Kibby’s workday ended not with a bang, but a slow, soul-sucking whimper.

  Her computer gave one final whrrr-click, like even it was tired of pretending to be productive. A

  meeting had gone twenty-three minutes over, she hadn’t spoken a full sentence aloud in hours,

  and someone had swapped out the decent instant coffee for a decaf imposter that tasted like dust

  and broken dreams.

  She sat still for a moment after logging out. Just… staring. At nothing. At the small hairline crack

  in her desk. At the way her fingers curled slightly from holding a pen too long. Her body had

  moved through the day. She wasn’t sure her mind had kept up.

  No one said goodbye when she left. She didn’t expect them to.

  In the elevator, the lights flickered slightly—buzzing in the way everything seemed to lately. She

  tugged her hoodie sleeves down to her palms and leaned against the mirrored wall. Her face

  looked too tired for her age. Her eyes always seemed to be scanning for exits, even when she

  stood still. The bus ride home was all fluorescent glow and wet umbrellas. Someone was eating

  chips way too loudly. A kid screamed. A woman tried to whisper-yell into her phone.

  Kibby sat with her bag on her lap, thumb absently tracing the zipper, her sketchbook poking out

  just enough to tempt her.

  She felt like yelling at the top of her lungs. For no particular reason.

  Instead, she stared out the window. Not because there was anything to see—just because the blur

  of the city, the headlights bleeding through water-streaked glass, felt like a better place to be than

  inside her head.

  Then her phone buzzed in her lap.

  It was a text from Zin. “Meet me by the bench near Crystal’s. I’ve got something stupid and

  shiny.” Kibby’s shoulders twitched—not quite a jolt. Like someone had shaken her gently awake.

  She stared at the screen for a long second. Then another.

  Then, finally, she picked herself off the seat, adjusted her hoodie, and pulled the stop cord.

  Kibby met Zin almost an year ago. It was at an open mic night, in a bookstore café that didn’t

  know whether it wanted to smell like cinnamon or old carpet. The night air was chilly, enough to

  fog the windows. Inside, people huddled in mismatched chairs, sipping over-steeped tea,

  pretending to care about each other’s pain while secretly waiting for their turn at the mic.

  Neither of them wanted to be there. Not really. Zin stood backstage (if a curtain on a laundry rod

  could be called that) with one boot untied and a folded paper in her pocket. Her cropped black

  hair clung to her temples. Her hands were stuffed in the pockets of a patched denim jacket that

  smelled faintly of cloves and old ink.

  She didn’t notice Zin at first.

  Kibby was tucked near the back. Not hiding. Just… small. Folded into herself like a napkin after

  a long dinner. Her hoodie sleeves chewed. Her eyes dull, not sad. Like someone who had given

  up on being understood.

  But when Zin stepped up to the mic and began to read—everything slowed. Her voice didn’t

  tremble. It wasn’t beautiful. But it was honest. A quiet poem about feeling like a question mark in

  a world that demanded exclamation points. It wasn’t crafted. It was spilled.

  And Kibby looked up.

  Their eyes met for two seconds too long. Kibby clapped when it was over, but instantly regretted

  it as soon as she noticed people staring at her. Zin didn’t thank anyone. She just stole a cookie

  from the snack table and walked straight toward the girl in the corner.

  “Here,” she said, holding it out. “I stole this for you.”

  Kibby blinked. Took it slowly. “Thanks?”

  “You looked like you could use a felony.”

  Kibby smirked. That was all. Zin sat down across from her like it was the most natural thing in

  the world. “I’m Zin. Thanks for the applause.”

  “I’m… Kibby.”

  “Cool. Is that your real name or your coffee order name?”

  She didn’t reply.

  Zin grinned, but didn’t push it. “You draw?”

  Kibby looked surprised. “Yeah. How’d you—”

  “Your fingers have pencil smudges, and you keep twitching like you’re itching to sketch

  someone’s soul.”

  Kibby blushed, looking away.

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  Zin leaned in. “I’m not hitting on you. I just think you look like someone who’s been holding

  their breath for years.”

  There was silence. A pause that felt soft, not awkward.

  “I liked your poem,” Kibby said.

  Zin shrugged. “It was bad. But honest.”

  “I like honest.”

  Over the next few weeks, they kept bumping into each other. Kibby would show up at the same

  café on Friday nights, pretending to read. Zin would pretend not to be waiting. She always

  brought her a cookie. They were heavenly.

  They didn’t talk much at first. Zin would tell strange stories that made no sense. Kibby would

  listen. Sometimes laugh. Sometimes just tilt her head in that way that made Zin want to keep

  talking forever. Their silences became comfortable. Like furniture that didn’t match but somehow

  fit in the same room.

  Zin always carried a small, battered coin with a crescent moon etched into it. Said it was lucky.

  Kibby never asked why. But weeks later, she doodled the exact same coin into the margins of her

  sketchbook.

  Then one night, Zin asked.

  “Would you go out with me? Like… actually outside. Not in the same place at the same time

  pretending we’re not orbiting.”

  Kibby blinked. “I… I don’t really do dating.”

  “Neither do I.” Zin smiled. “Let’s not call it that, then.”

  Kibby hesitated. Then nodded.

  “Okay. One orbit.”

  Their first ‘not-date’ was a walk. Zin brought mismatched gloves. Mavis brought nothing but

  quiet. They talked about books they didn’t finish. Music they lied about liking. Pain they never

  showed anyone else.

  Zin pointed to the sky and said, “Somewhere up there is a star that doesn’t know it’s dying.”

  Kibby replied, “Somewhere down here is a girl pretending she isn’t.”

  Zin stopped walking. Looked at her.

  “I see you,” she said.

  Kibby tried to fight back tears. Failed. Zin didn’t say anything. Just stood beside her until the

  tears passed. They didn’t talk much that night. But their fingers brushed, and neither pulled away.

  There were stumbles. Small ones. Zin once misunderstood Kibby’s silence as disinterest. She

  stopped texting for two days. Kibby finally messaged: “I’m just quiet. Not distant. Sorry.”

  Zin apologized too by leaving a paper crane on her doorstep. Inside, folded into its wings, was a

  note that said, “I never wanted you to be louder. Just closer, Mavis.”

  Over time, they built a world. Not perfect. But theirs.

  Zin would leave doodles in Kibby’s sketchbook. Kibby would leave notes in Zin’s coat pocket.

  They had a shared joke about being “emotional raccoons”—hoarders of feelings and cryptic

  affection. Kibby even drew one, tiny and angry, hugging a heart.

  They never made it official. Never used labels. But one morning, Kibby woke up with Zin’s head

  on her shoulder and thought, “I’m not afraid of the end anymore.”

  That was enough.

  It had to be.

  The sky was dipped in that soft kind of twilight that made everything feel like a memory.

  Kibby hurried down the sloping street, hoodie pulled up against the breeze, her bag clutched like

  a lifeline under her arm. Her legs were tired, her head louder than the passing traffic, but still—

  there was that pull in her chest.

  And there she was.

  Zin sat on the bench near Crystal’s, legs kicked up on the edge, a lopsided grin already in place.

  A glimmer of something metallic spun between her fingers.

  “Finally,” Zin said, flicking her crescent-moon coin up and catching it without looking. “I was

  about to marry this bench out of boredom.”

  Kibby slowed to a stop. “You and inanimate objects. Should I be jealous?”

  “Only if you’re not impressed by commitment.” Zin stood and held out her hand dramatically.

  Nestled in her palm was a ridiculous, glittery frog keychain. It had a crown. It was holding a tiny

  fake sword.

  “What is this..,” Kibby deadpanned.

  “Something stupid and shiny,” Zin said proudly. “Like me.”

  Kibby tried not to smile. Failed. “He’s… hideous.”

  “Regal,” Zin corrected. “Frog prince energy. I saw him and knew you would probably adopt the

  cursed thing and give him a backstory.”

  Kibby took it. “He’s a retired warlord who found peace in gardening.”

  “There’s my Mavis,” Zin said softly.

  They sat together. For a while, they just watched the soft gold bleed into the streetlights. A man

  with a saxophone played a few notes across the square. A couple laughed too loudly near a food

  truck. Kibby pulled out her sketchbook, opening it.

  Zin leaned over. “Goblinoid of the week?”

  Kibby showed her. The same goblin. Over and over. Always slightly different, always with the

  same knowing grin and lopsided ears.

  “He’s been around a while,” Zin said, voice carefully neutral.

  “Since I was a kid, I think,” Kibby murmured. “Never knew why I kept drawing him. Just… feels

  right.”

  “You ever name him?”

  Kibby hesitated. “Yeah. Greeb.”

  Zin didn’t blink. “Cute name. Sounds like he’d talk in riddles and steal your lunch money.”

  “He’d probably give it back. Eventually.”

  Zin nodded like she knew exactly what kind of goblin he was.

  A breeze tugged at Kibby’s hair. Zin reached up and tucked it behind her ear before Kibby could

  stop her. The contact was light, but it burned anyway.

  “You’re good for me,” Kibby whispered gently.

  Zin smiled. “You say that like it’s surprising.”

  “I’m not usually good at letting people stay.”

  “Then let me be bad at leaving.”

  They kissed—softly, like the moment had always been there waiting.

  When they pulled apart, Zin looked away for just a second.

  “You ever think we’ll be doing this ten years from now?” she asked instead, teasing but soft.

  Kibby just leaned her head on Zin’s shoulder without replying.

  Zin kissed her forehead and caressed her light blonde hair. Kibby hated when people touched her

  hair. This time she let it slide, because the night was too gentle to argue with. And it was

  comforting, as much as she hated to admit it.

  Something in Zin’s smile lingered, just a second too long.

  Vaeltharyn

  Outskirts of the Druvnakh village

  Greeb waited beneath the Rin’sulken Bridge, hunched low behind a cluster of moss-covered

  stones. His cloak clung to him, damp with sweat and river mist, and his ears twitched at every

  creak and shuffle in the distance. He hated waiting. He especially hated waiting still. Goblins

  were not built for being so still. The moon slid out from behind a cloud. He glanced toward the

  water.

  "Tulli," he muttered. "If you're dead, I’m gonna be extremely disappointed in you."

  The surface of the water quivered gently. Then bubbled. Then—

  *FWOOSH!*

  A blur of limbs and soggy braids exploded from the river like a beast born of mud and sass.

  "Miss me?" Tulli coughed, hauling herself onto the bank with zero grace and a grin far too wide

  for someone who had nearly been skewered the last time he saw her.

  "You’re late," Greeb muttered, trying to keep the relief out of his voice.

  "And you're ugly. Balance is maintained."

  She shook herself like a cat, water droplets spraying his face. Greeb hissed.

  "Did you get followed?"

  "Please," she said, tugging a leaf out of her boot. "I swam through a pocket of horned veskari, bit

  a guy on the thigh, and used a dead fish as a distraction. I think I’ve earned a nap."

  Greeb sighed. “Village is close. Come on.”

  The hidden goblin village of Druvnakh was nestled deep beneath a hanging cliff, shielded by

  illusion wards and the thickest plumshade foliage Greeb had ever cursed about walking through.

  But tonight, the wards shimmered with celebration.

  Ribbons of glowing thread hung from trees like spun starlight. Drums pulsed in the air,

  syncopated with the clatter of cups and stomping feet. Bonfires danced. Laughter tangled with

  music that didn’t follow any rules but felt like it did.

  The Vael’noth Serakai had begun.

  “Smells like burnt moss and terrible decisions,” Tulli sighed happily.

  They crossed through the archway where the illusion curtain hung, and immediately a voice

  screeched:

  “YOU!”

  Greeb barely had time to turn before he was hit with a cane.

  “Back already, are you?” barked Grandma Pigsnout, cane still raised, eyes squinty with suspicion

  and affection. “Thugs and wet secrets. That’s what you both smell like.”

  “Lovely to see you too,” Greeb muttered, dodging the second jab.

  Tulli threw up both hands. “We come bearing bruises and gossip.”

  The old goblin’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, well then. Soup’s free tonight.”

  A low, melodic chuckle drifted from the side, where a tall, antlered figure leaned lazily against a

  mossy post. His stone-pale skin shimmered slightly under the firelight, and bells dangled from

  the ends of his cloak like quiet laughter waiting to happen.

  “Narek,” Greeb said with a nod.

  The Noqari jester tipped his head, antlers clicking lightly against each other. “I sensed the ruckus

  and excitement. Knew it had to be you two.”

  “You missed us,” Tulli grinned.

  “I miss many things—clarity, dignity, my left shoe.” He wiggled one bare foot for emphasis. “But

  yes. You’re near the top.”

  He stepped forward with a kind of graceful mockery, drawing a carved flute from his belt.

  “You’re lucky you arrived tonight,” Narek said, voice smooth and oddly musical. “The moon

  broke wide for the first time in a decade. That means stories will lie and truths will sing.”

  “I thought it meant soup goes weird,” Greeb said.

  “Same thing,” Narek replied, completely serious.

  He paused, then leaned closer to the goblins, his voice lower now. “Just… don’t touch the fourth

  mask hanging by the storyteller’s tent. Unless you want to remember something that never

  happened.”

  “Noted,” Tulli said.

  Narek twirled the flute once and wandered off, bells softly chiming, muttering something in a

  language no one had spoken in centuries.

  Greeb exhaled. “He gets stranger every year.”

  “And taller,” Tulli said. “Which I find personally rude.”

  Later, by firelight, Tulli juggled pickled mushroom skewers while Greeb patched a tear in his

  sleeve. Around them, goblins danced. Fireworks spiraled upward in shrieks of blue and gold.

  Murmai twirled in glowing ponds. A Noqari child handed Greeb a silent mask before running

  off, giggling.

  He stared at the mask in his lap.

  "You gonna put it on?" Tulli asked.

  "Don’t want to know what I’d see," he muttered.

  Tulli sat beside him, quieter than usual. Her legs dangled off the log, feet muddy and barefoot.

  “For what it’s worth,” she said, voice lower now, “I’m glad we’re still breathing.”

  Greeb nodded.

  “I’d hate to bust evil plots without you. It’s just so boring when I don’t have someone to save

  from their own dramatic plans.”

  He snorted. “That’s rich, coming from the girl who once stabbed a noble Vael to steal his boots.”

  “They were enchanted. And fabulous.”

  A long silence passed between them, not uncomfortable. Just… full.

  Then, without fanfare, Tulli leaned in and kissed his cheek.

  “Just in case things get worse,” she said, already getting up. “And because I’m faster than you.”

  She darted off toward the dancing crowd before he could respond, leaving Greeb blinking, the

  mask still on his lap, and the firelight flickering something strange in his eyes.

  Above, the broken moon cast its fractured glow across the village.

  For tonight, at least—Vaeltharyn danced.

  And the darkness waited its turn.