The morning smelled like tea, leftovers, and Zin’s shampoo—the kind that somehow

  always reminded Kibby of cold rain and cigarette smoke. Not a bad smell. Just one that clung to

  the sheets long after Zin had left for the kitchen.

  Kibby rolled over, squinting at the soft light spilling through her curtains. Her t-shirt was

  halfway off, her mouth tasted like sleep and salt, and she was sore in ways she couldn’t tell if she

  liked or regretted.

  She could hear Zin humming. Kibby smiled.

  In the kitchen, Zin was perched on the counter, legs swinging, wearing a top too big for her

  frame and hair messily slicked back. She looked like something from a coffeehouse zine—

  grungy, gorgeous, and slightly magical.

  "Morning, zombie," Zin said, holding out a mug like an offering.

  Kibby accepted it wordlessly, took a sip, then immediately coughed. "This is hot leaf water

  pretending to be coffee."

  "It’s tea," Zin said cheerfully. "Your stomach will thank me."

  "My soul won’t."

  "Souls are overrated," Zin grinned. "Let your intestines win one."

  Kibby dragged herself to the couch with a blanket, mumbling lazy curses that only made Zin

  laugh. She plopped down, letting her legs drape across Zin’s lap.

  They sat in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that came with comfort. A shared breath.

  "You ever think about just... leaving?" Kibby asked.

  Zin tilted her head. "Leaving what?"

  "All of it. The job. The noise. The annoying people. Just get into a car and go?"

  "Only if you’re driving," Zin said, brushing Kibby’s ankle with her fingers.

  "That’s a horrible idea. I failed my road test three times."

  "All the more reason. We'd go out in style."

  Kibby chuckled, then sighed, resting her head on the couch arm.

  "And what about this weird feeling...like we’re waiting for something? Like there’s this version of

  your life you’re supposed to be living, but someone forgot to hand you the script."

  Zin was quiet. Then she said, “Nobody gets a script, Mavis. People just try to make the best out of

  their lives.”

  Kibby rolled her eyes. The TV played in the background, half-muted. A nature documentary

  about migratory birds. Zin’s gaze lingered a bit too long on a murmuration of starlings folding

  through the sky.

  "You okay?" Kibby asked softly.

  Zin blinked like she'd been far away. "Yeah. Just tired, I think."

  The rest of the day passed with the same, gentle rhythm. They ordered noodles from the place

  down the street. Zin insisted on chopsticks; Kibby gave up halfway through and stabbed her

  dumplings with a fork. Zin laughed and offered to teach her—then forgot halfway through and

  ended up feeding her instead.

  As night fell, they curled up on the couch beneath a blanket. The room was ill-lit, the hush of the

  night folding around them like another layer. Kibby leaned into Zin’s warmth, fingers tracing the

  hem of her shirt. A quiet moment stretched; expectant, soft. A look passed. Zin didn’t move.

  Didn’t pull away.

  Kibby shifted closer, pressing a slow kiss to her shoulder, then to the dip of her collarbone. Zin’s

  breath hitched, her eyes soft as she watched her lover, with one hand resting on Kibby’s thigh, her

  thumb gently brushing in circles.

  Kibby slowly moved down, gently tugging Zin’s shirt aside just enough to bare her left breast. She

  moved with care, her lips tracing a reverent path across Zin’s skin— unhurried, tender— until

  her mouth found its way to a nipple. As she began to suckle, Zin drew in a sharp breath, her

  fingers curling into Kibby’s hair— not to pull, but to anchor herself in the moment.

  For a long, breathless stretch, they stayed that way— Kibby curled in close, lips still sealed

  around her, drawing slow, deliberate pulls that sent soft tremors through Zin. Her hand cradled

  Kibby’s cheek, thumb brushing lazy strokes across flushed skin, her body tuned to every shift of

  pressure and heat. Kibby’s other hand roamed with quiet intent, fingers kneading Zin’s other

  breast in slow, rhythmic motions— teasing, coaxing, savoring. The softness under her palm, the

  way Zin’s body responded— arching and trembling— drew her in deeper. Zin’s moans

  came in shivers, breathy and isolated, slipping into the quiet like something sacred. Her fingers

  threaded deeper into Kibby’s blonde hair, not to guide or resist— just to feel her, close and

  connected.

  Then Kibby lifted her head, planting a few kisses on Zin’s neck, before attempting to take off her

  shirt.

  “Wait,” Zin whispered, catching her wrist.

  Kibby froze, her breath held. “Did I— ?”

  Zin shook her head, the faintest smile tugging her lips. “No. You’re good. I just...I don’t think my

  mind’s here tonight. Not fully.”

  Kibby nodded, resting her head back against Zin’s almost bare chest. “Okay.”

  Zin’s gaze dropped, her thumb brushing Kibby’s wrist. “I’m sorry. I wish I could explain it.”

  "You don’t have to," Kibby said, brushing a hand through Zin’s hair. "Just stay."

  And she did. They curled into each other again, their hands clasped in comfort, with just a kind

  of closeness that mattered more than either of them could say.

  * * *

  The next morning, Kibby woke alone. Her neck hurt. Her arms were wrapped around the

  blankets like they were stand-ins. She rubbed her eyes and sat up. The apartment was quiet. Zin’s

  coat hung on the chair. A soft hiss of running water whispered behind the bathroom door.

  Kibby moved around the room, picking up strewn clothes and crumpled paper, still groggy.

  When she reached for Zin’s coat to take it off the chair, her fingers brushed something

  unexpected.

  A small book. Worn. Hidden.

  She opened it. The pages were covered in curling, unfamiliar script. Symbols she couldn’t place—

  but they made her head feel strangely full, like static.

  The script wasn’t just foreign. It looked ancient.

  Kibby stared at it. She turned the book over in her hands. It was heavier than it looked, bound in

  leather with a strange, almost iridescent finish that shimmered faintly under the apartment’s soft

  light. The edges were frayed, and a few little doodles—runes?—peeked out from the margins of

  its pages.

  It had been tucked well inside Zin’s coat pocket, which was still slung carelessly over the back of

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  her desk chair. Kibby hadn’t meant to snoop. It could be a crazy little journal. Or maybe a

  planner? But it didn’t have dates or schedules. Just the weird writings.

  She flipped it open, skimming past pages filled with elegant, looping handwriting. Every

  page was in a language she didn’t recognize. Some had diagrams—circles and symbols and lines

  that reminded her of crop circles or tattoo stencils.

  Kibby blinked.

  She wasn’t sure what to make of it. Part spellbook, part poetry journal? She though it was kind of

  cool. Zin always seemed a little theatrical anyway.

  She was just about to call out when Zin walked into the room dressed, her skin still glistening.

  Her eyes landed on the book, and she froze.

  Kibby raised the journal with a little smirk. “Hey, morning. So I found your... wizard diary?

  Do I get to make a saving throw or something?”

  Zin didn’t laugh. She didn’t move either.

  Kibby’s smile faltered. “Zin?”

  Zin crossed the room in two quick steps and gently—but very firmly—took the book from her

  hands. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

  Her tone was soft, but something about it made the hairs on the back of Kibby’s neck stand up.

  “I didn’t mean to snoop,” Kibby said quickly, holding up her hands. “I was just cleaning up. I

  didn’t read anything—okay, I read a little, but it was all... cryptic. Like fantasy novel cryptic.”

  Zin exhaled, pressing the book to her chest like it was fragile. Or dangerous.

  Kibby tilted her head, brow furrowed. “Is this... like a religious thing? Or, I don’t know, a private

  writing practice? You can tell me. I’m not gonna judge.”

  Zin didn’t respond. She looked down, then away, jaw clenched.That’s when Kibby felt

  the weird churn in her gut. Not fear, exactly. But unease.

  “Okay,” she said carefully, “Now you’re being weird.”

  Zin’s expression softened, but it was tight around the edges. “It’s just... not something I meant for

  you to find, okay?”

  “But what is it?”

  Zin hesitated.

  Kibby waited.

  Zin finally said, “It’s mine. That’s all. Old writings. A bunch of sayings. Some dreams. Some

  memories. It probably looks ridiculous to you.”

  “It doesn’t,” Kibby said gently. “It just... caught me off guard. You’ve never mentioned anything

  like this before. And now you’re acting like I just stepped on a landmine.”

  Zin sighed, shoving the book back into her coat pocket.

  The silence hung in the air a second too long.

  Kibby stepped back, just slightly. “Okay, now you need to explain. Why do you look so

  uncomfortable? I’m curious, Zin. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  Zin glanced down at the coat in her arms. Then at Kibby. Then towards the door, like some part

  of her was preparing to bolt for it.

  She didn’t. She just sat down—hard—on the edge of the couch, looking tired in a way Kibby

  hadn’t seen before.

  “You’re not supposed to know.” she finally said, voice low. “It’s just... not from here.”

  Kibby blinked. “Not from...?”

  Zin shrugged uneasily. She looked up at Kibby, picked up her stuff and walked to the door.

  Kibby crossed her arms, mouth dry. “Zin...Please. You’re making me worry now.”

  “I need some air,” Zin said, her voice very timid. She looked disappointed. And as Kibby

  watched, she closed the door behind her.

  Solsthenar High Court

  The 8th of Liraen

  The bells of Solsthenar’s dusk hour rang hollow through the winding alleys—low and solemn,

  their echoes drowned by the hiss of torchlight rain. Beneath the sprawling grandeur of the High

  Court, Greeb and Tulli crouched in shadows, soaked to the bone.

  “Too quiet,” Tulli whispered, adjusting the strap of her satchel. “Courtyard should’ve had a sentry

  rotation by now.”

  Greeb’s ears twitched. “When the mice flee the pantry, you don’t ask where the cat is—you check

  your own tail.”

  “You think Thorne’s men are already here?”

  “I think they never left.”

  Tulli nodded, grim. “We can’t waltz in through the grand arches. If Thorne’s set a net, we’ll be

  wrapped like festival fruit.”

  “We can’t be fruits then,” Greeb murmured, eyes scanning the towering walls ahead. “But he have

  to let the Hevel’dan know.”

  The High Court of Solsthenar rose above them—a crown of marble spires and gilded windows

  veiled in ivy. To most, it was the symbol of order and wisdom. To Greeb, it was a mouth with too

  many teeth.

  “Remind me why we’re doing this,” Tulli said, ducking behind a stone column as a pair of robed

  officials passed.

  “To tell a king his table’s been poisoned,” Greeb said. “And hope he doesn’t drink before we get

  there.”

  He pointed to a drainage channel half-hidden behind flowering brush.

  “That’s your idea of a plan?”

  “That’s our only option. Thorne’s men are less likely to know about the pathway,” Greeb grinned.

  They slipped into the channel, boots splashing into ankle-deep runoff. Moss-covered brick

  muffled their footsteps as they moved deeper into the underguts of the High Court. The air

  thickened with the smell of damp parchment, wet stone, and old ink.

  Above them, they could already hear the distant murmur of nobility and clerics gathering—too

  many voices for a standard court day. Something was moving. Thorne’s hand, or the wind of a

  coming storm.

  Tulli paused at a rusted iron grate, prying it loose with a gloved hand.

  “If Thorne has people disguised inside—guards, aides, even Council scribes—”

  “He does,” Greeb said without hesitation. “And they’ll gut us before we reach the High Elder.”

  Tulli glanced at him, startled.

  “But we’re still doing this,” she said.

  Greeb only shrugged. “Even a shadow must scream when the light fades.”

  They climbed through the grate into a hidden servant corridor—dust-choked, dimly lit, and

  mostly abandoned since the last reconstruction. Greeb pressed a hand to the wall, his knuckles

  brushing an old carving of the royal crest.

  “Tread like whispers,” he muttered.

  Together, they moved like ghosts up a narrow stairwell. Their goal wasn’t the throne room. They

  needed to reach the Archway of Echoes—a ceremonial passage that overlooked the Elder’s inner

  sanctum. From there, with luck, they could find a way in without alerting every knife in Thorne’s

  pocket.

  As they turned a bend, Tulli raised her hand sharply.

  Voices. Clipped. Male.

  She mouthed silently: Guards.

  Greeb peered past a cracked archway. Two armored figures stood near an interior entrance, too

  far from any usual patrol post. Their posture was relaxed—but their eyes flicked constantly,

  scanning corners, exits. Predators.

  “Told you,” Greeb whispered. “His web’s spun tight.”

  “We’ll go around. I think the irrigation duct under the south wing might still be open.”

  And just like that, they vanished down the corridor—hunted, but not yet caught. And without

  wasting a second, they slipped in.

  * * *

  Elsewhere, in the upper chambers of the High Court, time drifted slowly under the shadowed

  archways of carved obsidian and spell-treated stone. Magical braziers flickered with blue flame,

  casting shifting patterns across the ancient council murals etched into the walls—moments of

  peace, war, and uneasy unity between the six nations of Vaeltharyn.

  The hall was quieter than usual. Many seats lay vacant, their usual occupants out managing the

  complexities of wartime diplomacy. Solsthenar, after all, stood at the brink of war with the

  neighboring nation of Vel’shaien—its people, the Aleri, had long contested Solsthenar’s

  expansion into the riverlands once shared in tentative peace.

  At the far end of the hall, deep in a private audience chamber veiled by an illusion of ivy and

  silver thread, the true workings of power thrummed low.

  Thalen Vaerra— the Hevel’dan, High Elder of Solsthenar—stood at the center, his black robe

  trailing the mosaic floor like a shadow that had forgotten how to lift itself. He was a tall, lean

  man with jet-black hair cascading down past his shoulders, framing an angular, austere face. His

  pale complexion only added to his aura of elegant severity, as if sculpted from obsidian and

  moonlight.

  With a steady hand, he poured magical energy from his fingers into a floating orb suspended

  above an arcane map of Solsthenar. Wisps of blue light curled like smoke through the miniature

  city, revealing troop movements, spell-wards, weak zones in the perimeter. His sharp eyes

  scanned it all in silence, working.

  Standing beside him was Maldrik Thorne, his closest war advisor and longtime confidant. Thick-

  shouldered and imposing, Thorne wore battle-mage armor with clean lines of gold etched over

  deep blue. A thick dark beard framed his stern face, and the way his arms stayed crossed told of a

  man who preferred battlefield simplicity over courtly maneuvering.

  Thorne’s tone was deferential as he spoke, though there was a glint of something colder behind

  the eyes. “The southern wall's enchantments are wearing thin, my lord. The Aleri are probing

  with more precision each night. If we do not respond swiftly, they will find the breach.”

  The High Elder nodded once, distracted. “The mages there are already reinforcing. Let them hold

  the line until I command otherwise.” His eyes flicked to Thorne. “We cannot show desperation.

  The Elder Council smells fear more keenly than hounds.”

  Thorne allowed a wry smile. “Some would argue hounds are more loyal.”

  The High Elder let out a breath through his nose—amusement, perhaps, or distaste at the truth.

  “They grow restless. Too many council seats filled by lesser minds. Opportunists. Half of them I

  wouldn’t trust with a broom, let alone a blade.”

  Thorne stepped forward slightly, a sheen of formality clinging to his words. “You do have my

  loyalty, Hevel’dan.”

  “Implicitly,” Thalen replied without hesitation. “Yours is the one counsel I rely on. Especially

  now.”

  Unseen and unheard, Greeb and Tulli crouched inside a narrow ventilation crawlspace that ran

  behind the chamber’s left wall. Getting there had cost them bruises and at least one narrowly

  avoided arrow trap, but Tulli’s half-boiled shrink potion had worked—its hissing, foul-smelling

  smoke had shrunk them to the size of ferrets, just enough to slither into the ducts.

  Now, barely returned to their original sizes inside the tight crawl, they strained to catch every

  word.

  “Wait,” Tulli whispered, “Did he just say he trusts Thorne?”

  Greeb’s ears twitched. “Like dew to root, the fool sips poison thinking it’s wine.”

  Tulli rolled her eyes but said nothing.

  Back in the chamber, the conversation shifted.

  “I’m told your daughter is still away.” Thorne said, inspecting his gauntlet.

  The High Elder’s expression tightened. “I have a sense of her possible whereabouts. But she left

  without permission. No word, no guard. Just gone. I thought perhaps she was seeking her

  mother’s lands—gods know her blood runs as rebellious as hers.”

  “She is young,” Thorne offered. “Let her play the role of the defiant heir. Most do. They return

  when the weight of the world finds their shoulders.”

  Thalen gave him a sharp look. “Do not condescend.”

  “Merely observing patterns, my lord.” Thorne inclined his head, ever the loyal shadow. “If it

  comforts you—I think her absence is well-timed. We need no distractions when the council

  votes on the draft levy tomorrow.”

  The High Elder nodded, distracted again by the shifting map. “She has always been capable.

  One of our finest defenders. But lately her heart pulls elsewhere.”

  Then—a sharp knock. A soldier entered, cloaked in the navy and silver of Solsthenar’s inner

  guard.

  “My Lord,” he bowed low, “we have word of possible intruders within the High Court walls.

  Traces of minor magic at the southern atrium. Possibly spies.”

  The High Elder frowned. “Aleri?”

  “We are not sure. But they eluded detection at the gates. Vanished, possibly using a

  potion or charm.”

  Thorne’s eyes narrowed, calculating.

  “Alert the guards. Lock the upper wards. Quietly. If they’ve breached this far, I want to know who

  they are before they vanish again.”

  The soldier bowed and withdrew.

  In the crawlspace, Tulli’s blood went cold. “They’re onto us. We can’t go in there with Thorne

  tailing the Hevel’dan like a hawk.”

  Greeb tapped a finger to his temple, thinking. They watched as the High Elder left for his

  chambers, seething. A female guard walked up to Thorne, bowing reverently.

  “Our forces await your order, Master Thorne.”

  Thorne didn’t miss a beat. “It’s time, Mesmera. Begin the incursion.”

  Greeb flinched so hard he bumped his elbow against the iron wall. Tulli caught his arm.

  Her whisper was urgent. “We need to go. Now.”

  They turned back to take a left, hurling their bodies at the grate in front of them. It opened into a

  linen chamber nestled in a quieter wing of the High Court—warm light filtering in through

  hanging tapestries, perfumed with oils and fabric dust. Greeb and Tulli tumbled out in a heap,

  their size returning with a pop of displaced air. They barely had time to rise before the door

  slammed open.

  Four guards burst in, armored and fast.

  “Split!” Tulli shouted.

  Steel rang out. Greeb twisted low, narrowly dodging a slash before dragging his blade across a

  guard’s leg. The man howled and stumbled. Tulli hurled herself between the two closest, vaulting

  a shelf mid-spin and driving both feet into a soldier’s chest. He crashed into a rack of linens with

  a muffled curse.

  Another guard’s mace smashed down—Greeb deflected it with both hands, grunting. “They’re

  not amateurs!”

  Tulli landed beside him, breath short. “No. These are Thorne’s.”

  The remaining two charged in tandem.

  Greeb yanked a glass orb from his belt and hurled it. Green smoke exploded across the room—

  choking, clinging, blinding.

  They ran.

  Through opulent corridors and gold-framed portraits. Past polished urns and marble busts of

  ancient judges. A sigil alarm screeched behind them, echoing with magical urgency. Down a

  narrow staircase they sprinted, dodging a startled clerk, until Tulli flung open a heavy wooden

  door, only to reveal a moonlit balcony, high above the outer ring of the court. The walls curved

  outward like a cradle, carved with ancient runes and watching statues. Below: the churning

  moat, cold and wide, gleaming like silver ink in the night.

  Tulli cursed under her breath. “This isn’t the lab.”

  “No time!” Greeb grabbed her wrist. “We jump or we’re caught.”

  “On three!”

  “Just jump, Tulli!”, Greeb barked.

  The door behind them shuddered—someone was ramming against it.

  They leapt.

  The wind tore past them—Tulli arched to take the fall, Greeb curled tight and clung. They hit the

  water like stones, the cold a shock that knocked the breath from both.

  They surfaced, coughing. “There!” Tulli sputtered, pointing toward the reeds by the bank. They

  swam hard, boots dragging, until their fingers found soil. Scrambling, soaked and gasping, they

  tumbled into a patch of cover just as torchlight spilled onto the balcony above.

  Hidden beneath the brush, Greeb wheezed. “You do not get to say that wasn’t the plan.”

  Tulli was already pulling open her satchel, fingers numb and trembling. “It wasn’t.”

  Greeb peeked through the underbrush, scanning the darkness. “What now, Tulli? We’ve lost the

  Elder’s ear. Thorne’s men are on every stair, and you cracked the only smoke vial.”

  Tulli was quiet for a moment. Then: “We find the Lady.”

  Greeb tilted his head, considering for a second.

  “She’ll know what to do.”

  He made a face—half worry, half resignation. “We’re just going to drop out of the sky on her

  again? You know how well that went last time.”

  “It’s either that,” Tulli said, rummaging through the satchel’s soaked contents, “or waiting here for

  a friendly beheading.”

  Greeb sighed, wet and shivering.“Fine. I’m assuming you have some kind of plan besides a

  prayer.”

  “I might.”

  Tulli paused for a second. “Do you still have it? The pendant she gave you?”

  Greeb blinked. Then slowly reached into a hidden pouch sewn into his belt. From it, he pulled a

  small pendant—silver and black, shaped like a twisted teardrop. Runes faintly shimmered along

  its edge. “She said it’d keep me safe from illusions. Enchanted by her own hands.”

  Tulli snatched it, cradling it like a precious gem. “Perfect.”

  She withdrew a thin vial—its cracked glass still hissing softly with latent energy.

  “What are you doing?” Greeb asked, brows furrowing.

  “If I’m right…” she murmured, unscrewing the stopper. “This potion should follow traces.We

  drop the enchantment in and hope the tether leads us to her.”

  Greeb’s eyes narrowed. “And if it backfires?”

  “This isn’t sanctioned magic. I cobbled this from scrap theory and hope. It is the only one.We

  could land in a lava pit. Or a nashv’reth. But there’s no time.”

  Before he could argue, she dropped the pendant in. The vial sizzled violently—the potion inside

  shimmered from green to violet to stark white. The light grew, humming with arcane heat.

  Tulli smashed it against the ground, and it hissed.

  A small portal formed in the air—swirling, bright, hungry at the edges. It didn’t convulse or

  shrink. It just stayed. Pulsing softly.

  Tulli looked at Greeb. “Fingers crossed.”

  They jumped.

  The reeds rustled in their wake.

  And the portal remained—hovering, wide open—casting long shadows into the night.

  Kibby vs The World began as a spark; Just a girl, her grief and a goblin she couldn't stop sketching. But it's slowly grown into a sprawling world of parallel lives, quiet magic, broken prophecies, forgotten lovers and people trying to hold themselves together in places that don't always make it easy.

  Vaeltharyn. Think of them as little windows into the corners we don't always get to explore: more goblin tales, bardic nonsense, festivals gone wrong and whispered histories. I'd love to hear what you guys want to see more of.

  Nareth el'shen varu.

  -- just a kind sage.