We worked in tandem. I swung the pickaxe with all my strength, creating shallow divots. Barnaby worked his chisel into the cracks, widening them bit by bit. The stone resisted like it was alive, like it didn’t want to give up whatever it held.
Sweat dripped down my back. My hands were blistered now, the pickaxe handle slick with blood and rock dust. Barnaby’s breathing was labored, his white fur coated in gray dust.
But slowly, gradually, the stone began to yield.
A crack appeared. Then another. The cracks spread like a spiderweb across the darker stone, and suddenly a small section broke away entirely.
A crystal fell out. It was tiny—no bigger than a robin’s egg—and pure white. It glowed with a warmth that reminded me of sunlight, of spring mornings, of everything good and gentle in the world.
Grix was there before it hit the ground, catching it with both hands. “This is it.”
He didn’t use the hammer this time. He simply held the crystal between his palms, and it shattered on its own, light pouring out in streams that filled the entire chamber.
The image that formed wasn’t a single scene but multiple visions overlapping—children laughing as they hunted for eggs, families gathering around tables laden with spring food, gardens blooming with new life. Butbeneath each image, I could see a measurement, a number that rose and fell with each scene.
“The Joy Coefficient,” Grix explained. “The measure of genuine happiness and renewal a Title-bearer brings to the world. It’s weighted more heavily than the other two components combined because the Mantle doesn’t just go to the strongest or cleverest. It goes to whoever brings the most authentic joy.”
Barnaby’s whiskers started twitching spasmodically. “Oh… That’s how I beat Reynard the first time. I remember now.”
The images shifted. Now I saw Barnaby, younger, vibrant, hopping through fields with baskets overflowing with decorated eggs. The Joy Coefficient number soared. Then the image changed to something more recent—Barnaby trudging through his duties, the magic feeling forced, mechanical. The number plummeted.
“Clearly, you couldn’t beat him now,” Grix pointed out. “These numbers are worse than I expected.”
He shot me a look that practically screamed ‘I told you so’. Clearly, he must have had some sort of idea of what was going on. But perhaps even he had his limits to the type of information he could excavate.
In a strange way, that gave me hope. “Reynard isn’t joyful either, is he? What’s his Joy Coefficient? Can this thing tell us?”
Grix swept his claw over the crystal. “Hmm… Let’s see. There’s only one way to find out.”
The crystal flashed, and then I saw them. Reynard and Isengrim, seated together at a table. Apparently drinking cappuccinos. If the numbers floating in the air were to be believed, Reynard was very pleased indeed. “Well, there you have it. Things have changed. Just look at Isengrim. The wolf used to be Reynard’s nemesis. Now they’re…” He gestured vaguely. “Whatever they are. Reynard must have found something that brings him genuine satisfaction.”
The image faded. The white light vanished from the crystal fragments on the ground.
“So that’s it.” Barnaby stared at the fragments like they’d personally betrayed him. “Physical prowess I’ve lost. Intellectual cunning I never had. And joy…” His ears drooped until they nearly touched the floor. “I can’t even remember the last time I felt truly joyful.”
I could. He felt joy with Hazel. But I’d already decided we couldn’t involve her. I couldn’t endanger her, not even for Barnaby’s sake.
Desperate, I turned toward Grix once again. “There has to be something. Some way to boost the Joy Coefficient quickly. Maybe… Making children happy?”
That had always been the essence of the Easter Bunny, right?
Grix sneered at me, as if I’d just said something very stupid. “Even Santa struggles with that consistently.”
He produced a device from his jacket, similar to the ones the young kobolds had used. “Animals, perhaps? Caring for innocent creatures?” He stopped, tapped something on the screen, then turned it toward us. “There’s an event coming up this Sunday. The Rescue Paws Gala and Bake-Off Competition. Wealthy donors, abused animals finding homes, public celebration of compassion and renewal.”
He drummed his claws against the device thoughtfully. “Feeding and caring for wounded, innocent souls. That’s powerful magic. It could give you the boost you need.”
Barnaby’s ears flattened completely. “Brok. That’s… there are going to be dogs there. What if they’re like Timmy’s Rottweiler? What if they all—”
“They’ll be controlled. On leashes. It’s a fancy gala.”
Barnaby was still hesitating. “But the bake-off part. Brok, we can’t cook!”
I looked at him—really looked at him. At his quivering, feeble body that was somehow still standing after an hour of hard mining labor. At the exhaustion written in every line of his frame.
Then I looked back at the screen. “Maybe we don’t have to.”
A simple idea stirred at the back of my mind. We didn’t need to be what we weren’t. We just had to use all thetools at our disposal. And I knew exactly where I needed to start.
