcomed them with a sales pitch, a flicker of system static, and the distant smell of clearance incense.

  ****

  They stepped across the threshold with all the gravity of a band of half-prepared adventurers who had technically made it this far without dying—though not without several close brushes with irrelevance. Hope mingled with skepticism in the air, the way warm breath mingles with fog: briefly meaningful, then absorbed by the surrounding weirdness.

  The Entry Hall of Overpromising was vast.

  It was also, for reasons best left to ancient architectural follies and bored demigods, oddly retail in its layout. Vaulted ceilings stretched so high they disappeared into shadow, decorated with carvings of outdated divine slogans and testimonials from forgotten prophets: “Five stars—would ascend again,” and, “Destiny came early, slightly defective, but customer service was polite.” Above them glowed bright, shimmering signage, flickering with aggressive cheer:

  

  FATE ON CLEARANCE – TODAY ONLY!

  LIMITED-TIME PROPHECIES – 2 FOR 1

  FREE FORESIGHT WITH PURCHASE OF DIRECTIONBeneath this ambitious welcome, dusty shelves stretched in uneven rows. On one rested a crown that shimmered faintly with glamour and disappointment. Whenever someone looked directly at it, a faint echo whispered, “Not it.” Another shelf held a sword in a stone, except the stone had a coin slot, and the sword handle was suspiciously rubbery. A handwritten note said, “Insert fate to continue.” There was even a doormat, half-buried in grit, bearing the embroidered warning: “Wipe Feet, Leave Destiny.” Someone had scrawled underneath it in charcoal: “Or just your sense of direction.”

  Derrin stood awkwardly at the center of it all, one boot slightly damp from an unexpected puddle of destiny runoff. “This is... a lot,” he muttered, adjusting his satchel as Morinxandar sat stoically within it, radiating the usual amount of quiet concern and potential fungal bloom. Calla had already spun in a slow, delighted circle, arms raised as if she were preparing to conduct a cosmic symphony—or hijack a parade.

  “It’s magnificent,” she breathed. “It’s like if hope and failure opened a boutique together.”

  “You mean it looks like it was curated by a fever dream with a budget problem,” Derrin replied.

  Sir Wobblethighs was inspecting the coin-operated sword with professional suspicion. “This blade lacks balance. And sincerity.”

  That was when the statue in the center of the room groaned to life. With an impressive puff of dust and a mechanical wheeze that sounded like a sigh from an unpaid actor at a theme park, it raised its chipped arms and intoned in a booming, echoing voice: “Welcome, travelers, to the Great—wait. No. Sorry. That’s not right. Ahem. You are now entering the Caverns of—hmm. Did anyone move the plaque? Oh bother.”

  It blinked slowly—an impressive feat, as it had no eyelids—and began turning in place.

  “Please proceed to the designated—oh. You know what, just follow the signage. I’m sure it’s still accurate.”

  It began to drift after them, muttering in half-formed introductions and the existential groans of a magical voicemail system. They tried to ignore it. It followed anyway.

  “Maybe we should just let it be,” Calla suggested. “It’s probably lonely.”

  “It’s probably cursed,” Derrin replied. “Or abandoned. Or both. Possibly sentient dust wearing statue cosplay.”

  The statue chirped in: “I also offer group rates!”

  After fifteen increasingly uncomfortable paces, Derrin turned with a sigh and waved a hand toward the poor construct.

  “Grumble of Healing,” he muttered, mostly out of pity. A faint blue shimmer pulsed from his palm. The spell was not meant for statues, of course. Or sentient wayfinding mechanisms. Or whatever this was. The result was—predictably—unpredictable.

  On some adjacent metaphysical plane, his Persistent Misfortune Aura [Stable] locked eyes with Calla’s Unintentional Fortune Field [Erratic] and engaged in what can only be described as a cosmic back-alley knife fight. Spectral dice clattered. Probability wept in a corner. An unlucky puffin exploded somewhere far away. And whatever tattered hybrid crawled out of that shimmering mess slammed back into the statue with a dramatic ping, rebooted, and blinked twice in the direction of Sir Wobblethighs.

  The knight, adjusting his elbow greave, paused.

  The statue, now glowing slightly at the base and emitting the gentle scent of aged lavender and shoe polish, cleared its throat and spoke in a much softer voice.

  “Oh. Hello. I didn’t realize chivalry still came in full plate.”

  Sir Wobblethighs looked genuinely alarmed. “Is... is it flirting with me?”

  Calla gasped. “I ship it.”

  “No,” Derrin groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Absolutely not. We are not getting emotionally entangled with a magically rejuvenated foyer fixture.”

  “I’ve been alone for... three hundred years,” the statue murmured. “Give or take two calendar reforms. Your helm gleams like lost hope.”

  The knight coughed into his gauntlet. “Ahem. Right. Moving on, then.”

  Calla twirled once and struck a dramatic pose. “The dance of destiny awaits!”

  “No dancing,” Derrin warned, too late.

  She had already begun, scarf flaring behind her like a flag of tragic optimism.

  “Spontaneous Dance Detected,” the statue intoned helpfully. “Warning: Floor may become emotionally unstable.”

  And so they moved deeper into the caves, leaving behind the statue, who watched Wobblethighs’ retreating form with audible longing. Another sign blinked to life above the next corridor. It read: HALL OF LEFTOVER TRIALS: ENTER WITH LOW EXPECTATIONSThe Hall of Leftover Trials did not so much welcome them as tolerate their presence like an old doorman too tired to argue. It was lit with uneven, flickering sconces shaped like question marks, and the air smelled faintly of long-forgotten enchantments and lukewarm ambition. The floor creaked in several emotional registers. At least one tile sighed when stepped on.

  The chamber stretched wide and needlessly tall, littered with failed mechanisms, bored-looking traps, and magical puzzles that practically radiated insecurity. A riddle door sat in the far corner with a sign taped to it reading, “OUT OF ORDER (Too Cryptic, Even for Us).”Derrin took one look around and made a noise somewhere between a groan and a defeated prayer.

  Calla, however, was already spinning slowly in place, arms outstretched like she was waiting for destiny to dip her. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

  “It’s a deathtrap with abandonment issues,” Derrin muttered. “Which, I admit, fits the theme.”

  Sir Wobblethighs had taken up the rear, lingering by the entryway and glancing back with unconcealed longing. The statue from the Entry Hall had managed to roll after them at a dignified crawl, now attempting to reattach a pair of long-forgotten roller skates to what might have once been feet.

  “Do you think I have a chance with her?” he asked quietly.

  Calla hesitated. “I—I think she’s still... processing a lot. You know, her script loop. And also time.”

  “Fair,” he said, nodding slowly. “But she’s got presence. You don’t see that much in foyer fixtures anymore.”

  Derrin, now examining a pile of talking floor tiles that were attempting to unionize, finally turned to Calla and asked, “So. While we’re here—what exactly do you bring to the table?”

  She blinked. “Artistic vision. Interpretive improvisation. A sharp sense of color theory.”

  “I mean magically,” he said. “You’re a bard, right? Don’t bards get spells? Crowd control? Buffs? Or, like, music that does things?”

  Calla looked down at her boots. One of them squeaked guiltily.

  “I... technically haven’t received my spell list yet.”

  Derrin stared. “What?”

  “It’s pending,” she said, fidgeting with her scarf. “The last system message said it was reviewing my ‘Class Identity Conflict’ and that my subclass, Interpretive Catastrophe, needed additional deliberation.”

  “You didn’t check back?”

  “I didn’t want to annoy it!” she protested. “It sounded like it needed space. And possibly a nap.”

  Derrin pinched the bridge of his nose. “So we’ve got a cleric with divine radio silence, a bard with an unconfirmed class, and a knight going through a romantic subplot with a talking pedestal.”

  “I said she had presence!” Wobblethighs called from behind, somewhat defensively.

  A low hum began to thrum beneath their feet. Derrin immediately looked down. “That better not be the floor’s opinion again.”

  Calla glanced around, then leaned in. “That statue did mention the floor was emotionally unstable.”

  “I’m allergic to rapid stops at the end of long drops,” Derrin muttered. “It’s a very specific trauma.”

  Before Calla could reply with either reassurance or interpretive hand gestures, Sir Wobblethighs, still retreating from his lingering emotional entanglement with the entry statue, bumped into a large, poorly labeled lever near the wall.

  It clunked. It whirred. It screamed. The doors slammed shut behind them with all the subtlety of an angry ex slamming a drawer full of unpaid bills. The room shuddered once, sighed theatrically, and locked.

  “Oops,” said Wobblethighs.

  The statue finally caught up, rolling into the room just in time to issue a single, crystal-clear sentence in a voice suddenly smooth and foreboding: “Trial Initiated. Please do not attempt to pet the beast.”

  Everyone went still. A ripple shimmered across the back wall, the way mirages do when they’re pretending to be friendly geography. Then it dropped—like a veil falling at the wrong cue. A massive lizard-like creature materialized from camouflage, its scales shifting in worn gradients of plaid and burnt bronze. It had a grin that promised paperwork and pain.

  Derrin took one step back. “That’s not a puzzle.”

  “It’s smiling,” Calla whispered, eyes wide.

  “Worse,” Wobblethighs muttered, drawing his not-quite-sword. “It looks hungry.”

  The beast opened its mouth. And grinned wider.