15 Years Later

  Kibby’s day began with a printer jam, a passive-aggressive email from her boss, and someone

  microwaving fish in the office kitchen.“Hope your Monday smells like productivity,” she

  muttered to herself, jabbing the elevator button like it owed her money.

  The bus ride was worse. Rain. A sticky seat. The guy across from her was rapping lyrics out loud

  with his headphones in, mouthing every word like a hex. She stared at her reflection in the foggy

  window—blurry, unimpressed, tired.

  Her eyes were always a little too big, her lips too thin, her cheeks uneven when she frowned. She

  looked like a background character from her own story. She avoided mirrors but hadn’t quite

  figured out how to avoid reflections on glass. She finally got to work, dropped into her cubicle,

  and opened the sketchbook tucked between HR memos and her backup mousepad. The same

  goblin grinned up at her—a messy pencil sketch with giant ears, patchy fur, and the most chaotic

  little scarf. He looked smug. He always looked smug. She added a sword this time. Because why

  not.

  “Still drawing Gremlin Gandalf?” her co-worker Dave muttered as he passed.

  “His name is ‘Mind your business,’ Dave.”

  Dave chuckled and kept walking.

  Kibby wasn’t particularly good at her job, but she was good at appearing productive. Her inbox

  was a swamp. Her reports were 60% guesswork. But she always looked like she was just between

  tasks. That was half the battle in corporate.

  Her phone buzzed. A message from her mom.

  “We’re thinking of you. Call back?”

  Kibby stared at the screen for a second or two and then put her phone face-down without

  replying.

  Around 2 p.m., she was called into her boss’s office.

  He was a tall man with a voice like a sleepy lawn mower. Balding. Slightly sweaty. The kind of guy

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  who said “team synergy” without batting an eye.

  “Mavis Kibbs”, he said, squinting at a spreadsheet. “How are we doing?”

  The name hit her like it always did—too formal, too old, like a pair of shoes that didn’t fit

  anymore. She preferred Kibby. It wasn’t her name, not really. But it felt lighter. Easier to wear.

  Kibby didn’t bother correcting him. She just sighed. “I’m fine.”

  “I’ve noticed your response times have dipped slightly this week.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. I’ve just been…” She didn’t finish.

  He nodded like he understood and handed her a file. “Archive this downstairs. You’ll need badge

  clearance. Ask Marcie, yes?”

  She stood. “Got it.”

  “And Mavis?”

  She flinched.

  “You’re doing alright?”

  She gave him a thumbs-up she didn’t feel. “Totally.”

  He smiled. “Keep up the good work.”

  By the time she got home, her feet hurt. She dropped her bag by the door, peeled off her hoodie,

  and stared at herself in the bathroom mirror.

  “You’re fine,” she said aloud. Her voice sounded unconvinced.

  Later, she curled up on the couch with her sketchbook. No TV. No music. Just her, the goblin

  sketch, and the sound of traffic outside. She didn’t know why she kept drawing him. But she

  always had. Even when she was little. Even when things were worse.

  She added new details now. A scar. A little stitched patch on his scarf. A dagger.

  “Greeb,” she said without thinking.

  The name felt… familiar. She wrote it beside him. It felt fitting.

  ‘Greeb the Goblin’.

  If he even were a goblin.

  She hugged her sketchbook. And for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel completely alone.

  Tavrethar.

  The 7th of Liraen.

  The suns had only just vanished from the sky. The fog in the lower districts always carried a

  copper tang, sharp and metallic on the tongue. A goblin crouched low behind a chiseled archway,

  his hunched frame just tall enough to peer over the stone lip. He was stocky, all muscle and

  sinew, with arms that had won more than a few admirers in Vaeltharyn. Moonlight caught the

  sheen of his pale green skin, making him look half-spectral, half-statue.

  “You see him?”, Tulli’s voice whispered behind his ear. Small even for a goblin, but quick as

  spilled ink, she moved like a secret told in a dream.

  Greeb nodded. “Middle stall. Red awning. The one wearing the patchwork vest. That’s our

  skavrenn.”

  “Ugliest rat I’ve ever seen.”

  “Careful,” Greeb murmured. “The ugly ones bite the hardest.”

  “Ugly rats eat the king’s cake and never pay the bill,” she replied in sing-song.

  He smirked. “Quoting Grandma Pigsnout again?”

  “She’s got wisdom in her wart hairs. I miss her.”

  “Me too, Tulli. But we’ll be home soon,” Greeb said, caressing her cheek with an assuring

  nod.The goblins slinked toward the market edge, cloaks drawn tight. The black market of

  Tavrethar pulsed with lantern lights, reeked of burnt spices and old oil. Screams, laughter, the

  clang of bartered steel—chaos barely kept in rhythm.

  The informant spotted them instantly and stiffened.

  “Relax,” Greeb said, voice low. “We’re here for the parchment. Not to harm you.”

  “That depends,” Tulli added, “on whether you behave or not.”

  The goblin trader squinted. “You’re early.”

  He dug into his satchel, the velkrath hide creaking softly under his fingers.

  “Here, I hope this was worth it.”

  The parchment passed hands. “Thorne’s trafficking warm bodies now. New recruits, soldiers,

  women...some for the bed, most unwilling. Through sewers beneath the academy. Smuggled in

  merchant caravans.”

  “A war that eats from the middle leaves the crust whole,” Greeb muttered, frowning.

  Tulli sighed. “Which means?”

  “He’s trying not to alert the High Court. Hollowing us out without stirring the nobles.”

  Before more could be said, a yell snapped across the market.

  “There! Get those yitzven, now!”

  Steel hissed. Footfalls thundered.

  “Time to scram.”

  “A goblin caught is a goblin cooked!” Tulli shouted as they bolted.

  They ducked, spun, vaulted through a maze of overturned stalls and darting crowds. A thug

  lunged—Greeb smashed a sack of salt in his face. Tulli snatched a fish from a stand just in case.

  “Keep up, Greeb!” she called.

  Smoke and spells burst behind them. Tiles shattered. A lantern exploded overhead.They hit the

  sloped roof of the distillery, sliding down with ease. Tiles flying.

  Greeb shouted, “Left!”

  Tulli laughed. “Follow the stink and hope the wind likes you!”

  They crashed into an alley, hearts hammering.Tulli tossed a vial behind her. A bloom of violet

  smoke hissed.

  “Split!” she barked. “Get to the bridge at Rin’sulken! I’ll draw ‘em.”

  “Wait—”

  “No time for poetry, Greeb!”

  She winked, muttered a spell in Elunari, and vanished into the haze. A heartbeat later,

  Greeb watched as her shadow dropped into the water below with a splash.

  She didn’t surface. And Greeb didn’t wait.

  He ran.

  Above them, unseen by either, a raven-shaped sigil glimmered faintly.