Okay, so, let’s rewind a bit. After we... persuaded Reggie to talk—let’s call it aggressive diplomacy—we had to deal with Sir Assworth. And let me tell you, that pompous potato had more hot air than a sun-baked swine during grazing season.
The second we hinted at an accomplice, he went full mode, puffing up like a boiled yam and marching off to interrogate every worm, beetle, and unsuspecting mushroom in a mile radius. Classic Spuds. He’d probably still be out there, demanding from some poor, confused caterpillar.
Then came the Rock-Paper-Scissors of Doom. And because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, guess who lost? Nibbler. Yeah—Nibbler, the guy who’d rather chew through iron bars than spend five minutes in Spuds’ sanctimonious orbit. The irony was thicker than a week-old compost smoothie.
Meanwhile, Chonk’s version of
Reggie was... less an interview and more of a full-contact sport. By the time he was done, the poor squirrel looked like he’d been dragged through a feral pup’s mouth during teething season. His tail had puffed up to double its size, his left eye twitched like a leaf caught in a whirlwind, and he kept repeating the same thing over and over—
And we’re just sitting there, thinking... Reggie's lost it, right?
"Nah, get outta here, ya kiddin' me?" Chonk rolled his eyes. "A troll? Please. I ain't buyin' that for a second, ya mook."
Now, normally, I’d be right there with him—laughing this off, calling Reggie nuts. But both Scraps and I had already ruled out the usual suspects based on the poison, the method. Whatever we were dealing with, it local.
Scraps piped up, stepping between Chonk and Reggie.
I added, holding up my hands.
Then it hit us. A Troll? Here?
That’s like hearing a dragon checked into the local inn for brunch. Those things don’t just into our territory. They’re continental tourists from hell—too busy terrorizing their own cursed lands to take a detour. And yet, Reggie was
And that’s when my fur really started to itch.
If a Fell Troll is lurking around, what the hell happened to the Forest Guardians? The Green Matriarch should’ve woken up the second something that nasty crossed the border. Did someone tick off Tun’Kus again? And don’t even get me started on the Silver Wing—she’s been MIA for
No sightings, no whispers, not even a feather left behind.
So... are the Guardians hiding? Avoiding something?
And—this part makes my whiskers twitch—what if
return has something to do with it? Could he be drawing out all the nightmares we’d rather keep buried? A walking, talking bad omen?
And if some cosmic force just rang the dinner bell... does that mean we’re next on the menu? Because I, for one, am
interested in being the appetizer.
Reggie, still wrapped in a mess of hastily tied bandages, twitched like a leaf in a storm as he led us deeper into the underbrush. His nose wriggled, ears flicking at every snapped twig and rustling leaf, like he expected the shadows themselves to lunge for his throat. Which, honestly? Fair assumption.
"Alright, Reggie," Chonk grumbled, low and slow, like he was trying real hard to keep his patience. "Run that whole thing by me one more time, ya hear?"
"Yeah, yeah, boss... whatever you say," Reggie stammered, all jittery. "The troll, see? The freakin’ troll says, ‘Meet me there, once the crew gets it’... ya got that? Gets it!" He squeaked the last part, voice cracking like a rusted hinge. The guy’s nerves were shot to hell.
"Yeah, we got it, Reg," I said, trying to keep him from unraveling like a poorly-stitched sweater.
"Yeah, we always get it," Scraps muttered, dry as old bark.
Nibbler let out a low whistle. "Damn, Reggie," he said, shaking his head. "The Cap' really gave ya the business, huh? Worked ya over good."
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Meanwhile, Sir Spudsworth—self-appointed enforcer of —was in rare form, his booming voice bouncing through the undergrowth like a town crier with no concept of .
"By the Sacred Tuber, we shall uncover the truth!" he declared, thrusting his stubby arms skyward like he expected divine intervention. The guy had all the subtlety of a war drum.
Reggie, bless his twitchy little cotton tail, wasn’t just tolerating it—he was it. He nodded along, gasping in all the right places, like he was enraptured by Spuds’ nonsense. I knew better. This was survival mode. Get Spudsworth worked up enough, and maybe——some hungry badger or cranky owl would swoop in and put us all out of our misery.
Nibbler, though… yeah, was not handling it well.
Ever since losing the Rock-Paper-Scissors of Doom, he’d been wound tighter than a rusted spring. Every one of Spudsworth’s grand proclamations made his eye twitch a little harder. His claws flexed. His tail bristled. I saw it coming, but, y’know, sometimes, you just gotta let fate do its thing.
"That’s it!" Nibbler snapped, rolling up his sleeves like he was about to throw hands. ", ya little rat, and I’m gonna use that tail of yours to floss Spuds outta my teeth, ya hear me? All the squished bits!"
Silence.
Beautiful. Deafening.
Even I had to admit, that was a little harsh. Reggie’s ears flattened, and his mouth snapped shut so fast I swear I heard his teeth clack. For a blessed, golden moment, we had peace.
…For about ten seconds.
Then Spudsworth inhaled.
“By the starch-laden grace of our ancestors—”
Nibbler made a noise somewhere between a growl and a dying kettle. Chonk grabbed him before he could launch himself fang-first at Spudsworth.
And me?
I considered letting them double-team Spuds.
But Grant’s words echoed in my head.
And then, just before we left, he’d added, with that quiet, dangerous calm of his:
Yeah. Probably best to keep Spuds in one piece
Then—BOOM!
The shockwave ripped through the trees like a cannon blast, the ground lurching beneath us. A murder of crows erupted into the sky, shrieking like they’d just witnessed the end of days. Dust and leaves spiraled in the air, caught in the aftershock. For half a second, everything stood still—just that eerie, ringing silence before reality crashed back in.
Then came the dust cloud, rolling through the trees like a storm front.
“Egads!” Spudsworth bellowed, his stubby arms flailing. “Another explosion?”
Nobody answered. We didn’t need to. One look at each other said it all.
Ember.
We ran.
Branches clawed at my face, the scent of scorched wood and something sharp—burning fur?—stung my nose. My lungs burned. My heart pounded like war drums. The ground vibrated beneath my boots, the echoes of the blast still rippling through the forest.
Then we broke through the treeline—and the world turned into chaos incarnate.
Ember stood in the center of the wreckage, wild-eyed and glowing, raw energy crackling around her like a storm barely contained. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her fur singed at the edges, her scent sharp with fury.
And the troll? Ugly as sin.
It was a walking slab of gnarled muscle, all jagged moss-covered tusks and arms the size of tree trunks. Every step it took sent tremors through the ground. It moved too fast for something that big.
Sparks snapped through the air as Ember lunged, her daggers igniting mid-strike. The troll countered with something—some kind of mechanical contraption strapped to its wrist—spitting out a coil of round ammunition. Ember twisted, barely dodging as the ground beneath her exploded, scattering dirt and stone like shrapnel.
More traps.
The battlefield was rigged. The earth was torn and splintered like a dragon had nose-dived straight into it. Ember was moving on pure instinct, dodging, striking, but she was outnumbered—not by enemies, but by the very ground she stood on.
And then it hit me.
What the hell was she doing here?
Was she a hostage who’d slipped free? Or was she tying up loose ends, making sure the troll never got the chance to talk? Was this Reggie’s final stop, his last dead-end before the abyss? Or was Ember just another survivor, swept up in the same nightmare we’d stumbled into?
Coincidence? No. No way. This was too big.
My head spun faster than a squirrel on espresso. Right place, wrong time? Or—wrong place, worst possible time?
Then it happened.
A trap snapped shut.
A net? A magical snare? I didn’t know. One second Ember was fighting like a demon unleashed—the next, she was yanked backward with a strangled snarl. Her flames sputtered, her body wrenched against invisible restraints. She thrashed, but whatever had her wasn’t letting go.
And then instinct took over.
No thinking. No hesitation.
We charged.
Was this a mistake? Were we running straight into another trap? Maybe. Probably.
But in that moment, I only knew one thing—
We were in deep.
And it was about to get a whole lot deeper.