The morning sun over Willowdown Vale looked like something straight off a fantasy calendar—golden rays slanting through fog, the dew on cabbage leaves twinkling like fairy tears, and a rooster singing a soulful dirge about existential dread. Probably.
Mira stretched, rubbed the crick out of her neck, and rolled out of bed—onto a Halfling.
"OW!"
"OH MY GOD, I'M SO SORRY!" she yelped, springing to her feet and nearly braining herself on the low ceiling.
The Halfling—Jory, to be exact—groaned and sat up from the floor cushions where he'd evidently fallen asleep mid-scroll. "No harm done. Just a broken ego."
He yawned, rubbed his temples, and handed her a bowl of something lumpy. "Breakfast porridge. It's either oat-based… or experimental plaster. I've stopped asking."
Mira sniffed it. "Was it bubbling before you touched it?"
"Yes." with a slight look of confusion
"Then I'm good, thanks." she replied with a hidden look of disgust on her face
The Map Room (That's Also the Pantry)
After convincing Pipla to let her borrow some boots that didn't squeak like stressed ducks, Mira followed Jory to the "official Map Room of the Willowdown Defense Committee."
It was also the pantry.
"Sorry," Jory muttered, pushing aside jars of pickled thistles and a crate labeled 'Definitely Not Exploding Onions.' "The mayor's house caught fire again last month. Curse of the fruitcake's still kicking."
Pinned to the wall between a slab of smoked cheese and a family portrait of a very smug goat was a hand-drawn map.
Crude, sure—but accurate enough to show the valley, the looming forest to the west, a suspiciously skull-shaped cave to the north, and what Jory called The Blightlands.
"Used to be rolling farmland," he said, tracing a gnarled finger over the ink. "Now, it's twisted. Foggy. People who go in… don't come back the same."
Mira frowned. "Same how?"
"Well, one fellow returned believing he was a carrot." Said Jory
"That… doesn't sound so bad?" Mira replied optimistically
"He demanded to be planted. Then tried to fight a scarecrow." Jory continued
"…Ah." Mira replied with the optimism drained from her voice
Jory turned to her, serious now. "Whatever's happening, it's spreading. And the villagers are starting to whisper. They say there's a new darkness waking in the old ruins. A forgotten evil."
"Of course there is," Mira muttered. "What's the point of fantasy worlds if you don't have a good apocalypse to worry about?"
Minstrels, Mayhem, and Magical Mice
Mira 's next mission came in the form of a Halfling minstrel named Reeko.
Reeko wore three hats at once, none of which matched—one a faded jester's cap with drooping bells, another a velvet top hat with a scorched brim, and the third a knitted tea cosy someone had clearly mistaken for headwear. They perched at odd angles atop his wild chestnut curls like eccentric crown jewels, wobbling precariously with every sweeping gesture. His coat was patchwork and flamboyant, festooned with mismatched buttons, silver spoons, and feathers of uncertain origin. Around his neck hung a collection of charms, whistles, and at least two actual tea strainers.
He introduced himself with a lute solo so aggressive it frightened the nearby chickens into forming a phalanx, his fingers dancing over the strings in a furious display of chaotic virtuosity. He bowed afterward with a grin that suggested either genius or complete detachment from reality—possibly both. His eyes sparkled with mischief and unpredictability, and his voice, when he spoke, rolled out like a stage performance—booming, dramatic, and far too loud for casual conversation. Reeko was a one-man carnival, and whether he was distraction or miracle depended entirely on the day.
"I seek the aid of the Fatebinder!" he announced. "My songs have been stolen by the Trickster Mice of Windmere Glen!"
"Trickster mice?" Mira blinked. "Is that a metaphor?"
"No! They're literal. They stole my lyrics, my best rhymes, and my kazoo. I can't perform the Ballad of Big Belinda without it!"
Mira found herself escorted to the glen shortly after, accompanied by Reeko and Pipla—who had insisted on tagging along "in case anything needed smiting."
The glen was lovely, Peaceful, Filled with mice that wore monocles And one particularly smug mouse in a wizard hat.
Time froze.
The Die appeared.
"Persuasion Check: Retrieve the stolen music from Trickster Mice."
Mira rolled.
4.
Time resumed.
The mice booed her, Then pelted her with acorns.
After fleeing behind a tree, Mira regrouped with Pipla and Reeko.
"Alright," she muttered, brushing leaves out of her hair. "If persuasion won't work, what does?"
Reeko looked thoughtful. "They love drama. Try… interpretive dance."
Pipla nearly choked on her biscuit.
But fifteen minutes later, there was Mira —dancing through the glade, flailing her limbs in what she hoped looked like "grief and redemption" and not "woman attacked by invisible bees."
The mice were enraptured.
She rolled again.
19.
The wizard-mouse returned the kazoo solemnly.
Reeko sobbed with joy, Pipla clapped until she fell over laughing, Mira wasn't sure whether to feel triumphant or deeply concerned for her dignity.
A Name, A Warning, A Choice
Back in the village, the mood had shifted, News from a nearby settlement had arrived—fields dead overnight. Cattle missing. A child speaking in riddles with glowing eyes.
"Something is calling," Jory said. "We don't know what, but its power is growing."
Mira , for all her sarcasm and disbelief, felt the truth of it settling in her bones.
That night, as she lay on her bedroll staring at the Halfling cottage ceiling, the Die returned once more.
They hovered, spinning slowly, then clicked into place on her chest.
1 and 20.
A critical failure and a critical success.
The message that followed chilled her:
"Soon you must choose: one fate, or another. And every choice has a cost."
She reached out to touch them.
But this time… they vanished before her fingers could graze their surface.
Whispers in the Fog
The cows were missing again, That was the first clue.
The second was that the wind had changed—no longer a gentle breeze through trees, but a cold breath that slithered along spines and whispered nonsense in the ears of children. The third clue? The turnips had returned. But this time, they had teeth.
Mira stood at the edge of the village, beside Jory, Pipla, and a growing crowd of uneasy Halflings. Smoke rose from the western fields. The grass was brown at the edges, curling like parchment held too close to flame.
"Another farm?" she asked, hand on her satchel.
Jory nodded grimly. "That's three this week. We sent scouts. Only found hoof prints… and laughter."
"Laughter?" Mira replied questioningly
"High-pitched. Mocking. Carried on the wind. Not Halfling laughter. Not… anything friendly." Jory replied
Mira swallowed. "Okay. And we're still sure I'm qualified for this?"
"You're holding a handbag that summoned fireballs last Tuesday." Pipla said in a judging tone
"That was an accident!" Mira replied a little embarrassed
Fogfall Ridge
By mid-afternoon, Mira found herself once again trudging into the unknown—this time toward Fogfall Ridge, a craggy, mist-wrapped region that had once held a mining village and now reportedly held "the source of the corruption."
She was joined by: Pipla, eternally ready to hit anything that moved, Reeko, who had insisted on composing a battle ballad in real time And Jory, a silent, extremely twitchy Halfling rogue who only spoke in ominous mutterings like "They see through bark" and "Never trust a weasel in boots."
The fog thickened with every step. Not normal fog—this was alive. It pulled at clothes, dampened light, and swallowed sound. Even Pipla's warhammer seemed uneasy.
Halfway up the ridge, time froze.
The silver Die spun into view.
"Wisdom Save: Resist the Whisper."
Mira rolled.
8.
Time resumed.
And the voice came.
It wasn't a voice exactly—it was too wide, too old, too deep. It wasn't heard so much as felt, like nails across the soul.
"You are not of this world, Die-bearer. You are an invader… and an invitation."
Mira stumbled, gasping, Pipla caught her. "What is it? What happened?"
Reeko, pale and uncharacteristically quiet, pointed toward the ridge's peak.
Something stood there, Something tall, Cloaked, Crowned.
The fog writhed around it, unwilling to touch its feet. Its face was hidden, but two glowing eyes—faintly violet—burned from beneath the hood.
It raised one hand, The wind stopped, The trees bent And the voice returned, now in her head:
"Your world is fragile. You left a hole behind. And I intend to fill it."
Then it was gone, No swirl, no smoke—just a fading echo and the taste of metal in the air.
The Name Revealed
Back in the village, chaos reigned. The cows had returned—but their eyes were glowing and they spoke in ancient rhymes.
Jory stabbed one of them out of habit, It exploded into glitter and sadness. Eventually, Jory pulled Mira aside into the tavern's back room. He looked tired. Older. Like the conversation they were about to have weighed heavier than anything else he'd said.
"There's something you need to know," he said. "About what's coming."
Mira raised an eyebrow. "Do I need more porridge first?"
"No. But maybe a seat."
He laid out an old book—The Codex of Shattered Threads—and flipped to a marked page. An illustration showed a towering figure draped in fog, crowned with black antlers and surrounded by twisted roots.
"The old stories call him Velcrath. The Hollow King. He was sealed away centuries ago in the Shardwood Depths—by a Fatebinder, like you. Velcrath wasn't just a villain—he was the memory of every war that had ever gone wrong, every fate that twisted into darkness."
Mira thought of the name. Velcrath. It felt… wrong. Like a rusted knife dragged across a blackboard made of teeth.
"He feeds on unravelled realities," Jory continued. "His power grows in places where worlds collide. Your arrival? That wasn't an accident. He's been waiting."
Mira looked at her satchel. The Die inside pulsed once—faint, silver light.
"So what now?" she asked quietly.
Jory looked grim. "Now… we gather allies. We travel. We learn. And we stop him before he tears both our worlds apart."
The Mission Begins
By nightfall, plans were forming.
Mira would travel east toward the Sunspike Tower, where an old archmage—possibly insane, definitely flammable—knew more about dimensional rifts and Die-bound fate magic.
Pipla insisted on coming. Reeko too. Jory vanished, reappeared with a packed bag, and hissed "The rats have already taken sides."
There was no council vote. No ceremony. Just a shared glance, A decision,A beginning And as Mira stepped out of the village under starlight, the Die once more appeared—no roll this time, just a message.
"Fate is a game. He cheats. You must learn the rules."
Mira closed her eyes, Gripped her satchel And took her first step toward Velcrath.