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.

  ·??·

  Dear Mother,

  You will be happy to know I have arrived safely in Golton. The Loreweaver has been kind enough to rent me a room above the Alehouse until I can find proper lodgings. She was excited to receive your gift (what was in there?) and would like to know when you’ll be visiting.

  Please don’t.

  On another note, I saw a wonderful field of rotting riverlilies about a half day’s walk from the southern gates. When I return for the Winter Solstice, I will make certain to bring several bags for your Fast-Fallow Field Tonic.

  Finally, you must be wondering what has become of my application to The Fractured Fate. Well, I am rather put out that you never mentioned a ‘test,’ and if I never have to work with that horrible ranger-boy again, I will be quite content. Despite the challenge, you will notice a stamp of my guild pin here below, and I am ecstatic to inform you:

  I made it!

  So what happened? Well, it all started the morning after the storm…

  ·??·

  One Day Earlier…

  ·??·

  “A test,” Amaryll frowned at the Loreweaver. She sat on a tall stool - so tall, in fact, that with her short stature her feet dangled several inches off the ground. The delicate fingers on both her gloved hands curved around the rim of a large bone tankard, filled to the brim with a sloshing helping of steamed cider.

  Amaryll breathed deeply; the sharp sting of cardamom and allspice tickled her nose, which was still ever-so-sniffly. Despite her oil-treated cloak, walking three hours through a heavy rainstorm would take its toll on anyone - even one with her… sensibilities.

  The heavens’ thunderous punishment had petered out in the wee hours of the morning. Now, all that remained was the subtly sweet smell of damp leaves and the pleasantly crisp morning air.

  And Amaryll’s stuffy nose.

  The Loreweaver - Lore, she’d implored Amaryll to call her last night - had greeted her with a steaming mug of hot cider the moment she’d stepped into the Alehouse that morning. A lone sunbeam drifted quietly through the frosted glass of a window, and only a few figures sat at the various tables scattered around the room.

  “So,” Amaryll had ventured, when the Loreweaver returned with a second steaming mug, sliding her empty mug away to the kitchen window. Amaryll wet her lips. Why was she nervous, all of a sudden? She worked with poisons for a living. Surely a short conversation wasn’t entirely out of her comfort zone.

  And yet, her tongue seemed to swell like she’d eaten a double dose of tongue-twisting trilops. The Loreweaver waited, perfectly content in her silence, her ageless eyes crinkling at the corners. Amaryll swallowed past the thick feeling in her throat. “When do I get my guild pin?”

  “Well,” The Loreweaver said slowly. Her voice reminded Amaryll of a breeze through the trees - soft, though she spoke at the same volume as Amaryll, and with the chilling aire of something not quite normal. Something otherworldly. The Loreweaver lifted a glass, held it to the light, narrowed her eyes, nodded, spun it. “That depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “On you.” Loreweaver set the glass down on the counter. “You see, usually before prospective members join they must complete a test of sorts.”

  “A test.”

  “Usually. Of course, this is a special-”

  No. No, no, no. Even here, in Golton, leagues away from her small family homestead, she couldn’t escape her mother. Her amazing mother, whom she loved with all her heart and in whose footsteps she so desperately wanted to follow…but whose shadow she could not escape.

  Even here, in Golton, where no one was supposed to know who she was.

  “-case-” The Loreweaver was still saying.

  “I’ll do the test,” Amaryll chirped. Then she snapped her mouth shut. Shit.

  I just cut off the Keeper of the Guild.

  Hopefully that wasn’t the test.

  But Loreweaver’s mouth twitched upwards. “Excellent.”

  Exhaling a soft sigh of relief into her spiced cider, Amaryll let her thoughts turn away from her mother. This was her life. Her story. Everyone knew The Fractured Fate was the best Adventurer’s guild on this side of the wine-dark sea. She would prove herself just as worthy of that guild pin as the strange black horse standing in the corner over there.

  Amaryll blinked. Had it always been there? She could’ve sworn-

  The horse glared at her.

  She swung her gaze back to the Loreweaver, though she could still feel its glowing gaze boring into the back of her head. “What sort of test?” She’d always been good at the exams her mother had written out for her — testing the colloquial names and properties of various plants from across the world, the proper way to despine a drungel, and what to do if you accidentally mixed kerokalli opinous into your dreamless sleep tincture instead of kerokalli pintus.

  “Not that kind of test,” Loreweaver smiled, as if she could read the thoughts spinning through the young woman’s head. “A job. Completed and supervised by a pre-existing member of the guild.”

  “A job.” Amaryll couldn't help the trill of excitement that thrummed through her, kicking her heart into her ears. Her first ever adventurer’s job. With the Fractured Fate, no less.

  She’d been waiting for this moment since she’d been old enough to talk.

  Loreweaver’s earthy gaze drifted around the room. It landed on something behind Amaryll’s shoulder. Amaryll swiveled in her chair and followed her gaze to two figures. One of them, a large mass of muscle with a square head and short black hair hunched over a heaping platter of eggs and cold sausages. His whole expression read don’t talk to me. The other lounged against the back two legs of his chair, his loose shoulder-length hair and lazy grin giving the general air of someone who didn’t take anything overly seriously.

  “Ronan and Zev,” Loreweaver said. “The Brothers.”

  Brothers. It made sense. Now that Amaryll knew what to look for, she could recognize it - the same sharp jaw, the same tilt of their eyes - the sameness that came from sharing your entire life with the same person.

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

  “What about them?”

  “They have a job they’ll be leaving for soon. It’s here in the city and should be easy enough for a probationary member.”

  Amaryll chewed on her lip. “And they’ll take me along?”

  “If they won’t, we’ll find something else.”

  Phew. Okay. “So are you going to-” Amaryll spun her head to look at the Loreweaver, and froze. She glanced from one side of the bar to the other, then leaned over the counter to see if maybe the Keeper of the Guild was hiding beneath the cabinets.

  Nope.

  The Loreweaver had disappeared.

  “Great,” Amaryll mumbled. She turned back to the brothers. Sized them up. Small talk. She could do small talk. It was practically her superpower.

  Well, her second superpower.

  She took a breath, then another. Then a third.

  With her fourth breath, she dropped her mug to the counter. Her now-cooled cider sloshed in the tankard, and her mud splattered boots thudded to the floor. Small talk time.

  The soft sound of her approach caught the attention of the bigger brother. If the frosty look in his eyes was anything to go by, Amaryll was an unwelcome addition to his morning. The other one continued to lounge, eyes closed, his chair tipped dangerously far backwards.

  If she were any less determined to make this work, she might have turned on her heel, marched up to the Loreweaver, and demanded to know her other options.

  Instead she smiled. And cleared her throat. “Ahem.”

  The hulking one dug an elbow into his brother’s side. Two chair legs thudded to the floor. His eyes popped open. “What the hell, Z-” His gaze slid to Amaryll. He sat up straight, brushing a few strands of hair from his face. A face which, Amaryll realized somewhere along the dark edges of her mind, was pleasingly symmetrical.

  She filed that thought away for later analysis. Small talk.

  She flashed a smile that her mother always said could outshine a merralily. “Hello.”

  She was greeted by a warm grin and a grunt of acknowledgement (two guesses which was which). “Hello.”

  “Hello.” At the answering identical brow raise from both brothers, she cleared her throat and pulled over the nearest chair with a loud screeeech. All three of them winced. “Right. The Loreweav-uhm Lore, sorry.” Why was this so hard? “She said you two were heading out on a job soon.” A happy feeling blossomed in her chest. A job. Did she sound like a real adventurer? She hoped so. “She said you should take me along.”

  Not exactly what the Loreweaver had said, but Amaryll hadn’t made it all the way to Golton on her own by asking permission.

  “She did?” The more talkative brother leaned forward. “Why?” The question wasn’t unkind, but a curious light twinkled in his eye. “Are you a new recruit?”

  “Yes. Amaryll.” She thrust her hand over the table. It barely reached halfway, but he leaned the rest of the way and grasped it. She felt the warmth of his palm, even through her leather-gloved hand.

  “Ronan.”

  “Ronan,” she repeated. Then turned her smile on the other brother. “You must be Zev.”

  Zev said nothing. Ronan threw an arm over his brother’s shoulder. “You’ll have to forgive him. He’s not very talkative in the morning. He doesn’t like waking up so early.”

  Amaryll’s eyes flickered to the closest window — where a soft stream of late morning light streamed through the misted glass, casting soft shadows across the empty table below.

  Ronan followed her gaze. His grin widened. “Or at all.”

  “I get it. If I could stay in bed all day, I would.” Her words and sympathetic look were lost on their other companion, who just grumbled something that sounded like “juzz shuttup enlez go.” He pushed away from the table and his half-eaten plate.

  Pure pride kept Amaryll in place as the hulking man stood up. As they were, he was twice her height and she was quite certain one of his fists could fit around the entirety of her waist.

  He just glared at her once more, hefted a large battle axe into a sheath strapped around his back — how had she missed that? — and trudged towards the door.

  Ronan sighed goodnaturedly and pushed his own chair away with a softer screech. His hair had fallen into his face again, and he shoved it back. He was halfway across the room, and Amaryll still glued to the floor, wondering what to do now, when he turned back. “Coming?”

  “Me? Oh. Yes.” Nice.

  Her belt was still draped across the bar counter, and she did a quick inventory of the various pouches — sleeping draught, vials (empty), vials (full), droppers, sundrop oil, pruning knife — before attaching it to her waist, hefting her skirts, and hustling towards where Ronan waited, door propped open.

  A soft smile flitted across the Loreweaver’s lips as the three figures, silhouetted against the misty morning light, stepped into the fog and disappeared.

  She pulled a small paper and a pen from beneath the counter and began to write.

  My dearest Argila,

  It has been quite too long. As you may know, your little Amaryll arrived yesterday…

  ·??·

  “Rat hunting.”

  “Yes.”

  Amaryll hopped neatly over an upturned cobblestone. Her rapid footsteps echoed loudly across the stone streets, but she couldn’t help it. At a head and a half shorter than both Ronan and his ornery brother, she was forced to take three steps for their every one just to keep up.

  The streets of Golton were quiet — oddly so, if she were being honest, for just before midday. A soft mist still hung low in the air from the storm that previous night, and the roads were slick with moisture. The air tasted crisp on her tongue and the back of her mouth. The sweet smell of baked bread twisted its way towards her from several stores down, intermingling with the sharp tang of springtime blossoms.

  Golden rays of ethereal light glinted off the shiny cobblestones. Amaryll stifled a sigh. It would have been beautiful, honestly, if she hadn’t been so focused on this new and distressing information.

  “Rat. Hunting.” She shielded her eyes and stared up at Ronan’s stark profile. “Is that as self-explanatory as it sounds, or-”

  “It means hunting for rats,” Zev ground out through gritted teeth.

  Ronan just rolled his eyes. “It’s not the most glamorous job.” He offered Amaryll a sympathetic grin, before his gaze slid back to the streets around them. “But someone has to do it. And it pays well, all things considered.”

  “Huh.”

  For the first time since they’d stepped out of the Alehouse, the trio fell silent. They’d been walking for quite some time, and Ronan — who was quickly becoming her favorite brother — had kept up a steady stream of conversation which Amaryll was only too happy to oblige. Zev had grunted a few words (he speaks!) here and there, but otherwise remained silent. Amaryll quickly decided that trying to make conversation with him was rather akin to making conversation with her favorite bullhorn sheep from back home.

  Making conversation with Ronan was much easier. She noticed, though, that the jovial man hardly ever looked her way when they talked. His eyes scanned the streets around them — Searching for something? She couldn’t tell — but he never seemed to stop talking.

  He told Amaryll about the city of Golton. He asked her about her travels. He shot jabs and joking insults at his stony-faced brother.

  Amaryll was determined not to be outdone. She chattered and joked and chattered some more.

  Good first impressions were, after all, her second (or third? She’d lost track) superpower.

  Another block and then a quick sharp turn, and the trio emerged onto a large — and much busier — street. The buildings here were taller, nearly blocking out the low-hanging sun, and burly men and women moved across the streets. Some carried heavy-looking boxes. Others hefted sacks of something-or-other. Shouts bounced off the large stone walls.

  “Welcome,” Ronan spread his hands, “to the Wares Ward. This is where all the businesses keep their…well, their businesses. And, if I’m not mistaken,” he peered down at the slip of paper clutched in his hands, “our job should be right…” he looked up, scanned the space, paused, “…over…”

  Amaryll and Zeve waited.

  And waited.

  This is ridiculous, Amaryll thought, after a good four seconds of silence. It doesn’t take that long to read a-

  “Brother?” Zev was watching his brother, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. When Ronan didn’t answer, his frown deepened. “Ronan, are you-”

  “Hm?” Ronan jolted. Shook his head. “Sorry. Right. I just…” He didn’t look at Amaryll or Zev. “I have to just…take care of…something.”

  Suddenly, Amaryll was clutching the piece of paper, and Ronan was striding away.

  Even Zev looked surprised. Amaryll’s mouth opened, then closed. Could you do that? Just…give up on a job before it even started? It didn’t take long for indignation to overpower her shock.

  Fuck that. “We’re on a job!” she cried after Ronan’s retreating back. “You…you can’t just leave!”

  Ronan spun on his heel, still walking backwards. “I just have to take care of something.”

  “Yeah, but-”

  “Ronan-”

  “It’s just rats.” He waved a hand. “You don’t need three of us for rats.” And then he was gone. Leaving Amaryll standing there, in the middle of the street, alone.

  Not exactly alone. I still have- she looked up at Zev. “Does he do that a lot?”

  Zev just frowned. He snatched the paper from Amaryll’s grasp, looked at it once, and strode off.

  Alone, then.

  Amaryll sighed and hurried after Zev.

  Hey there! Thank you for joining us for part 1 of Foxglove's Test (Tales of the Fractured Fate, 02).

  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 Amaryll, Ronan, Zev, and all the other misfit members of The Fractured Fate in this exciting collection of short dark fantasy adventures.