Chapter 26: Rosie and DandyThe awful morning sun over Nuvuski was usually an enemy to Miz’ri—a gring, judgmental eye that demanded sobriety and survival. But today, filtered through the stained gss of the Gilded Eel’s common room windows, it felt surprisingly tolerant.

  Miz’ri Niranath paused at the threshold of the tavern, her hand resting on the heavy iron tch. Beside her, Talisa was humming. It wasn't a hymn or a prayer. It was a soft, tuneless melody that sounded suspiciously like a satisfied cat. The pilgrim’s curly hair was a riot of tangles that no comb had touched in at least twelve hours, and her tunic was buttoned one hole off-center.

  Miz’ri looked down at herself. Her own plush red scarf—usually draped with calcuted nonchance—was tied in a messy knot that Talisa had fashioned in a hurry. Her boots were unpolished. She felt delightfully, uncharacteristically disheveled.

  "They’re going to know," Miz’ri muttered, though the usual venom in her voice was diluted by a persistent, traitorous warmth in her chest.

  "Let them know," Talisa beamed, bumping her hip against Miz’ri’s. Miz'ri leaned in and gave Talisa another warm, lingering kiss. Their morning had been truthfully deyed by the amount of little kisses they stopped to have between the inn and here. Talisa added, “By golly, I left my shame tied to the bedpost anyways.”

  Miz’ri snorted, pushing the door open. "Keep your voice down, you lewd creature."

  They stepped inside. The tavern was already bustling with the morning trade—riverboat captains shouting orders, merchants haggling over grain prices. But in the back corner, occupying the rgest booth like a small invading army, was the Garden Gang. They were packed and ready. Packs were stacked neatly against the wall. Weapons were oiled. And three pairs of eyes locked onto Miz’ri and Talisa the moment they entered.

  Baby Bok Choy was the first to react. She didn't speak. She just slowly lowered her tea cup, her blue eyes widening as she took in the state of them. She looked at Talisa’s hair. She looked at the hickey blooming like a dark violet bruise on Talisa’s neck. Then, a slow, shark-like grin spread across her face.

  "Well, well," Baby purred, her voice cutting through the tavern noise. "Look who finally decided to join the living. Or should I say, the thoroughly exhausted?"

  Miz’ri steered Talisa toward the booth, trying to summon her usual imperious gre. It felt flimsy. "We were deyed. Traffic on the bridge."

  "Traffic," Artie deadpanned. The scout was leaning back, looking surprisingly rexed, though he was nursing a mug of coffee with the desperate intensity of a man who hadn't slept enough. "Is that what we're calling it now? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you two got hit by a tornado made of bad decisions - more Vandi Gold?"

  "Not a drop. Only good decisions," Talisa corrected happily, sliding into the booth next to Gourdy. She grabbed a piece of toast off the Orc’s pte without asking and took a bite. "Best traffic of my life."

  Miz’ri slid in beside her, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. She ignored Artie and focused on the massive Half-Orc. Gourdy looked different. The perpetual, watchful tension that usually defined his shoulders was gone. He looked lighter, despite the heavy pte armor.

  "You look pleased with yourself, Gourdy," Miz’ri noted, reaching for the teapot. "Did your mother approve of your choice in partners? Sounds like she didn't throw him in the river."

  Gourdy let out a deep, rumbling ugh that shook the table. "Ma loves him. She says he has 'delicate hands and a mb’s eyes.' She wasn't sure if he could survive me so Ma made err…asked Artie politely to eat three bowls of my family’s firescale stew just to test his constitution.”

  "Fool that I am trying to take orcish cuisine on the chin. I thought I was going to die," Artie muttered, shuddering. "I can appreciate smokey peppers, it’s like my tongue got hit with a brand.”

  Artie pyfully stuck out his tongue and fanned at it.

  “You should have just taken it slow.” Gourdy retorted.

  “If only I could! Your three terrifying sisters kept egging me on. Between spoonfuls of orcish fish-magma, they kept asking if I knew how to use a knife for anything other than stabbing.” Artie said with a sigh, “If only they knew how much time I’d been literally chained to the butcher's block like I was a part of it.”

  Miz'ri mused, piecing together Artie’s past. "I had no idea you were once a house kitchen sve. Did you tell them that?" Miz’ri asked, the question sharp but cking malice.

  "I told them I was a survivor," Artie replied, meeting her gaze. "It seemed to be enough for them and the Matriarch. She gave me a job offer if the mercenary life gets too quiet."

  "Enforcer for the Ironhull Syndicate?" Baby teased. "You’d be the shortest one they’ve got, Artie."

  "Short or not, I know I’m lethal," Artie corrected, preening slightly. “When I'm not crying into a bowl of hot fish and pepper stew, that is.”

  “So!” Gourdy said, cpping his massive hands together. "The Gang is all here. The sun is up." He looked at Miz’ri and Talisa. "You two ready? The road ahead isn't going to be this... soft."

  Talisa reached under the table, her hand finding Miz’ri’s knee and giving it a squeeze. Miz’ri didn't flinch. She covered Talisa’s hand with her own, cing their fingers together.

  "We're ready," Miz’ri said, and for the first time, she wasn't just speaking for herself. The group paid their tabs and began the slow walk out of the joyous cities. Bells still ringing in their ears and full bellies as they entered the northern foothills, along what remains of the Imperial Way.

  Once clear of the guard towers, Gourdy rallied the group together. "Alright," the Half-Orc rumbled, his voice dropping to a serious, professional pitch. "We're entering the wilds again. The rules change out here. In the city, names are currency. Out here, they're targets. If we run into patrols, or worse, other mercenaries, we stick to the code."

  "The Garden Code," Baby chirped, adjusting her pack straps. "Codenames only until we get to safety again!”

  “I think it’s kinda cute.” Talisa said with a giggle. “All the pnt names.”

  Gourdy shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his remaining tusk. "It’s not just cute, Talisa. It’s protection. My family, the Ironhulls, have a reputation in the South, particurly the Twin Cities. Complicated business. Gambling rings, protection rackets, you know. Ma runs a tight ship, but she has enemies." He sighed, adjusting his pauldron. "I use 'Gourdy' because I don't want my work out here bleeding back onto her doorstep. I’m Kohlran Ironhull when I’m home, but out there? I’m just a big, dumb vegetable with a mace. It keeps the heat off."

  Talisa nodded, her eyes wide with understanding. "You protect your family. That makes sense. Family is everything." She looked at him with a newfound respect, seeing the mobster prince beneath the mercenary armor. "My family is… complicated too. But I’d do anything to keep their name clean. Even if it means walking away."

  "Family is a shackle," Artie muttered from the fnk, kicking at the tableleg.

  "Family is a resource," Miz’ri corrected. "One you either exploit or escape."

  “Family is a burden.” Baby added, “One to be shed.”

  Artie looked at the two women, his violet eyes hard. He floated back to speak with Miz’ri and Baby as Talisa and Gourdy shared stories about their family.

  "I don't have a family to exploit, Cousin. In the Reaches, I didn't have a name. I was simply ‘Vevel Jaluk’ - knife man. Though mostly I was just ‘Vevel’, the tool I held in my hand. Preparing their food, butchering their meat. My service was my purpose and identity..." He spat the word onto the dusty road. "When I surfaced for good, I needed something new. Something that wasn't… owned."

  He touched the hilt of his dagger. “So, I’m Balok. Gourdy told me it means beam, or support. Like timber used to build a house that will stand for centuries. It’s not a word in our Teazalnan tongue. It sounded nice, so I took it, and made it mean me.” He let out a heavy sigh, and looked down the length of the dusty road. “When we started working, we decided codenames was probably safer. So I chose Artichoke. Tough leaves. Prickly heart. Hard to eat without choking. Delicious to and appreciated by only a few. So I took it."

  "It suits you," Baby said softly, bumping his shoulder. "Your yers took a long time to peel back."

  "And you?" Artie asked, looking at Miz’ri. "We know the House name. Niranath. Big, scary, svers. But who are you, really?"

  Miz’ri felt the old defensiveness fre up, the instinct to sneer and deflect. But looking at them, both kindred survivors, she felt a crack in her armor.

  "I was the seventh child, fourth daughter," Miz’ri said, staring straight ahead at the road. "In a High House, that makes you a spare part. I wasn't magically gifted like my sisters. I wasn't cruel enough to enjoy the politics. I was… just there. An afterthought. A disappointment."

  She clenched her hand, feeling the phantom itch of the gloves she had burned. "When I told her I was leaving… when I finally went to walk out the gates of House Niranath… my Mother didn't scream at me, not like she had for years. She just gave me one final cold twist of the knife.."

  "What did she say?" Artie asked, his voice hushed, knowing the weight of a Matriarch’s final judgment.

  Miz’ri swallowed the lump in her throat. The memory was cold, sharp as obsidian. "She said, 'Go then. Be forgotten. And die in silence.'" Miz’ri was squeezing her hand so hard her knuckles popped. "That is why Silence haunts me," Miz’ri whispered, the confession tearing out of her. "It’s not just loneliness. It’s her curse. Every time the world gets quiet, I hear her being right. I hear myself being forgotten."

  The silence on the road stretched, but it wasn't empty. It was filled with the shared weight of five people who understood what it meant to be broken by the people who made them.

  "Well," Talisa said, her voice trembling but fierce. Miz’ri wasn’t sure how long Talisa had been listening in, but her eyes were focused entirely on the sulking dark elf. "She was wrong, she is wrong. You are loud, Miz. You are the loudest thing in my life. And I’m never going to forget you."

  Miz’ri looked down at the girl, feeling the warmth of her hand anchor her to the earth. Talisa wrapped her hands around Miz’ri’s and offered a warm smile that made the silence recede, pushed back by the stubborn volume of Talisa’s affection.

  "We need to stay safe out here as well, Miz’ri, you said your brother is looking for you, right? I think we need names," Talisa announced suddenly, breaking the tension with a determined nod. " We've all got people at home whom we’d rather not have learned about our escapades."

  "I am not naming myself after a vegetable," Miz’ri grumbled, though she didn't let go of Talisa’s hand.

  "Not a vegetable," Talisa corrected, eyeing Miz’ri’s white linen cloak and the red scarf. "A flower. You’re the Rose."

  Artie snorted. "A Rose? Her?"

  "Think about it," Talisa insisted. "Beautiful. Dark. Regal. But covered in thorns that will shred you if you don't know how to handle her." She looked at Miz’ri, a shy smile pying on her lips. "And… she blooms in the wild."

  Miz’ri felt the blush rising, but she didn't fight it this time. The Rose. Dangerous beauty. She could work with that. "Acceptable," Miz’ri murmured.

  "Rosie," Artie tested the name, grinning. "Yeah. It fits. Prickly Rosie."

  "And you?" Miz’ri asked, looking at Talisa. "What are you? The Lily? The Daisy?"

  "Oh, no," Talisa ughed, patting her ample hips. "I’m not delicate enough for a Lily. Look at me! I’m all round, a little soft, and I fall apart in a stiff breeze." She beamed. "I’m a Dandelion. Just a big, puffy Dandy."

  Miz’ri smirked, her eyes raking over Talisa with a heat that made the girl shiver. "You certainly do fall apart easily when I blow on you," Miz’ri purred, the double entendre nding with the subtlety of a hammer.

  Artie choked on his own spit. Baby cackled. Talisa turned a shade of red that defied nature.

  "However," Artie wheezed, recovering. "She’s right about the name, but wrong about the reason. Dandelions are weeds, Tali. You can pave over them, burn them, poison them… and they still crack the hardest stone to find the sun. They’re impossible to kill." He looked at the girl who had silenced a mountain. "That’s you. You look soft, but you’re relentless."

  Talisa blinked, touching her chest. "Resilient," she whispered. "I like that."

  "Rosie and Dandy," Gourdy announced, pounding his fist into his palm. "Welcome to the Garden."

  They walked on, the mood lighter, the bond solidified. They weren't just travelers anymore. They were a unit. A family of strays, rooted in the same soil. But as the miles passed, the ughter faded. The festive atmosphere of Nuvuski died a slow, choking death. The bird song stopped. The wind died. The vibrant green of the valley gave way to a ndscape of grey scrub and twisted, silent trees.

  They had reached the edge of the Dead Zone. As they moved deeper into the canyon valley, the vibrant greens of the Mulukaos outskirts began to pale. The grass became brittle and grey, snapping under their boots like old bones. The trees here didn't grow; they twisted, their bark scarred and weeping a bck, viscous sap that smelled like burnt hair.

  "Look at the ridge," Artie whispered, his scout-senses on high alert.

  Miz’ri followed his gaze. Littered along the high slopes were the massive, bleached-white ribs of dragons. They were ancient—relics of the Great War that had ended a century ago—but they looked like jagged teeth rising from the earth. Between the ribs, newer signs of death were posted: weathered wooden pcards with the Empire's seal, warning of the Twenty-Seven Year Pgue.

  "It had to be this year," Baby said, her voice uncharacteristically grim. "Lucky us."

  The more they walked, the more the air began to vibrate. It wasn't a sound at first, but a pressure against the eardrums, a low-frequency hum that made Miz’ri’s teeth ache. Different than the singing cavern, but still deeply uncomfortable for her elven senses.

  As the canyon narrowed, the rock walls changed. They were no longer smooth granite; they were pockmarked with thousands of tiny, sizzling holes, as if a rain of acid had been frozen in time. "Dracostirges," Gourdy rumbled, coming to a halt. He pointed to the stone. "They burrow their young in, and they erupt out in a rather violent manner."

  Ahead, the path was coated in a pale, translucent resin that glistened with an oily sheen. It looked like dried spit, thick enough to muffle their footsteps.

  "Can we go around?" Artie asked, his voice tight. "I’ve been raised around spiders the size of ponies, but at least they have the decency to stay in their webs. I don't like bugs that fly. Especially not the kind that drinks your blood."

  "Spiders are arachnids, Artie," Miz’ri said, her voice sharp but her posture tense. "They are calcuted hunters of a different temperament, one I can usually tame. While I couldn’t cast a spell I’m decent with bde and beast. But these... things... are just hunger with wings."

  "Whatever they are, Rosie, they have too many legs," Artie snapped back.

  "Stop it," Talisa said, stepping between them. Her face was pale, but her eyes were set. "We don't have time for the long way north to Yuun. I’ve already cost us weeks. If I miss the Vigil, I... I don't know what happens to my soul, or my family's. We go through."

  Miz’ri pced a hand on Talisa’s shoulder. "Dandy is right. We don't turn back. My objective is hers. If she needs to cross a hive, we burn a path."

  Baby stepped to the front, her eyes glowing with a faint, flickering orange light. She looked like a schor again, but one who specialized in the anatomy of nightmares.

  "Listen up," Baby said. "These aren't natural. The Valientan Empire didn't just build roads; they built weapons to keep them. The Dracostirges were a biological deterrent. They were engineered to target dragons—specifically their soft underbellies and wing membranes. But like every Imperial project, it got out of hand."

  She pointed to a particurly rge hole in the rock. "They wake up every twenty-seven years, feed for a few months, breed, and then die. They are essentially mosquitoes the size of hawks, covered in draconic scales that make them nearly arrow-proof. One can drain a horse in a minute. A swarm? They’ll leave us as nothing but leather bags and bone."

  "How do we kill them?" Gourdy asked, his hand tightening on his mace.

  "You don't," Baby said ftly. "There are millions of them buried in these walls. You don't fight a flood, you swim through it. They have one weakness: their Imperial programming included a fear of high-intensity heat. They don't recognize torches as fire; they recognize them as 'dragon breath' to be avoided at all cost. As long as we can bellow and roar some fmes we can keep them at bay."

  She looked at everyone in the circle. "Speed and fire. That’s the pn. I’ll provide the artillery to keep the bulk of them back, but everyone needs a torch. If your light goes out, you’re dinner. No heroes, no stopping to look back. We run until we hit the other side."

  Miz’ri looked at the narrowing canyon mouth. The humming was getting louder—a rhythmic, thrumming beat that sounded like a million hearts waking up at once.

  "Rosie, Dandy," Gourdy said, handing them each a heavy, pitch-soaked torch. "Light 'em up. It's time to go to work."

  Miz’ri struck her flint. The fme roared to life, casting long, flickering shadows against the acid-etched stone. She looked at Talisa, who was gripping her own torch with white-knuckled intensity.

  "Stay close to me," Miz’ri commanded.

  "Always," Talisa whispered.

  They stepped into the resin-coated dark, and the buzzing began to scream.