There are cities you travel to, and there are cities you aspire toward. And then, far out on the glittering edge of the Fifth Seam—where the stitched world thins like a fraying tapestry held together by incense, prayer, and politely whispered civic ordinances—there was Lurelight.
Not ‘The Lurelight’, because that would be presumptuous. Just Lurelight. No articles necessary. The city was aware that it was impressive enough without grammar clinging to it like dead weight. Where Vellittara, center of the Shardlands, spun in chaotic, bureaucratic ballet—buried under the accumulated paper gravity of a thousand permits—Lurelight simply existed. Gracefully. Perfectly. Off-white marble streets hummed with soft divine resonance. Holy fountains burbled, always the right temperature. Birds were contractually obligated to sing in harmony. Even the alley rats observed a general sense of decorum and carried miniature napkins.
If the gods needed a vacation from mortal chaos—and they often did, because even deities can only handle so many amateur prophetic poems shouted from rooftops—this is where they came. They didn’t visit loudly. They just... arrived. Occasionally left glowing footprints. Took polite selfies with passing monks. Maybe blessed a fern or two.
And on one particularly radiant afternoon, she came.
Not “descended” or “manifested”—that would have required paperwork, and she was not one for bureaucracy. No, Anserina of the Gilded Grin, goddess of Light, Inspiration, Divine Presentation, and Spectacular Hair simply appeared in the Sanctum of Polished Silence, trailed by two bored seraphim carrying her travel robes and an aura of extremely practiced casualness.
“Alright,” she said, adjusting her smile for maximum radiance, “let’s see what’s happening in the mortal realm this season.”
A high priest immediately fainted. Another began a reverent song before realizing he only remembered the chorus, which was mostly vowel sounds and a mention of lentils. She did not look impressed.
“I said mortal realm. Not mortal disappointment.”
Another priestess, faster on the recovery, stepped forward and offered the divine scrying orb, which had been cleaned thrice and perfumed with wild citrus, as the divine guidebook demanded.
Anserina sighed, placed a single fingertip upon its surface, and whispered the sacred word of activation: “Zoom.”
Visions swirled. Crumbling villages. Flickering altars. A goat receiving the equivalent of divine applause after a minor healing burst triggered a spontaneous foam flood.
She blinked.
“Did... did a goat just get canonized?”
The seraphim exchanged glances. One shrugged. The other continued buffing her halo, which had been dulled slightly by the teleportation spell.
Anserina raised one eyebrow. “Oh absolutely not. If some forgotten footnote of a god thinks he can grant holy power and steal the narrative without so much as a courtesy vision—I’m getting involved.”
“But... why now?” asked one of the seraphim, whose job it was to be the voice of caution and mild scheduling concerns.
Anserina leaned back against her self-conjured chaise lounge. “Because there’s a poker night at Elysium and if I don’t show up with a story about my latest chosen, I’ll be stuck sitting next to Volkran the Flatulent again. No. I need someone radiant. Majestic. Brandable.”
She waved a hand and the orb spun like a divine roulette wheel, slowing to reveal a glimmering young man mid-sword pose atop a rock that may or may not have been arranged there moments before for dramatic framing. Light struck him just right. His armor gleamed. His jawline threatened minor epiphanies. Sir Valor Brightward.
“Him.” she declared.
“Of course,” said the priestess, still bowing. “He’s our top student at the Temple of Exemplary Virtue. He’s already—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Anserina waved her off. “I don’t care about credentials. Look at that silhouette! Look at those abs! This boy photographs divinely.”
She snapped her fingers, causing a radiant beam to descend from the heavens and bathe the chosen in shimmering light. Far below, on the training field, Sir Valor looked up and flashed a smile so bright it briefly convinced a passing falcon to reconsider monogamy. He saluted, unaware of the divine machinery realigning around him.
Anserina reclined once more.
“Mark my words,” she purred, “he will be the savior the world thinks it wants.” And somewhere, far across the Shardlands, a single muffin shifted slightly in its pouch. Because balance, unfortunately, is always watching.
The sanctum shimmered, then, with gold and good intentions—mostly the kind that looked excellent on a brochure. Sunlight didn’t simply stream in through the stained glass windows; it posed for portraits. Incense drifted like a flirtatious whisper. Every surface gleamed, every reflection flatteringly angled, every polished tile ready for its close-up.
Then came the divine fwoomp of teleportation magic—subtle as a gong in a library. In a dazzling cascade of light, Sir Valor Brightward landed in the center of the chamber with the effortless grace of someone who had absolutely rehearsed this in front of a mirror. His armor sparkled. His cape fluttered dramatically, despite the absence of any actual breeze. Somewhere nearby, a harp struck a chord so perfect that a dove outside laid a golden egg out of pure awe.
“Oh yes,” Anserina cooed from her floating chaise, already mid-preen. “That’s the stuff.”
She waved a manicured hand and a seraph assistant—one with the dead-eyed patience of a being who had been summoned to film one divine revelation and ended up working full-time in eternal content creation—swooped in with a crystalline scrying lens.
“Hair,” she barked.
A second angel flitted over and adjusted Valor’s golden locks, which had somehow already fallen into perfect waves that suggested sincerity, discipline, and just a whisper of seductive danger.
“Smile.”
He did. The room almost clapped on its own.
The seraph clicked through angles. “Pose #3: Sword Raised, Chin Just Slightly Distracted by Destiny. Perfect.”
Anserina leaned in, her voice a honeyed whisper thick with the promise of prophecy and product placement. “You, my luminous darling, are the Chosen One. The true vessel of holy restoration. The embodiment of order, symmetry, and photogenic resolve.”
Valor blinked. “Yes, my Goddess Anserina.”
“You will bring perfection to this fractured world. Stitch the unraveled seams. Smooth the wrinkled truths. And prune... the defective.”
She handed him a scroll. It glittered. It smelled like optimism and moderate danger.
“And by prune,” she added with a sugar-sweet smile, “I mean erase. Cut. Cleanse. The world must be tidy, my dear. No room for crumbs.”
From somewhere across the realm, a very specific muffin shivered.
Then, with a flourish, she brought him to the edge of the temple's golden balcony—a marvel carved from sunlight and weaponized symmetry. Below, the plaza swelled with pilgrims, tourists, vendors, and at least one spontaneous choir that had sensed it was a good day to harmonize.
“Now,” she said, voice dripping with performance. “Show them.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
She gave the system a prod.
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> Divine Override Initiated
> Class Granted: Cleric-Knight of the Radiant Reordering
> Alignment: Blinding
> Starting Level: 3
> Perks: Smite with Style?, Perfect Posture Aura, Sponsored Shield Glow?
> Spell: Manifest Perfection [Now with extra gleam]
Valor felt the surge hit him like a symphony composed by ego and conducted by unearned certainty. He turned, raised his hands, and declared, “By divine will and glorious design, I restore this child!”
A coughing peasant near the front blinked. The air shimmered. A holy glyph lit up beneath his sandals. A burst of radiant magic surged—and his limp, half-dead houseplant sprang back to life, bloomed excessively, and burst into spontaneous song.
The peasant fainted. So did four maidens. The crowd erupted. Applause roared like divine approval. Flowers were thrown. A banner unfurled from a nearby rooftop that read, "WE [heart] BRIGHTWARD (OFFICIALLY VERIFIED)."
Anserina sighed contentedly.
He was perfect. A shining beacon. A human mirror. And absolutely the wrong hero for a world that had a bad habit of tripping over its own narrative.
****
There are few places in the world where gravity is considered optional. The Floating Folly—blessed be its baffling buoyancy—is one of them. Hovering precariously on the edge of known reality and common sense, the Folly was a marvel of magical miscalculation. A cluster of islands untethered from the mundane grip of the ground, its entire civic identity depended on wind forecasts, levitation taxes, and the vague hope that no one sneezed too hard near the Eternal Anchor—a suspiciously rusted chain of uncertain origin that allegedly kept the entire municipality from drifting into a more inconvenient timezone.
It was here, high above the gently used mountains and far from the nearest common sense, that Sir Valor Brightward stood—helmet tucked beneath one arm, the other hand clenched heroically on his hip as he surveyed the sky-patchwork below. Or at least he tried to. His ceremonial greaves kept drifting slightly to the left.
“I demand to know,” he said, voice projecting at precisely the decibel range patented by public statues and reality show judges, “why my righteous cause has not yet been sanctioned.”
The Administrator of Levity Affairs, a spindly, bespectacled man with paperwork tattoos that moved like live ink under his translucent skin, cleared his throat. He floated six inches off the floor—not because of magic, but because no one had properly calibrated the conference room gravity for the day.
“Sir Brightward,” the administrator said with the weary tone of someone who had filed too many forms in a system that actively resented him, “as you are aware, the Ministry of Grand Deeds requires all Class B or higher Heroic Actions to be registered via Form Questor-77-B (in triplicate) and countersigned by a Sky-Bound Notary before any sanctioned smiting may begin.”
Valor inhaled through his nose, an action that shimmered with divine forbearance.
“I am the Chosen One of Anserina the Radiant,” he said, “blessed beacon of balance, sculptor of smiles, goddess of radiant branding. I do not require permission. I am the permission.”
“Yes,” the administrator nodded slowly, adjusting his monocle as it tried to levitate away. “And your status as Chosen One entitles you to one free parking waiver, a voucher for two scones at Divine Bites Bakery, and priority seating at official parades. But not unregistered quests.”
A nearby clipboard groaned under the weight of triple-stamped objections.
Around them, members of the Cloud-Milkers’ Cooperative (who looked every bit as damp and exhausted as their job titles suggested) floated between tethered sky-huts, swatting at gravity gremlins with oversized nets and muttering about pension reform. The gremlins, squat creatures made entirely of anti-logic and gymnastic contempt for Newton, zipped between rooftops cackling and casually unraveling the laws of physics like yarn. One flitted by, paused midair, and gently turned Sir Valor’s sword upside down before vanishing with a smug honk.
“I could be helping,” Valor muttered, clenching his jaw so tight the light around him flickered.
“You could,” the administrator agreed, “but you won’t be. Not until the quest is registered, the Eternal Anchor is re-attested by the Guild of Suspended Monuments, and your Divine Activity Waiver is ratified by the Department of Probable Outcomes.”
Sir Valor growled—a sound so pure and perfect it echoed briefly and caused three nearby pigeons to declare their allegiance to him on the spot. And then—as all bureaucratic disasters are eventually punctuated—a runner arrived. Small, wheezing, and visibly concerned about his own plot relevance.
“Message, sir,” he panted, handing over a scroll sealed in official demonic wax (which screamed softly as it cooled).
Sir Valor cracked the seal. His eyes narrowed.
“An unregistered quest has been completed,” he said, voice low and full of thunder. “Stability levels in the western weave have shifted. Reality… has moved.”
The administrator looked unimpressed. “And?”
“It was a minor quest. Something about a mug.”
There was a long pause.
“You mean,” the administrator said slowly, “The Grail of Minor Discomfort?”
Sir Valor’s nostrils flared with paladinic rage.
“It was meant to be symbolic! A placeholder until I arrived. A warm-up miracle. It was supposed to be forgotten!”
“Apparently,” the clerk said, peering at a floating chart, “it’s already affected the metaphysical threads in at least three low-traffic fate lines. Also, someone canonized a goat again. Third time this year.”
Sir Valor’s eyes gleamed with righteous fury and near-murderous envy.
“I want a list,” he said coldly. “A list of all minor clerics. All unregistered miracles. Especially any involving muffins, foam-based prophecies, or metaphysical tea.”
The administrator sighed and reached for a new form.
“Of course. That’ll be Form S-4D… Subsection: Spite.”
****
There are magical catastrophes that make the sky crack open with eldritch lightning. There are arcane blunders that summon beasts from between the folds of forgotten time. And then, there are laundry-related incidents. This was unfortunately the latter.
Crispin the Unpressed—Arch-Washer, Sock Summoner, and self-declared High Sudsing Practitioner of the House of Tumble and Rune—stood in the center of his experimental laundromat prototype with the glassy-eyed look of a man who had just lost an argument to a pair of trousers. The laundromat shimmered with enchanted signage. One read: “Welcome to Spin Cycle Sanctum: Where Fabric and Fate Are Both Gently Washed.” Another read: “We are not legally liable for sentience gained mid-rinse.” A third, hastily scribbled in chalk near the employee-only door, simply said: “DO NOT AGITATE THE DELICATES.
Around Crispin, the air was full of penitence and the aggressive tang of lemon-based fabric softener. A nearby dryer whined in a minor key. On the far wall, a mop leaned against the boiler with an air of deep disapproval. The mop, it should be noted, was the only surviving staff member still on speaking terms with the wizard. Crispin adjusted his robe, which was stuck halfway between "dignified indigo" and "shrink-faded disappointment." His conical hat drooped slightly to one side like a tired eyebrow.
“Well,” he muttered to himself, staring at the scroll that had very clearly not finished auto-translating. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
What had actually happened was this: In a bid to cut labor costs and avoid paying overtime to the United Starchworkers and Folding Union (Local 404, Chapter of Mismatched Socks), Crispin had attempted a small, harmless enchantment—one that would temporarily imbue laundered garments with just enough awareness to fold themselves and perhaps, if he was feeling generous, sort their own buttons.
It was a logical, if morally gray, solution to mounting pressure from the union’s newly hired representative, a talking bathrobe named Gerald with a litigious streak and extremely aggressive lapels. But magic, industrial detergent, and a few unauthorized enhancements involving a chaos crystal that had been discounted for minor twitching, resulted in what experts might charitably refer to as “a garment-based uprising.”
As of this morning, a significant percentage of Crispin’s laundry had vanished. One sock had simply phased out of reality. Three towels were now running an impromptu commune in the boiler room. And somewhere, an enchanted brassiere had achieved enlightenment and floated serenely out the second-story window, humming a hymn of freedom and cup support.
Crispin blinked. The dryers were quiet now. Too quiet.
“Right,” he said aloud, fumbling for a quill and summoning a small chalkboard from the air. “Checklist: Stop talking mop from forming a union. Track down sentient linen. Burn anything with sequins. Find help—preferably disposable.”
At that moment, there was a thump at the window. Not a knock. A thump. Followed by a disgruntled coo and the sound of something nibbling menacingly on an overdue invoice. A pigeon—grey, ragged, and sporting an eye-patch sewn from what looked like old postage stamps—hopped aggressively into the room. One leg dragged behind it like a statement. The other bore a tiny, rolled-up flyer glued to its shin with spite and sugar syrup.
The pigeon spat a feather and squawked in what sounded suspiciously like "Do I look like a courier to you?" before flinging the scroll into the room and flying directly into a hanging rack of embroidered sashes.
Crispin unrolled the note. It was a flyer. Bold letters, a bit smudged:
NEED A MIRACLE? NEED A CLERIC?
Now Serving You!
DERRIN OF DRIZZLE
Cleric. Kind of.
Certified by One (1) Recognized God (begrudgingly).
Small Fees. Smaller Expectations.
Includes Tea. (Temperature not guaranteed.)
There was a hand-carved turnip stamp at the bottom. Crispin tapped the flyer thoughtfully.
“Well,” he mused, stepping gingerly around a rogue scarf trying to unionize a mop bucket. “Miracles are just magic in fancy robes. And this Derrin seems cheap.” He paused, sniffed the scroll. “And he smells like burnt tea leaves and theological doubt. Yes. Perfect.”
The wizard reached into a drawer, pulled out a wand made entirely of detergent-stiffened lint, and sighed.
“It’s time to outsource.”
