The scroll glowed faintly in Mira 's hand, humming like an over-caffeinated beehive and practically buzzing with destiny. As far as ancient mystical maps went, it was disappointingly vague—more a general suggestion than a reliable navigation tool. It depicted a tree with too many roots and too few manners, and an arrow that read: "Here be the soul shard. Try not to die."
"Brilliant," Mira muttered. "Can't wait."
Therian had offered them a guide, but then got distracted arguing with his own reflection about cheese taxes and wandered off into a wardrobe that turned out to be full of thunderstorms.
So Mira and the Halflings—Pipla, Reeko, and Jory—set out alone, as per usual.
The land north of Sunspike Tower was known as the Unwending Tangle. Not because it was particularly dangerous (though it was), or ancient (though it was that too), but because the forest actively resisted straight lines. Paths that should have led forward turned left. Roads led to themselves. Maps caught fire out of spite.
The forest surrounding Sunspike Tower pulsed with quiet, ancient magic. Towering trees—some gnarled and bark-scaled like old dragons, others smooth and pale as bone—arched high above, their canopies filtering sunlight into dappled gold and silver. The leaves shimmered faintly, as though they remembered starlight, and some even whispered when the wind passed, not with rustling, but in hushed syllables too faint to understand.
Velvet moss blanketed the ground in thick patches, glowing faintly in places where the veil between worlds thinned. Bioluminescent fungi curled like lanterns around the roots, shedding soft blue light that danced across the travelers' boots. Strange flowers bloomed in the underbrush—twilight irises that opened only in shadow, blood-red brambles that twitched if watched too long, and a creeping vine that smelled like old honey and sang to bees that no longer existed.
Now and then, Mira caught glimpses of the forest's inhabitants: a fox with spiral antlers darting between the trees, a moth the size of a dinner plate that left silvery trails in its wake, and a bird whose song sounded like chimes in a distant cathedral. Even the squirrels looked vaguely enchanted, with eyes too intelligent and tails that sparked faintly in moonlight
Reeko tried using his lute as a compass. It pointed east and played mournful sea shanties.
Jory began drawing symbols in the dirt with a chicken bone he swore belonged to a prophet.
Pipla just walked forward and dared the forest to contradict her.
Which, to be fair, it did. Frequently.
A branch smacked Mira in the face. "OW." She exclaims
"Apologies," said the tree.
Mira blinked. "Did that tree just say sorry?"
"Yes," said Jory. "This part of the forest has very polite foliage."
Reeko plucked a tune. "Legend says the deeper you go, the ruder the vegetation becomes."
They walked on in silence. Or rather, in a chorus of creaking trees, whispering grass, and one particularly vocal beetle named Carl that lived in Pipla's beard and offered occasional legal advice.
The Die in Mira 's satchel pulsed again—more urgently now. Like a heartbeat sprinting up a flight of stairs. She'd come to learn their rhythm: slow and steady during calm moments, sharp and frantic during danger, and twitchy when she passed someone selling suspicious stew.
They were twitchy now, Very twitchy.
The First Test: The Mirrorling Hollow
They came upon a clearing encircled by perfectly smooth stones. At its center stood a pool, its surface silver and still. A shimmer passed over the water, and from its depths emerged… Mira .
Another Mira .
She had the same hair, same face, same "I just want a sandwich and a nap" energy—but her eyes glowed faintly violet, and her clothes were stitched with celestial threads.
"Oh no," Real Mira said. "Mirror test. Classic D&D trap."
The Mirror-Mira smiled, smug and radiant. "Hello, me. I'm you. But better. I've read the manual."
Jory hissed, "It's a soul reflection. It wants to replace you."
Mirror-Mira rolled her silver Die. They floated, glowing. The air rippled.
"Roll initiative," she said.
Real Mira 's Die heated in her bag. Time slowed. The forest froze.
She reached in, grabbed the cool metal cubes, and rolled them across the stone.
17.
Time snapped back.
Mirror-Mira attacked—her hands weaving reality like yarn, hurling threads of doubt and fear
Mira ducked. "Nice try! I've faced worse in London on a Saturday night."
She countered with a Die-infused scream—a sound powered by every missed train, every rude customer, and every terrible cup of vending machine tea she'd ever suffered. The reflection cracked. Then burst like a soap bubble full of judgment.
The pool darkened. The circle of stones faded.
She'd passed the first trial.
Jory handed her a stone. "Souvenir. It screams if you lie."
"Charming."
The Second Test: The Trickstep Itself
Hours later—after a detour involving sentient vines that needed therapy and a mushroom that recited limericks—they found it.
The Trickstep Tree.
It was less a tree and more a multi-dimensional tantrum made of bark. Roots twisted into the sky, and branches dug into the earth. It had dozens of eyes. None of them in the right place.
It spoke.
"I SEE YOU. WHO SEEKS THE SHARD?"
Mira stepped forward. "Mira Wrenlow, Human. Recently reality-adjacent."
The tree sniffed. "YOU HAVE ROLLED THE DIE."
"I have."
"THEN YOU MUST CLIMB."
"What—like—physically?"
A branch reached out and flung her upward.
Mira screamed. "I AM NOT DRESSED FOR THIS!"
The world became a blur of wind and bark and flashing light. She landed on a ledge halfway up the trunk where an owl with too many eyebrows sat playing chess against gravity.
The Die pulsed.
The shard is near.
She reached into a hollow in the bark and found it: a fragment of crystal, warm and pulsing like a heartbeat wrapped in déjà vu.
The moment her fingers closed around it, the tree laughed.
"SHE TAKES THE SHARD. NOW FACE THE DREAM."
Reality peeled away.
The Dream: The Corporate Dungeon
Mira blinked, She was in a bank, Not a bank. Her bank, Back in London. Fluorescent lights. Grey carpet. Background printer noises. Customers sighing in surround sound.
She wore her work badge. She held a pen. Everything felt… real.
She panicked.
"What the—no no no no—" she say reaching around her in a subtle panic
"Mira ?" came a familiar voice.
Eli. Her husband. Holding two drinks and a sandwich bag.
"I brought lunch. You said you had back-to-back meetings."
She stared at him. He was real. So real.
"Where's the Die?"
"The what?" he replied with a confused smile
"The—never mind." Mira said with a look of confusion as if waking from a daydream
Around her, coworkers bustled. Screens flickered. A meeting invite popped up: Mandatory Soul Appraisal: Conference Room 3B.
The Die were still in her pocket, even here. She rolled them.
Natural 20.
Time exploded.
The illusion shattered.
The bank dissolved into glass butterflies. Eli became a golden mist. The fluorescent lights screamed and vanished.
And Mira landed—hard—on the forest floor beside the Trickstep Tree.
The Awakening
She clutched the shard. The Die glowed brighter than ever.
"CONGRATULATIONS," said the tree, unhelpfully.
"You could've just handed it to me." Mira replyed
"WHERE'S THE FUN IN THAT?"the tree said with a light hearted chuckle in its voice
Pipla hauled her upright.
Reeko clapped. "You looked very heroic in there."
Jory handed her a new rock. "This one hums. I think it's haunted."
Mira slipped the shard into her satchel next to the Die. They pulsed in unison, like old friends reunited.
Therian's words returned: "The bond will deepen" And it had.
She could feel them now—not just as tools of fate, but as extensions of her own will.
She didn't fully control them yet. But they no longer scared her.
Which was good.
Because far to the south, in a spire of obsidian and storm, a figure stirred...
Velcrath. The Shadow King, a towering figure wrapped in a shifting shroud of black smoke and glimmering ash. His form seemed ever-changing—sometimes skeletal, sometimes serpentine—like a nightmare trying on different faces. A tattered crown of obsidian and thorn sat atop his head, fused into his scalp as if he had never removed it in a thousand years. When he moved, shadows bent toward him, retreating from all other light. Around him, the very air seemed to still, the world holding its breath. His armor, what little he wore, was cracked stone and scorched metal, etched with runes long since lost to time. Every step he took left scorch marks on the ground, not from heat—but from despair.
He opened a single eye. Glowing red. Full of hunger.
"She awakens," he whispered. "The Siren has rolled."
His voice carried the weight of forgotten oaths and crumbling empires, low and echoing like wind through catacombs.