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Weekly Contest #339
Tessa Fairwill had been promised adventure. Not in those exact words—the Royal Bureaucracy of Eldwyn rarely used language that optimistic—but the recruitment scroll had definitely included “field work,magical engagement,” and “direct post-heroic impact.” So yes, she had envisioned dragons. Glory. Fireballs. A tasteful amount of shouting. Instead, on her first day, they gave her a clipboard, a reinforced quill, and a partner who smelled like burnt ink and old rules. “I’m Grent Velthorn,” he said without looking up from his desk. “Assignment o...
Weekly Contest #338
The book was already open when I found it, which felt rude. It lay on my desk between my government-issued study tablet and a cup of synth-coffee that tasted like regret. Its spine was cracked. Its pages were yellowed. Its existence was illegal in at least twelve clearly posted ways. I stared at it for a full ten seconds, waiting for the apartment’s monitoring system to scream. It didn’t. That was problem number one. Problem number two was the title, printed neatly on the first page in dark, confident ink: THE ARCHIVE OF THE UNLISTEDA record...
The first time Mara touched paper, she expected it to feel like the screens in the Museum—flat, cold, pretending to be old. It didn’t. It breathed beneath her fingertips, a dry whisper of fibres that caught on her skin like it had been waiting. The smell came next: dust and something faintly sweet, like dried flowers pressed too long between pages. It made the back of her throat ache with a memory she couldn’t place. The book was tablet-sized but heavier, bound in cracked leather, the colour of burnt sugar. No glow. No wake-swipe. No complia...
The book insulted him before he realised it could talk. “Ah. Dirt road. Again,” it muttered from inside his pack. “Bold choice, Boots. Nothing says destiny like ankle-deep mud and a quick escape route.” Edrin stopped. Mist clung to the hills like breath held too long. A crow startled off a fence post. For a heartbeat, Edrin wondered if exhaustion had finally tipped him into hallucination. He reached back and pulled the book free. Edrin did not look like the sort of wizard stories remembered. He was thin rather than imposing, his shoulders sl...
Weekly Contest #337
Nova named the rocks. Not because she was sentimental, but because no one else would. The ridge she climbed every morning for signal range was Mother’s Spine — a long, jagged curve like a sleeping serpent. The dark crater beyond it was Father’s Silence. The line of crystalline trees she passed daily? Ghost Choir. She logged them all in her journal. Not the station logs. Hers. Her parents would’ve hated that. Her father would’ve corrected her pronunciation. Her mother would’ve logged it properly anyway. They believed in proper protocols. GPS ...
Weekly Contest #335
The wizard had been walking for so long that even the road had forgotten his name. He wore no sigils now, no bright robes or staff crowned with jewels. Just a travel-cloak patched more times than he could remember, boots worn thin by centuries of patient wandering. In taverns, they called him Hedge-mage, or Old Bright, or nothing at all. He preferred nothing. Magic was quieter when you did not demand it to announce you. He was crossing the salt flats east of Greywater when the raven found him. It landed on a mile-marker stone that predated e...
Weekly Contest #334
“Don’t talk to strangers,” Matron Gribble warned, thumping Gribnock on the back with a ladle crusted in turnip paste. “And if one offers you gold, it’s either cursed, fake, or about to explode.” Gribnock nodded solemnly. He even repeated it back to her. “Don’t talk to gold, explode the curse, curse the fake—” “Close enough,” she sighed. Exactly twenty-three minutes later, he joined a gang of strangers who were planning a gold heist. So really, he tried. The plan was “flawless,” according to Gribnock the Green, who had drawn it on the back o...
Once upon a time, in a half-collapsed ruin that smelled like burnt rat and broken promises, a goblin and a kobold reached for the same silver spoon. Zruk’s grubby green fingers froze an inch from it. So did Kippi’s claw. They stared at each other over the dull gleam of the utensil, both crouched like criminals in a pantry, neither blinking. The spoon sat alone on a velvet pedestal in the centre of the stone room, bathed in a beam of light that came from nowhere and smelled faintly of judgment. Zruk hissed through his teeth. “I touched it fir...
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