I clutched the pouch of silver, the weight of it a small, solid comfort in my palm. Yesterday, I’d been nearly skewered by a goblin in a dripping, fungus-lit cave. Armor wasn’t just a good idea; it was probably the only thing that would prevent my next of kin from receiving a very confusing notification that I’d died from ‘acute pointy-stick-in-the-everything syndrome’.

  “Right. Armor,” I agreed, stuffing the coins into my satchel, which was already bulging with the less-than-savory spoils of our little mining adventure. “And a backpack that doesn’t look like it’s about to give up on life. And a new sword. ‘Rusty’ sounds less like a weapon and more like a tetanus diagnosis.”

  Bartholomew, perched primly on a barrel, began grooming a single tuft of fur on his chest.

  “A noble endeavor, though I suspect your current finances may curtail such lofty aspirations. Fifty silver will not procure a king’s ransom in steel, madam.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I grumbled, patting the lumpy side of my satchel. “But I’ve got a secret weapon.”

  The cat paused his meticulous cleaning.

  “Do you? I was unaware you possessed anything beyond a rudimentary grasp of sarcasm and an unfortunate tendency to attract trouble.”

  “Ha. Ha.” I pulled the drawstrings of the satchel open, an odor of damp earth and something vaguely foul wafting out. “Behold. Frog guts, beetle chitin, a delightful assortment of goblin tongues and other miscellaneous viscera.”

  Bartholomew recoiled, his aristocratic sensibilities clearly offended. He let out a soft sound of disgust.

  “Good heavens. Put that away. While undeniably valuable to a certain odious clientele, the aroma is simply beyond the pale.”

  “Valuable is all I needed to hear.”

  Our first stop was the Oakhaven smithy, a place I located by following the rhythmic clang of a hammer and the scent of coal smoke. The building was open-faced, its stone walls soot-blackened. A mountain of a man—a trait that seemed common among smiths—with a beard that looked like a bird’s nest caught in a forest fire, was pounding a glowing piece of metal into submission. He barely glanced at us as we approached.

  “Looking for armor,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. I was basically a waitress asking a real, honest-to-god blacksmith for a life-saving device. The irony was thick enough to taste.

  He grunted, not missing a beat with his hammer.

  “Plate or mail?”

  “Uh. Yes?” I had no idea. “Something that stops, er…sharp things.”

  He finally stopped, plunging the hot metal into a trough with a furious hiss. He turned, wiping a sweaty brow with an even sweatier forearm, and gave me a long, evaluative look. His one good eye—the other was a milky white scar—roamed over my charity shop peasant garb.

  “You ain’t from around here.” It wasn’t a question. “And you ain’t got coin for plate or proper mail.”

  “I’ve got some,” I said, defensively.

  He gestured with his tongs to a gleaming sword on a rack. It was simple, elegant, and looked like it could actually cut something without shattering.

  “That longsword? Eighty silver. A steel cuirass to go with it? Double that. Mail? Double it again. You got that kind of coin, girl?”

  My heart sank. “Oh,”Bartholomew spoke up from his position near my feet.

  “Perhaps you have something… previously owned? Or with minor cosmetic imperfections?”

  The blacksmith’s good eye narrowed, first at me, then down at the fluffy gray cat speaking perfect, high-class English. He blinked once, slowly.

  “Right. A talking cat. Should have known you were one of them.” He let out a sigh that seemed to deflate him slightly. “Back corner. The ‘scratch and dent’ pile, as my da’ used to call it. Stuff that’s been turned in, or didn’t quite come out right.”

  It wasn’t a pile so much as a sad, motley collection hanging from hooks. There were dented helmets, mismatched gauntlets, and a few pieces of leather armor. One set caught my eye: a dark brown leather cuirass with a single matching pauldron and a pair of vambraces. It was clearly used. Scratches marred the surface, and one of the shoulder pieces was slightly crooked, the stitching thicker than on the other side. Bits of brown crust clung to the neck, and if I had to guess, I’d say they came from inside of one as well.

  “How much for that?” I asked, pointing.

  “The leather? Sturdy stuff. Boiled hide, brigandine plates sewn in. Turned a goblin blade or two in its day. Twenty-five silver, and I’ll throw in the belt and frog for that bit of pointy rust.” He gestured to my sword-shaped object.

  Better. But it would take half my money and leave nothing for the other essentials.

  “I’ll… think about it,” I said, dejected.

  Our next stop smelled infinitely worse than the smithy. The sign above the door depicted a bubbling cauldron, and the shop was a cramped space filled with shelves of murky jars, dried herbs, and things I actively tried not to identify. An ancient, stooped man with spectacles perched on the very tip of his nose peered at us over a counter cluttered with beakers and burners.

  “An alchemist?” I whispered to Bartholomew.

  “Of a sort,” the cat replied, nose twitching in distaste. “More of a… purveyor of esoteric components.”

  “Can I help you?” the old man rasped, his voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement.

  “I, uh, have some things I’d like to sell.” Heart pounding, I unslung my satchel and carefully laid out my disgusting treasures on his counter: the iridescent chunks of beetle chitin, the slimy pile of frog entrails, and the small, grayish goblin tongues.

  The alchemist’s eyes lit up. He picked up a goblin tongue with a delicate pair of tweezers, sniffing it with the air of a wine connoisseur. “Ah, yes. Fresh. Potent.” He poked the frog guts. “Splendid. The spleen is intact.” He tapped a piece of chitin, producing a sharp click. “Marvelous resonance.”

  He looked up at me, a gleam in his watery eyes.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “A fine collection for a novice. Twenty silver for the lot.”

  “Thirty,” I countered, remembering every retail negotiation show I’d ever watched.

  “The market for amphibian viscera is not what it once was,” he lamented. “Twenty-two.”

  “The goblin who owned this tongue almost took my head off,” I said flatly. “That’s gotta count for something. Twenty-eight.”

  He considered this, then gave a slow, creaking nod.

  “It seems you ended up doing the taking. Fine. Twenty-five it is. The danger does add a certain appeal.”I nodded acceptance, and he counted out the silver coins, his long, bony fingers making them clink. With my quest money and the sale of my gross-out bag, my net worth had just climbed to seventy-eight silver. I felt like a Wall Street tycoon.

  With our newfound wealth, the rest of the shopping was a blur. We found a general store where I acquired a sturdy canvas backpack, a worn but thick woolen cloak with a deep hood, and a bedroll that smelled faintly of pine needles and previous, unwashed owners. The total came to fifteen silver.

  Then, it was back to the blacksmith. He saw me coming, a ghost of a smirk on his face.

  “Made up your mind, girl?”

  “I’ll take the leather armor,” I said, slapping twenty-five silver coins onto his anvil with more bravado than I felt.

  He counted it, then handed me the pieces. The leather was stiff and heavier than I expected.

  “Keep it oiled,” he grunted, as he’d promised, adding a simple but functional leather belt with a sword frog attached. “And try not to die in it. Scrapes are one thing, but blood’s a devil to get out.”

  “Charming. Thanks for the tip.”

  I found a quiet alleyway to change, feeling utterly ridiculous as I pulled the stiff leather cuirass over my tunic. It was awkward and foreign. I fumbled with the straps, Bartholomew offering unhelpful advice from atop a crate.

  “The pauldron is askew, madam. No, the other side. You only have one of them. Do you even know your port from your starboard?”

  Finally, I had it all on. The cuirass, the crooked shoulder piece, the vambraces on my forearms. I strapped the new belt around my waist and slid Rusty into the frog. The weight was significant, grounding. I caught my reflection in a murky puddle.

  The person looking back wasn’t Paige Hawking, waitress. Not anymore. She was a stranger in scuffed leather and peasant trousers, her hazel eyes wide with a mixture of fear and something else. Something harder. She looked like someone who fought goblins in mines and sold their tongues for coin. She almost looked like she belonged here. The thought was terrifying.

  I pulled the new woolen cloak over my shoulders, the hood shadowing my face. I felt less like a hero and more like a collection of secondhand parts, cobbled together and hoping for the best. Like the old Honda I’d had in high school, where none of the body panels matched.

  “Well?” I asked the cat, turning to him. “How do I look?”

  Bartholomew surveyed my new ensemble, his yellow eyes doing a slow, critical sweep. He flicked his tail once.

  “Adequate,” he pronounced. “You now appear less like a hapless victim and more like a moderately prepared unfortunate. It is an improvement.”

  “I’m overwhelmed by the compliment,” I said dryly. “So. Armor, check. Supplies, check.” I hitched the new backpack onto my shoulders, feeling the solid weight of my new life. “Now for the hard part. Finding one lost knight in a world that’s actively trying to kill me.”

  “How, pray tell, do you intend to do that? We’re miles from where we first met him, and in the wrong direction.” Bartholomew sighed. “Perhaps you should check your map?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose.

  “Right. I’d love a map. Because we happened to pack an Eldorian atlas on our little… adventure.” My sarcasm, as usual, was lost on Bartholomew.

  “A map is a rudimentary tool, but an essential one for navigating unfamiliar terrain,” he stated, as if I’d suggested we try to divine our location by consulting the flight patterns of migratory grackles. “Surely, before embarking on this ill-advised rescue mission, you considered the logistical challenges. A map would be paramount.”

  “Oh, I considered them, Bartholomew. I just didn’t expect to be living them. Back home, my biggest logistical challenge was remembering to budget for my Starbucks. Now I’m dealing with armored knights and potentially world-ending darkness. My eclectic experience has proven surprisingly inapplicable.” I gestured vaguely at the unfamiliar, imposing forest surrounding us. “So, no map. Brilliant. Any other blindingly obvious suggestions you’d like to offer? Perhaps I should just ask the squirrels for directions?”

  Bartholomew flattened his ears.

  “Your flippancy is tiresome, Paige. And frankly, your continued reliance on wit as a defense mechanism is as effective as a damp paper shield against a dragon’s fiery breath. If you cannot approach this with a modicum of seriousness, you risk not merely your own life, but the very fabric of Eldoria.”

  Normally, I’d have a snappy comeback ready, something about how my wit was the only thing keeping me from dissolving into a puddle of existential dread, or how dragons were probably more amenable to direct conversation than most people I knew. But the weight of the backpack, the unfamiliar weight of this entire situation, settled heavier than usual. He was right. I was woefully unprepared, and my usual coping mechanisms felt… flimsy.

  “Okay, okay. You’re right,” I conceded, the words tasting like ash. “No map. What can we do? Just pick a direction and hope for the best? Follow the sun? Try to find a road?”

  As the words left my mouth, a strange sensation bloomed behind my eyes. It wasn’t a headache, exactly, more like a sudden, overwhelming influx of information. The dull ache of hunger and exhaustion receded, replaced by a sharp, vivid clarity. The trees around us seemed to sharpen, their leaves detailed, their bark textured. Then, it happened.

  The world swam. Not in a dizzying, nauseating way, but as if a veil had been lifted, or rather, imposed. The familiar, mundane scene of Oakhaven dissolved, replaced by a glowing, ethereal overlay. Lines of light, thin as spider silk, began to weave themselves into existence before my very eyes. They coalesced, forming intricate patterns, pathways, and landmarks. I blinked, and a shimmering, translucent map unfurled, filling my vision. It was as if the world itself had decided to play instructor, projecting its secrets directly into my mind.

  I gasped, stumbling back a step. Bartholomew, ever the stoic observer, tilted his head.

  “Ah. It appears you stopped speaking long enough to think.”

  “Think? Bartholomew, I think it just appeared,” I breathed, my eyes wide as I traced the luminous lines with my gaze. “It’s… It’s a map. It’s showing me everything.”

  The map was incredibly detailed. It showed forests, rivers, mountains, and tiny, glowing markers indicating what I assumed were settlements or points of interest. And, crucially, it showed my current location, a tiny, pulsing dot in the middle of the town.

  “Remarkable,” Bartholomew murmured, though his tone suggested he’d seen stranger things. Which, given his apparent age and provenance, was likely true. “A manifestation of will tailored to your ‘system’. It is occasionally discovered by extreme desperation or profound need, but the usual means is to merely wish for it. You, my dear Paige, are clearly a magnet for melodrama.”

  “Thanks for the diagnosis, doc,” I muttered, still mesmerized by the spectral cartography. We were currently in Oakhaven, which wasn’t far from a place marked as the “Whispering Woods.” To the east, a jagged range of mountains pierced the sky. They were labeled “The Whispering Peaks.” And somewhere, somewhere in this vast, unknown land, was Ser Kaelen.

  “Right,” I said, shaking my head to clear the lingering daze. “Whispering Peaks. That’s… east, yes?” I vaguely recalled the sun being in the east when we’d first woken up in this godforsaken forest.

  Bartholomew gave a curt nod.

  “Indeed. The sun shall serve as your rudimentary compass, provided you can recall its general trajectory.”

  “I think I can manage that. My communications degree might have been useless for dragon-slaying, but basic astronomy? I’m pretty sure that was in the Intro to Science elective I slept through.” I grinned, a spark of actual hope igniting within me. “So. If Ser Kaelen is heading east, and we’re heading east… maybe we’ll just bump into him. Like two ships passing in the night, except one ship is a knight and the other is a remarkably ill-equipped waitress with a talking cat.”

  “A decidedly less romantic, and considerably more perilous, parallel,” Bartholomew observed. “However, the probability of intercept, however slim, is now greater than zero. The Whispering Peaks are a formidable barrier, and it is conceivable that a knight seeking passage, or perhaps a vantage point, might traverse their lower reaches. It is our most logical course of action.”

  “Logical. I like logical.” I adjusted the straps of my backpack, the weight no longer feeling quite so daunting. The armor still felt like an ill-fitting costume, but the map, the promise of a direction, made it feel a little more like I was actually doing something. “So, Whispering Peaks it is. East. Do… do I need to make a note of that, or will the magical map stay with me?”

  Bartholomew blinked slowly. “The projection is part of your interface, Paige. Once your focus wavers, it will dissipate. You can recall it at will, however. This instance was merely more dramatic than most.”

  “A tutorial,” I repeated, a faint smile touching my lips. “Great. Just when I thought I was getting the hang of this, it’s back to analog. Wonderful.” I took a deep breath, the crisp, clean air of Eldoria filling my lungs. It still smelled ancient and wild. “Alright, Bartholomew. Lead the way. Or, you know, point me east and let me fumble along. Either way, let’s get moving.”

  He gave a little flick of his tail, a gesture that might have been approval, or perhaps just impatience.

  “Follow me, then. And try not to trip over any roots. Or existential crises. We have a knight to find.”

  With Bartholomew padding silently ahead of me, a small, determined shadow in my peripheral vision, and the ghost of a magical map still imprinted behind my eyes, I took my first deliberate step towards the east. The town of Oakhaven fell to our rear as we climbed from the valley toward the Whispering Woods, the path uncertain, but I felt a flicker of something akin to purpose. And a healthy dose of dread, naturally. I was, after all, still Paige Hawking, a normal girl from a normal town, suddenly playing hero in a world that desperately needed one.