NOVEL NEXT Chapter 104: Crumbs of the Cosmic Caper
We spilled out of that last portal into a meadow that looked like it'd been designed by a wizard with a soft spot for picnics. Tall grasses swayed under a sky streaked with lazy clouds, and the air hummed with the lazy buzz of fat bumblebees chasing pollen like it owed them money. My relics settled into a low, contented rumble, the Heart of Glimmerfen giving a final thump against my chest like it was saying, "Not bad, kid. Not bad at all." The scone-scepter in my hand felt lighter now, its flaky bits still warm from the vault heist, syncing up with the whole chaotic collection like they'd finally decided to play nice. My coat, that eternal punchline of a garment, hung off me in tatters, but for once, it didn't feel like a burden. More like a badge. I was Cecil Dreggs, the guy who'd turned a bread duel into a royal rout, and somehow, against all odds, we were still breathing.
Lilith stretched out on the grass nearby, her scythe propped against a wildflower patch like it was just another piece of scenery. She plucked a daisy and twirled it between her fingers, those red horns catching the sunlight in a way that made her look less like a demon and more like a queen who'd wandered off her throne for a smoke break. "You know, Cecil, for a walking disaster, you pulled that off without setting anything on fire. I'm almost impressed." Her voice had that dry edge, the kind that could cut glass, but there was a spark in her eyes. The real kind, not the sarcastic one she usually wielded like a weapon. We'd come a long way from that first forest ambush, where she'd called me a "glowstick goblin." Now? She was the one who'd have my back in a heartbeat. Or a scythe swing.
Vorren dropped into a crouch a few feet away, his massive frame folding up like a switchblade as he scanned the horizon. His knife stayed in hand, thumb testing the edge out of habit, but his shoulders were looser than I'd seen in weeks. "Feast was fun while it lasted. King's probably still picking pie out of his beard." He chuckled, a low rumble that shook the ground a bit, and shot me a nod. The man was built like a siege engine, but he'd turned into our quiet anchor, the one who didn't say much but meant every word. Back when Blayzeon had us cornered in that alley, Vorren was the one who bulldozed through the crates to give us an out. Loyalty like that? It's rarer than a sober bard.
Jex, predictably, was already rummaging through his pockets, pulling out a mismatched assortment of pilfered trinkets from the hall—a jeweled fork here, a half-eaten tart there. He flopped down cross-legged and started sorting them like treasures from a dragon's hoard. "Cecil, mate, that scepter's a beaut. Think it'll fetch a good price on the black market? Nah, who am I kidding—you'd probably turn it into a doughnut launcher." His grin was all mischief, eyes twinkling as he bit into the tart and made an exaggerated moan of delight. Jex had slinked into our group like a shadow with sticky fingers, but he'd proven himself time and again. That time in the guild hall when he swiped the guard's keys mid-fight? Saved our skins and his own in one go.
Yvra sat a bit apart, legs tucked under her like she was at a garden party instead of a post-heist crash pad. She fiddled with the edge of her gown, which somehow still looked spotless, and gave the scepter a thoughtful once-over. "Well, Dreggs, you've gone and collected the full set. Valthorne would be proud. Or horrified. Probably both." Her tone was light, almost teasing, but there was that undercurrent of calculation she never quite shook. The ex-noble in her always had one eye on the long game. She'd started as the ice queen filing for divorce in a public square, but now? She was plotting our next move before the dust even settled.
Mister Fog hovered nearby, his form drifting like smoke from a just-put-out campfire. He sipped his endless tea, the steam curling up in lazy spirals that smelled faintly of lavender and old books. "The circle's complete, Cecil. But completions breed complications. The False King's not done—not with you stirring the pot." His words floated out soft and even, like he was reading from a script only he could see. Fog had this way of dropping truths that hit like gentle punches, always there with a cuppa and a cryptic nudge. From the very start, back when he floated upside down sniffing my failure-scent, he'd been the glue holding our sanity together.
Sir Thrain and Sir Gorrim were the last to sort themselves out, naturally. Thrain tried to stand tall and declare something about crownly conquests, but his boot caught on a root and sent him sprawling into a patch of thistles with a muffled grunt. "Blasted brambles!" Gorrim, ever the faithful sidekick, reached down to haul him up—only to overbalance and join him in the dirt, the two of them flailing like a pair of tin soldiers in a windstorm. "Treacherous turf!" Thrain wheezed as they finally clambered free, brushing off leaves and dignity in equal measure. The knights were a walking reminder that heroism didn't always come polished. They bumbled into glory more often than they charged, but damn if they didn't make it entertaining.
I leaned back against a tree, letting the bark dig into my shoulders, and took a deep breath. The meadow smelled like fresh earth and wild honey, a far cry from the citadel's stuffy stone-and-spice funk. "So, what's the play now? King's on the run, Devourer's napping again. We earned a breather, right?" The quill in my pocket gave a little twitch, like it was laughing at me. As if.
Before anyone could answer, the air shimmered. Not a portal this time—something subtler, like heat haze over a summer road. A figure stepped through, tall and lean, cloaked in robes that shifted colors like oil on water.