Chapter 6: Chapter 5: The First Ripple

The warm scent of garlic broth and simmered beef filled the red-roofed cottage, curling lazily in the air like it belonged there.

Lamplight glowed softly across the table, where three bowls of stew steamed gently in the company of laughter and clinking spoons.

Mira sat cross-legged at the table, her elbow propped lazily on the edge as she scooped up another mouthful of potatoes and carrots.

She’d worked up an appetite after this morning’s spell tests—and it helped that her mother’s cooking was near divine.

“Old Berta came by the guild again,” her mother, Elia, said, slicing into a heel of bread. “Tried to file a complaint because someone stole her sheep. Again.”

Mira blinked. “Again?”

“Yeah, third time this month. The town's security really needs an upgrade,” Elia said, handing her the bread.

“I’ll go for a round of patrol after dinner,” Mira answered while putting a spoonful of stew in her mouth. “Maybe something came out of the woods and grabbed Berta's sheep.”

Across from them, Garron d’Ark—big-shouldered, callused, still wearing his guildmaster’s vest—chuckled as he reached for his mug. “Or maybe it’s just old Berta’s son selling her sheep behind her back.”

Mira scoffed. “Oh, yeah. That’s totally possible. Kyle has a really bad track record.”

The family’s laughter settled into a cozy rhythm, spoons scraping gently against bowls.

Mira was halfway through her second helping when her father leaned back in his chair and stretched with a grunt.

“By the way,” he said casually, “I heard something odd from one of the adventurers.”

Elia arched a brow. “Please don’t say it’s about the ghost in Elmhurst's estate again.”

“No, no—this one’s real.” Garron gave Mira a look. “Word is, that prince fellow? The one that arrived this morning? He’s been asking around about the Saintess of the South.”

Mira choked.

The spoon clattered against the side of her bowl as she coughed into her sleeve, face going pink.

“…What?” she wheezed, eyes wide.

Garron blinked. “You all right there, sweetheart?”

Elia stood to get her some water, but Mira waved her off, still coughing. “I’m—fine. I’m fine. Just… wrong pipe.”

She grabbed her napkin and dabbed at her mouth, heart thudding like a warning drum in her ribs.

“Why would a prince be asking about me—I mean, her?” she asked, voice still slightly hoarse.

Garron shrugged, far too calm for Mira’s liking. “Could be curiosity. Could be political. Could be he’s bored and someone told him about the weird girl on the hill who tames monsters and freezes oceans.”

“I don’t freeze oceans,” Mira grumbled, staring into her bowl like it owed her answers. “Just… small bays.”

Elia returned to her seat with a mild smile. “Whatever it is, I doubt it’s trouble. People like him should have better things to do.”

“I don’t like it,” Mira muttered. “It feels like one of those moments in a story where the quiet life starts unraveling.”

“Well, if they come looking for trouble, we’ll send them back with stretchers and bruises,” Garron snorted. “No one messes with my family. Prince or not.”

Mira didn’t laugh.

Instead, she stabbed another piece of carrot and chewed thoughtfully. Her eyes drifted toward the window.

Toward the town below.

Toward the inn—and the man with sunlight in his hair who hadn’t acted like any noble she’d ever met.

The man asking about her.

She suddenly had a lot less appetite—not because of the seasoning, which was perfect, as always—but because Mira couldn’t shake the weight sitting behind her ribs.

The kind that curled around your spine when something shifts in the world, just slightly off.

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She pushed away from the table as her parents began clearing the dishes.

“I’m going to do a round,” she said, already heading toward the back room.

Elia didn’t look up from rinsing bowls. “Don’t stay out too long. I want you back before the moon’s too high. And be careful!”

Garron just grunted in approval. “Don’t worry, honey. She’s topped the forest’s food chain since she was thirteen.”

Mira smirked faintly. “Twelve.”

She stepped into the small storeroom that doubled as her personal armory and workshop.

The walls were lined with vials and hanging herbs, a couple of half-finished talismans suspended mid-enchantment, and a faded poster of some long-forgotten adventuring party that she used for target practice.

Her gaze drifted to the pair of rapiers hanging by the door.

Slim, sharp, and custom-balanced for her hands. The hilts were wrapped in deep green leather, the steel etched faintly with runes along the fuller—a gift from her father, enchanted by her own hand.

She buckled them to her hips with practiced ease and slipped on her birthday present—the reinforced gloves.

Lightweight enough to cast through. Tough enough to block a claw swipe if things got too close.

With a final glance at the shelves of carefully labeled potions, she selected two vials—one glowing soft blue for mana refresh, and one red-amber for emergency healing—and slid them into her coat.

Then she stepped out into the dusk.

The air outside had cooled, brushing against her cheeks with the faint scent of pine and damp earth.

The town behind her glowed warm with lamplight, but she turned away from it—toward the edge of the forest.

She knew these paths like the back of her hand. Trees arched overhead, roots curled underfoot, the occasional flicker of fireflies dancing between ferns.

The silence here was never total—just full of the natural world’s quiet hum.

But tonight, it was different.

There. A broken branch.

Mira crouched beside it, frowning. Fresh. Not cut—snapped. And low to the ground.

She moved deeper into the woods, footsteps silent on the moss.

And then she heard them.

Voices.

Not human.

Harsh. Croaking. Bickering.

Mira slipped behind a tree and peered through the underbrush.

A squat campfire crackled at the base of an old oak. Around it, four goblins cackled and jostled, their weapons scattered nearby.

Over the flames, impaled on a sharpened stick, was what used to be a goat.

Old Berta’s, no doubt.

She sighed quietly.

“Well,” she murmured. “Looks like Kyle is innocent this time.”

She drew both rapiers in a single motion, silver flashing cold and fast in the moonlight.

No warnings. No hesitation.

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She was among them before they knew what hit them.

The first goblin turned—and Mira’s left-hand blade slid cleanly across its throat. No sound but a gurgle.

The second screamed, lunging with a jagged spear. Mira parried the thrust and drove her right-hand rapier through its chest. It collapsed in a heap beside the fire.

The third grabbed a cleaver and tried to run.

Mira let it take two steps before she flung a mana-imbued knife from her belt. It hit the goblin square between the shoulder blades. The creature dropped like a sack of turnips.

The last one—wider, meaner, probably the leader—raised a spiked club and roared.

Mira met it head-on.

The club came down in a wild arc—but she was faster. She stepped into the swing and plunged both rapiers into its gut, twisting as she pulled them free.

The goblin wheezed, stumbled back, and fell into the fire with a shriek.

It didn’t get up. It couldn’t.

The clearing fell quiet, save for the crackle of burning logs and the faint, nauseating scent of roasting goat.

Mira stood still for a moment, breathing hard, rapiers dripping onto the leaf-littered ground.

Then she let out a long sigh and wiped the blades clean with a cloth she kept tucked in her belt pouch. She slid them back into their sheaths, one after the other.

She stared at what was left of the goat. “Sorry, old girl. You deserved better than becoming goblin barbecue.”

She stepped around the fire, kicking one of the fallen cleavers aside.

The forest hadn’t seen goblin activity in years. Not this close to town. Not organized enough to build a fire, roast meat, and guard it like a war prize.

Something stirred beneath her skin—instinct, or maybe just the kind of paranoia you develop when life teaches you to expect the worst just after things feel too quiet.

She glanced toward the treetops, where the hilltop cottage barely peeked over the ridge behind her.

She had planned a quiet night of spell books reading.

Now, she had to write a patrol report, notify her father, and maybe post a warning near the east gate.

Also, she needed to wash goblin grease out of her gloves.

But just as she turned to head back, she stopped.

Her breath caught.

The air shifted.

A pulse—barely there, like the flicker of a spell too soft to see—brushed against the edge of her awareness. Not hostile. Not exactly. But wrong.

She frowned and stilled completely, letting the forest speak.

There.

A rustle—too deliberate. Not animal. Not goblin.

And… something else.

A scent she didn’t recognize. Smoke, yes—but not woodsmoke. Incense? Herbs? Burnt salt?

Mira tightened her grip on her rapiers.

That instinct in her chest—the one that never let her down—whispered that this wasn't something to ignore.

She moved carefully, skirting the edge of the clearing and slipping deeper into the woods.

The trees grew denser here, the ground soft with pine needles and years of undisturbed silence.

But the silence was broken now.

Faint voices. Chanting?

She crept closer, step by step.

And then—she saw them.

A clearing, far from any trail.

At its center, a low-burning campfire crackled with greenish flame.

And around it—half a dozen cloaked figures, hoods drawn, faces hidden.

Their voices murmured in unison, strange syllables that curled and bent the air like a heat mirage.

Something shimmered at the center of the fire. A crystal?

Her fingers twitched at her hilts.

Whoever they were... they weren’t from Mermaid’s Cove.

And they didn’t look like tourists, either.

Mira took one silent step forward, eyes narrowed.

Then—one of the figures turned. Slowly.

As if it had sensed her too.

Its hood shifted.

And beneath it… something glinted.

It was a pair of crimson eyes.

Mira’s breath caught in her throat.

She took another step forward. “Identify yourself! And what are you doing here?”

All the figures turned to her at once—weapons drawn.

And with a single motion from the leader’s hand, they lunged at Mira...