Newly Broke Heroine! [Book One Complete, Cozy Fantasy Adventure]

Nothing but the white haze remained. Fiona groaned and tried to pick herself off the ground, but felt every bruise, every pulled muscle, every burn during the chaos of the several minutes. She slunk back down.

Tell me they all made it back. Tell me that I didn't just commit multiple negligent homicides by telefragging. She felt no one's arms around her, and she gazed weakly, her vision blurry.

She wasn't sure she was lying on the ground. It felt like she wasn't touching anything, and exhaustion lifted just enough for her to dare to move again.

Her eyes fluttered open again, she lifted her head to gaze around. There was nothing around her. Nothing but the white. In every direction. It almost felt like…that place.

When her powers had awoken. When she picked her class, and set off a chain of events that led her to Vale.

She whirled around and gasped–she was alone. Bonnie, Greg, Doug, Cita, and Nick were all gone, along with the workers she had hoped to rescue.

All missing…but she could hear an echo in the infinite expanse of the white. It sounded like indistinct voices talking. She swore one of them sounded like Doug.

Did we all disintegrate? Did I push my power too far? Panic would have been her go-to reaction, but she sucked in her breath, and instead, forced herself to her feet. But the motion left her aching, and she grasped her side. The wound from Varith's blade still felt fresh on her flank, but it had stopped bleeding. If she were dead, would she still carry over damage to whatever this place was? She chose to wait a moment longer.

Maybe if she were a zombie. She was pretty sure she wasn't. "Hello?" she called out weakly, and a cough racked her body. Her fire resistance potion had finally worn out, and her throat felt inflamed and irritated.

She called out again. No response. This off-shade of white was messing with her head. This wasn't like the other place she'd visited when she got her class. Then again, that whole experience had likely gone on inside her head.

Probably. This was a third, stranger thing.

"Hello?" She called out again, and she pushed off the ground. She rose unsteadily to her feet. with a sharp inhale, bracing against the pain. Her posture was slumped, and she held her side where the blade had cut. The pain persisted.

That was, if she was still alive.

"Wingding? You survive in one piece?" she asked aloud.

No response. Not even a tickle on her skin. She glanced at her wrist, and Wingding was gone, and her urge to panic rose. "C'mon, kid. Not you, too."

"I'm here."

Fiona slowly turned, the ache of battle coursing through her whole body as she did. An old woman with long white hair sat on a small, wooden bench; neither had been there a minute ago. But despite the coloration of her hair, her blue eyes shone with brightness and youth. She was dressed in plain white robes, and her hands sat folded in her lap. Fiona didn't think this woman was a threat. But she reached out for her hammer, nonetheless.

Nothing happened. It was gone. She shook the motion off as a slow stretch, which caused her to gasp. That had been a bad move, given the state of pain she was experiencing.

"Oh dear, you really should take a seat," the woman said softly and shifted her position on the plain wooden bench sitting above a soft patch of grass. Fiona would have questioned what, exactly, was happening.

But she wanted to resist sitting down. "I'm sorry, but who are you? Where are we? Where are my friends? Did I just telefrag everyone? And where's Wingding?" Each question was marked by an elevation in tone. But the woman smiled and waved her to the bench.

"I think the first thing you should do is sit. You look like you could use a moment for yourself."

Fiona glanced at herself. Her wyvern mail was speckled with gold that had presumably been molten and tossed from the splash of the destroyed smelter, and smeared over her now damaged armor set. Cuts, bruises, and burns were present everywhere, and one rib might be broken, judging by the pain on her right side. "I think I'll stand."

"Fiona Meridia Swiftheart, you are stubborn even at the brink of collapse," the woman replied with a soft sigh, her hands thrust up in exasperation. "Let it never be said you're not one of the most resolute people I know. But please, sit down, before you fall?"

Fiona let out a frustrated exhale and tossed an errant hair that had fallen down across her brow. She limped over to the bench and sat down with resignation, wincing as sore muscles protested. "Okay. Maybe five minutes." It was the most this stranger was going to get, for now. She rested her hands on her knees and took a second to breathe. "But first, let's get one thing out of the way. I don't hear any heavenly choirs. I don't think I'm dead, but…"

"Close." The woman sat there, examining her from head to foot. "Quite close. I would surmise you exhausted your magical pool to the point of collapse. How did you manage that?"

"I telekinetically directed about ten tons of molten gold to melt or push away a path to my friends, like parting the sea," she replied. "It was kinda dangerous. I also might have been fighting some nutcase who is carrying a grudge against me through my second life."

The woman tilted her head at this. "Weren't you supposed to be a merchant?"

"Yeah, that has been kinda hard to pull off lately." She rubbed at the cut on her cheek, stinging pain ever present. She didn't even question how this woman knew her full name and her class. "Are my friends alright? I thought I heard one of them, here."

"This place…" she paused and bent her head low, as if deep in thought. "It's best to think of it as a transition. A world between worlds. Yours and others. Though most people don't crash right into it, as you have. Except for that kid with the messy hair and green eyes, I keep hearing about him causing a ruckus elsewhere. He must get frequent aether miles."

She stared at the woman. "I tore a hole through reality?" More worrying, it sounded like other people had managed the same. This was not some exclusive club she wanted to be a member of.

"Well, no. Maybe it was more like you opened a seam, slipped in, and it sort of closed early," the woman explained.

Fiona could not process this. This weirdness was reserved for arcanists and mages way above her skill level. "But how do I continue on?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll catch up eventually," she assured her as she patted her shoulder. Fiona winced in pain but said nothing, though the fact that they were alive brought immense relief to her mind. The woman's face brightened. "So, if you don't mind me asking…what caused you to push yourself to the brink, exactly?"

"I lost one world. I couldn't lose a second." Something rang familiar about this woman. The way she talked. "You know it's funny? I think someone tried to warn me I was on a crash course toward a bad ending with my recklessness. Well, more than once. I think this might be the first time I listened. 'Is this the way you want this to end?' keeps ringing in my head." She glanced down at her wrist. "So, where's Wingding?"

The woman chuckled softly. "Imaginary friend of yours?"

Fiona frowned. "No, my mark. I keep saying she's alive, but no one believes me. Well, maybe Bonnie, but…" Fiona leaned in and racked her memory for why this woman looked familiar. "Have we met before?"

She didn't answer, but Fiona suspected that was a giant 'yes' if anything was. "We've met before, I just don't remember when. You almost look like…" she trailed off. "Like my mom, but older."

"I'm quite young, thank you. Well, compared to the cosmos," the woman rebuffed. Meanwhile, Fiona kept conceptualizing this woman, trying to match the facial features. If her trip to Cepalune had left her with some alterations to her body–like the elven ears and change of hair color–maybe other people changed, too? Like Varith?

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"So, what? You're my mom from another reality? Or just some random person who happens to look like her? No, you know what, I've got a better theory." She took a breath and went for broke. "You're the person who saved me."

She said nothing, but the crinkle in her cheeks gave Fiona the answer she was looking for. "If you are…then why did you cut out the part where we met? I can't remember you, but I know it has to be you."

"Fiona, sometimes, it's better not to have all the pieces in front of you. The best discoveries are the ones you make on your own, don't you think?" Fiona made no motion when the woman pushed a few bright red strands away from her face. "So, why don't we talk about what you think Wingding is. Or her, as you've referred to her."

Fiona blinked. "You are so sus, you know that? Do I have godly stalkers? Or ghost stalkers? Look, the point is…" she sighed as the woman let out a deep laugh, eyes crinkling in delight. "You know something, I'm in no mood for this crap. I'll play your game. I think Wingding is…"

She trailed off. If the marks were granted by the gods of Cepalune–or other worlds, as she suspected might be the case–then the mark was possibly an extension of them. She went back to the discussion with Clarke, the clerk, his discussion of the classes, and the mark of Feo'thari.

A mark no one had seen in five thousand years, and it had funky powers. Or, she did. All of which she'd used to great effect to battle Varith. But what was Wingding?

Fiona frowned. "I can tell you what she isn't. She's not a static mark. I've got a few theories. My friend Bonnie was way better at the magical weirdness stuff than me."

"Take a guess, then."

Fiona sighed and rubbed her hands together gently. "Well? My governing theory right now, all things considered…she is connected to Feo'thari. Or, I am, maybe. Or I'm a descendant of her. Which is odd, because Earth is a long, long way from Cepalune." She glanced at the woman, trying to gauge a reaction. "Look, all I know? I'm in over my head. And it's not the first time I've been in that situation."

"Hmm. Those are all interesting theories," the woman answered, and rubbed her hands together gently. Fiona nodded her head and glanced at her now vacant wrist.

Your impact on the world--how you hold yourself--will impact many. Including some who will grow close to you.

The place between worlds. Someone else had spoken to her then. They must have had a reason to say it. She kept going back to that line that she still remembered. Then, she had a strange thought:

What if the person who grew close to her was literally close to her?

"Want to hear a crazy theory?" Seeing as she had nowhere to go, and entertaining this old woman might get her answers, she let out a measured breath. "Maybe the gods don't get replenished the way we think they do, and certainly not like us. This has been nagging me ever since Clarke–uh, some guy I know, showed me a book about the gods. I kept thinking…what was the point of the marks? How do new gods show up? What happens to the old ones? I kept thinking that…maybe it doesn't work the way I thought it worked. Maybe gods don't die out. They just fade if people don't believe in them–or their influence on the cosmos."

"I don't hear a conclusion to this theory, dear," the woman offered with a coy smile. "But do go on, if you have more."

"I think Wingding is alive. And I think she changes based on what I do. The actions I take." She thought of the road that took her here.

Becoming a merchant of fortune had been the first one. She didn't know why she'd written it that way. Just that it felt right. Maybe a touch dramatic, but…it felt like the words that needed to be written.

Then there were her powers over gold. And her lighthearted phrase that she sought treasures of the heart. Wingding had changed twice–the crown to unify the lost family history. The pauldrons signify the defense of precious things.

But, what did it all add up to?

"Hang on. If a mark is strong enough…maybe that's how new gods get made?" she proposed.

"Oh dear, if that were the case, I'd be wary. I mean, think of a nascent goddess just living on your wrist, the responsibility it would mean!" The woman let out a soft tsk. "Either way, do you believe that you treat her like she were your child?" the woman tapped her chin gently, leaning in. Fiona stammered out a few incoherent words as her brain rebooted from that shock.

Her, a mother? She couldn't keep the petulant man-child king in line long enough for him to take much-needed lessons. She could barely run her shop without drama every week!

Her, raising a child? It had been a discussion, on calm nights, over coffee and ice cream, on the couch. She'd talked with Bianca about the options. A surrogate father, or maybe an adoption. But for some reason, Fiona had always been hesitant to take the plunge.

She was afraid she'd mess it up, like so many other things. Fiona pulled herself out of her thoughts before giving a slow nod.

"I suppose I do, when I think about it." She leaned back, feeling bruised limbs ache from the motion again. "I was there when she first came into the world. I've taught her things–how to talk, in a way. She understands me. I try to set…good examples for her."

"All the time?" the woman asked. Fiona sighed in response.

"Well, there was this one time I dumped ten million coppers in the street to pay back a petty king. But hey, I'm not perfect." Fiona tried not to smile as the woman laughed heartily at that recollection, before settling down. "I try to focus on things that matter. Like helping my friends, my co-workers, trying to make my small slice of the world better, bringing some fun to the world. I mean, hell, I beat up a dragon in a misunderstanding of facts! Now we're…Well, I suppose we tolerate each other, now."

"Just tolerate?" The woman teased. Fiona felt a bloom of heat on her cheeks.

"W-well, there's…I mean…oh, you better not be a cosmic matchmaker," Fiona said in a low tone, narrowing her eyes, while the woman let out that contented laugh. "I don't know! Why am I telling you this?!"

"Sounds like it's something that you needed to express, it seems," the woman suggested. Fiona let out a groan of resignation.

"Okay, fine! Doug's alright! He's tiny now, but he thinks of himself as bigger. I mean, not in the physical sense. And he…he works hard at the things he's good at. History, and the lessons it imparts." She didn't make the connection until she said it out loud. "I suppose if there was something I wanted to impart to anyone, it was that you can't be so hard-headed to not see things in a different light when you look at old facts. And maybe change for the better, because of it."

The woman nodded politely. "So, would you say you've changed?"

"Damn right I have. I dunno if I'm to where I think I need to be, but…" she trailed off. "Look, if Wingding were my kid–and I use the analogy loosely, I'd tell her, no more charging in recklessly!" Fiona called out to the air before turning to the woman, who wore a light smile.

Fiona continued after a pause. "You know something? If this were a dress rehearsal for the real deal, raising a kid is hard! It's easy to want to take an easy path, but setting a better example, teaching them right? That's tough. I fear the day when Wingding levitates off my arm and wants to play with the neighborhood kids, and I'll worry she comes back with skinned knees, or stays out past sundown! Or she goes off to her first day in real school, while I cry watching her bus take off down the street! Or that first time when someone picks on her because she's too plain or her freckles look like tiger stripes, and she comes home in tears. Then I have to console her that there are big jerks in the universe, and we need to ignore them!"

She glanced at her now glaringly vacant wrist. "I mean, you get the idea. Why are you asking, anyway?"

"Oh, just posing a few questions to think about," the woman replied with a shrug of her shoulders. Fiona let out a grunt.

"Look, if you aren't some goddess trying to steer your prodigy away from certain doom, at least admit to being my inner self while I'm likely comatose, trying to keep me from going off the guardrails too often. Or that I treat Wingding as my child. Or that I might like Doug."

She tugged at her ears in frustration on that last item she was stuck on. "Ugh. Doug snores–but it's this weird kobold snore! He also might be better at running a store than I am, because he talks, and people open their wallets! And I have to occasionally clean the soot off the counters when he does those little flame hiccups!" The woman let out a belly laugh at that, while Fiona allowed herself a chuckle. "Yeah, it's a real thing. I tell him to stay away from any item that might be flammable."

"Is your insurance paid up?" the woman teased with a leering smile. It reminded her almost of her own.

"They had to make a 'Fiona' tier for liability," she growled. "I think they were joking, but kinda sort of think they weren't. You still haven't answered who you are, though." She realized this woman had been dancing around the question for quite a while.

"Well, according to you, if I'm not a goddess, I'm just a voice of reason inside your head, and I think you're well sorted out." The woman rose from the bench gently, standing tall in the white expanse. It was almost hard to tell where the robes ended, and the white glare began. "I must be off, then."

"Hey, hang on! You haven't told me diddly!" Fiona protested before rising from the bench, and winced as sore muscles protested again.

"I think you've known the answers you needed for a while, Fiona."

"All you did was mostly ask janky questions! That I answered on my own!" Fiona fumed. "Which sounds like the kind of thing a goddess would do if she knew she couldn't put her thumb on the scales of the universe–"

She trailed off.

She had her answer when she thought of the painting she'd seen at the bank. The one that felt out of place in an institution run by, or running, the contract houses. Her appearance was similar, but… swap in a botox treatment, a splash of red hair, and a case of being mostly dead for five millennia…

She went for broke, even as the words fought to be formed with a trembling lip. "Wingding's your kid. She's your last gift of fortune to Cepalune, isn't she?" Her arms went slack as she realized the connection. "You just had to wait almost five thousand years for the right person to show up. It's why your mark all but disappeared from the world."

The woman stood there, smiling with that sad smile she'd seen before, on the painting. "It's a good theory, isn't it?"

"You can't answer, because you're terrified someone will find out. Like Varith, who is a dead ringer for your lover and presumptive killer. And he knows." Fiona's legs felt like they wanted to collapse out from beneath her, but she held firm. "If you were counting on a screw-up like me to be the guardian of her kid until she gets her driver's license–or pilot's license, on account of her wings–then…"

Fiona smiled faintly. "Looks like I'm gonna need to make one massive sale to make sure she goes to college or something. Oh, and maybe keep one kingdom from going bankrupt, while I'm–"

Poof.

…

That was the worst-timed poof of all time, Wingding.

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