As we neared the goblin territory, birdsong faded. The wind stilled. The horses slowed, hooves tentative on the moss-slick ground, ears swiveling.
The entrance to Rouzbeh wasn’t marked by gates or guards. A tangle of gnarled roots twisted into the suggestion of a doorway. Dozens of baubles dangled from the lintel, each no bigger than a plum. As we passed under them, they trembled and sang—a low, dissonant note that crawled under myskin and vibrated my molars. Quinn shuddered in front of me. I drew my legs and arms tighter around her, a silent promise.I’m here. I’ll keep you safe.
Rouzbeh yawned before us, a living snarl of alleys and ramshackle structures. Shops jutted from splintered logs and scaffolds patched together from scrap metal and bone. Lanterns fashioned from bleached skulls swung from chains. Within the boundary, the dim light carried an unshakeable sense of wrongness; sunlight warped through oil. A barrage of discordant scents assaulted my senses: sulfur, rotting fish, molding fruit, and the metallic bite of iron. In the distance, a mechanical whine rang out, then cut off with a hiss that raised the hair along my arms.
Everywhere I looked, goblins prowled.
Their backward-bending legs ended in taloned feet—three toes curling forward, one flexing back for balance. Deep-blue skin stretched over angular faces: hooked noses, high cheekbones, and ears that rose to pointed, constantly swiveling peaks. Black, bulbous eyes took in everything; spidery, overlong fingers ended in hooked nails that clicked against glass and metal.
We tied the horses beneath a shredded awning. Dismounting, I raised my arms to Quinn, who followed me down. I pulled the hood of her cloak onto her head in a well-meaning but futile attempt to shield her from this awful place. It wouldn’t take long for the goblins to notice four humans. We’d left Vesper back atThe Wandering Rootsince goblins were known to roast and eat cats from time to time. He did not object to the arrangement.
Branrir repositioned the scabbard at his side. “No one strays,” he said, voice pitched low. “We stick together.”
“Durik nearly died coming here alone,” Thistle reminded.
Quinn’s brow arched. “Do we believe we shall fare better?”
“We’re better looking,” I said dryly.
Thistle pulled a folded slip of parchment from her pocket. “Here. The spoon.”
Durik’s sketch was crude but distinct: a silver spoon with anornate spiral handle, the bowl shaped like a flower petal, a thin crack running along the neck. At the base, a stylized troll crest with a falcon.
“Remember,” Branrir said, scanning the jagged street of shops, “we don’t want a fight. We get in, we take the spoon, and we get the seven hells out of here.”
We found the shop,Prongs: Cutlery & Curios, as Durik instructed. It indeed had a large fork on the sign and leaned so far to one side that I was surprised the structure remained standing. Beyond a crumbling wooden door, the ceiling sagged beneath rotting beams. Glass vessels lined the walls, each holding something stranger than the last—swirling liquid, a jar of buttons, a tangle of severed chicken feet. I startled when one filled with eyeballs seemed to stare back. Nearby, cloaked cages rattled and chittered.
Behind the counter, a goblin grinned. Its teeth were shards of porcelain jammed haphazardly into black gums. My hand flew instinctively to my sword.
“Don’t,” Branrir warned at my shoulder. “We don’t want to start something.”
“If he starts it, I’llfinishit,” I muttered back.
Quinn walked forward with an unnerving calm. “I will start here,” she said, nodding to an aisle of flimsy shelves.
“I’ll go with you.”
She tipped her head, a teasing lift to her brow. “Mav, it is only a spoon.”
“I still don’t like the look of this place.”
Her lips curved, a flash of mischief breaking through the tension. “I can manage silverware on my own.”
That smile shouldn’t have stolen my breath. But it did.
“Fine,” I gritted out. “But shout if anything gets too close.”
I watched as she strolled down the next aisle, forcing myself to look away. We fanned out. Thistle scanned a series of binsnear filthy windows. Branrir got distracted while examining ceremonial daggers, his brow furrowed in academic fascination.
The air grew thick with dust and mildew as we moved deeper into the shop. Shelves bowed under the weight of mismatched objects: corroded weaponry, warped mirrors, strange gems that glowed as I passed.
Drawers overflowed with cutlery in every stage of decay. I picked through piles of bent forks and blackened spoons, some crusted with substances I decidedly didn’t want to identify.
Thistle griped as she dug through a basket. “What is it with goblins and silverware?”
Branrir raised a finger. “It’s actually a fascinating history dating back to the amethyst age?—”
“Rhetorical question, Hindsight,” Thistle grumbled.
