Breakfast was still underway at the Goblin’s Teacup when the party returned from beneath Dunmoor. Hearth warmth did little for Lira’s soaked clothes, though Thane seemed determined to get as close to the flames as possible, tracking mud across Hefkin’s freshly swept floor in the process. Beyond the windows, the village watch remained at its posts. Sooner or later, someone would ask about Brown Coat, and she still hadn’t worked out how to explain a man escaping through solid stone.

Near the hearth, Tomas and Niko sat over nearly empty bowls with Amara keeping them company. She had wrapped herself in a thick shawl, her cloven hooves tucked beneath the chair. Boran kept close enough to help if either boy needed him. Whatever peace the children found over breakfast disappeared when they saw the party return covered in mud.

Tomas noticed first, his spoon suspended halfway to his mouth. Mud crusted Thane’s clothes, and Niko fixed on it. “You went down there.”

Lira pulled out the chair opposite them, resting her bow against the table. “We did.”

“And?” Boran asked.

“Brown Coat got away. We found something else down there, though, and I need to ask the boys about it.”

Tomas pushed his bowl aside. “We already told you everything.”

“You told us enough to find the entrance. That helped.”

“Didn’t help you catch him.”

Boran opened his mouth, but Lira raised a hand before he could intervene. The boy deserved an answer.

“No, it didn’t. We lost him. I wouldn’t be bothering you again if I thought we could find him without your help.”

Amara moved her mug aside, giving Lira room to spread out the broken hinge. Tomas examined it without touching anything.

“What’s that?”

“Something he left behind. There’s a place underground where the water comes rushing through hard enough to knock a grown man off his feet. Did either of you hear anything like that?”

Niko glanced at his brother. “There was water.”

“No, there wasn’t,” Tomas insisted. “We never went through any water.”

“I didn’t say we did.” Niko pushed his bowl away. “I heard it when they tied our hands again. You were ahead of me, so maybe you couldn’t hear.”

“What sort of water?” Lira asked.

“I don’t know. It was dark.”

Zerai leaned against the end of the table. “Was it running continuously, or did it come and go?”

Niko hesitated. “It sounded like somebody emptying a bucket. A big one. Only it kept doing it, over and over.”

Tomas frowned at his brother. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you kept telling me to be quiet.”

“I was trying to keep them from hitting you again.”

“I know.” Niko worried at a loose thread on his sleeve. “I wasn’t blaming you.”

Tomas returned his attention to the bowl, though he made no attempt to eat. Amara kept a hand near his shoulder without pressing him to speak.

“After the water,” Niko continued, “they made us bend down. I remember because Tomas kept bumping into the one in front of him.”

“Because I couldn’t see anything,” his brother protested. “One of them kept pushing my head down. I thought he was going to break my neck.”

“Did the ceiling get lower?” Lira asked.

“Must have. We stayed like that for ages.”

His hand rose unconsciously toward the back of his neck. Boran moved a fraction closer, but Amara reached him first, covering his wrist with her fingers until the hand returned to the table.

“Then we went up,” Tomas continued. “Steps, I think. Or rocks. My feet kept slipping.”

“Stone under you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did it sound like?”

The boy tapped one heel against the floorboards, thinking. “Hard.”

Niko wrinkled his nose. “It smelled bad.”

Tomas gave him an irritated look. “Everything smelled bad.”

“No. Different bad.” Niko looked toward Lira. “Like pennies.”

Lira considered the description. “Wet iron?”

Niko brightened at the recognition. “Yes.”

Lira encouraged them to remember whatever they could. Tomas recalled his footsteps echoing through a passage, though Niko remembered mostly being ordered to keep quiet. When his brother mentioned scraping a shoulder against the wall, Niko insisted they’d been somewhere more open. Neither could say how long the gnolls kept them underground, and Lira saw little point in making frightened children reconcile memories of a journey they couldn’t see.

Elora took the chair beside Amara. “Did the gnolls ever argue about where they were going? Stop to figure out which way to turn?”

“No,” Tomas answered, with enough certainty to surprise himself. “The tall one knew. The others waited for him whenever we came to a turning.”

“Brown Coat,” Lira murmured.

“He went ahead sometimes,” Tomas continued. “We’d stand there until he came back. Once, he touched the wall and made everybody wait. I thought something was coming.”

Niko nodded. “He counted, too. I heard him saying numbers.”

“What numbers?” Zerai asked.

“I don’t know. They weren’t our numbers.”

“Then how do you know he was counting?”

Niko gave her an exasperated look. “Because I know what counting sounds like.”

Thane made a noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “Fair enough.”

Zerai considered the answer. “He might have been measuring the distance between turns. Or counting something we haven’t found.”

Thane rubbed a patch of dried mud from his knuckles. “That bastard walked through those tunnels like he owned them. I’d like to know who showed him the way.”

Lira glanced toward the boys. They’d given her more than she’d expected, and Tomas was starting to watch the door. “That’s enough for today. Thank you, both of you.”

“About time,” Amara declared. She collected their bowls and inspected the remains of breakfast with theatrical disapproval. “After everything these two have endured, I should think we can find them something better than cold porridge.”

Niko perked up at the suggestion. Tomas tried to maintain his solemn expression, but the prospect of something sweet proved too much for him.

Amara went in search of something sweet for the boys, leaving Lira to consider what they’d learned. Niko’s account placed the captives somewhere near the cistern, possibly along a passage the party overlooked. Brown Coat knew where to stop and when to wait. The stamped hinge suggested someone else might know those tunnels just as well.

Lira turned the fragment toward the window, trying to make out its marking, when the enchanted book beside her gave a violent twitch. Its cover lifted and slammed against the table, knocking the hinge from her fingers.

“Don’t touch that,” Zerai warned.

Before anyone could decide what to do, the pages began turning. Their dry flutter carried across the common room, drawing Tomas closer to his brother. The pages gathered speed until the book rattled against the table, and Boran hurried the boys away from it.

Zerai pushed away from the table. “Nobody grab it.”

Thane’s chair scraped backward across the floor. “Wasn’t gonna.”

“You grabbed it last time.”

“Last time a goblin came out of the damn thing.”

The pages stopped.

A small green hand thrust between the pages and caught the table’s edge. Scat struggled through an opening several sizes too small, cursing with sufficient enthusiasm to earn a reprimand from Amara under ordinary circumstances. His knee sent an abandoned bowl sliding toward the edge, but Elora caught it before it fell. The goblin finally collapsed among the spoons, thoroughly offended by the indignity of his arrival and too winded to do much beyond stare at the ceiling beams.

#

The ceiling remained stubbornly overhead, which was more than Scat could say for most things outside the book. After the flat darkness between its pages, the common room seemed impossibly large. His lungs still protested the journey, and the polished tabletop proved considerably less comfortable than it looked. Worst of all, breakfast smelled wonderful. Apparently, people out here ate whenever they pleased, without anyone deciding whether they deserved it.

Usually, before he could properly appreciate any of these indignities, something tightened behind his ribs and dragged him backward. The room would disappear, taking everything he’d managed to touch with it. He waited for the familiar pressure to return, increasingly conscious of the spoons digging into his back. After several uncomfortable moments, he shifted his weight and realized the pressure still hadn’t come.

Propping himself on one elbow, Scat discovered that nobody intended to tackle him this time. That represented progress, although the dwarf watched as though he might reconsider. Near the hearth, two human boys leaned forward with the undisguised curiosity of people who’d never watched a goblin crawl out of a book. Their interest suited Scat far better than the horned woman’s composure. A remarkable entrance ought to earn more than a raised eyebrow.

“Scat?” Elora approached the table, taking care not to crowd him. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve just crawled through a book. Again. My ribs feel like somebody tried to turn me inside out, and there’s a spoon sticking into my backside.” He shifted away from the offending utensil and found Thane watching him from the other side of the table. “What?”

“Wondering how long you’re planning to sit among the crockery.”

“Until I know whether standing up will send me back.” Scat brushed a crumb from his sleeve and glanced toward the open book. The familiar pull should have begun by now. He’d already spent longer outside than he managed on his previous visit, and the absence of that pressure bothered him almost as much as its arrival usually did. “Something’s wrong. Why hasn’t it taken me?”

Zerai edged closer. “That’s what I’d like to find out.”

“Wonderful. The last time you wanted to find something out, I ended up back in there.”

“I’m not planning to put you back.”

“Neither was I.”

Elora offered him a hand, though she made no attempt to take his. “Would you like to get down?”

Scat regarded her fingers suspiciously. “I can manage a table.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it.”

Relieved that Elora hadn’t insisted, Scat made his own way down. He understood people refusing to help him. Being offered assistance was peculiar enough, and having the choice to decline left him with an uncomfortable suspicion that he’d misunderstood the arrangement.

His boots struck the floorboards with a satisfying knock. He nearly scrambled back onto the table anyway. Distance mattered outside the book, though nobody seemed to know how much until the magic snatched him away. One cautious step became another, and the pages remained open behind him without so much as a twitch.

A loose floorboard creaked beneath Scat’s boot near the end of the table. He tested it again, delighted when the same pressure produced the same sound. Even after a passing customer briefly blocked the hearth’s warmth, he returned to the board for another creak. It remained exactly where he’d left it, which seemed a remarkably agreeable quality in a floor.

“Does anything feel different?” Lira asked from the table.

“I’m still here.” Scat kept his attention on the floor, reluctant to look back at the book. “Usually there’s something pulling at me by now. I can feel it before it takes me.”

“And now?”

“Nothing.” He pressed one boot harder against the boards, testing whether the absence would last. “I’d like it to stay that way.”

Near the hearth, countless boots had worn the floorboards smooth, leaving dust packed deep in the seams. Scat rubbed his thumb along one and examined the gray smudge it left on his skin. He considered himself something of an authority on dirt, but he’d never encountered any quite so satisfying.

Zerai watched him put more distance between himself and the table. “Last time, the book pulled you back before you got that far. Something’s changed, and I need to know how much.”

“Why?”

“Because whatever happened underground might have weakened the spell without breaking it. I don’t want you wandering off and getting dragged back when nobody’s around to help.”

Scat stopped beside an empty chair. “You think that could happen?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m asking you to stay close while we work it out.”

The book remained open behind him, close enough for Zerai to force the issue if she chose. Her decision to ask instead only made the arrangement stranger. Scat turned toward the hearth. “I’ll walk where I please. You can watch if it makes you happy.”

“That’s remarkably close to cooperation.”

“Don’t get accustomed to it.”

Elora approached slowly enough to give him time to object. “Does anything hurt?”

The obvious answer rose to Scat’s tongue, but he tested his shoulders before giving it. Even a deep breath passed through his chest without resistance. Whatever invisible hook usually caught behind his ribs had left no ache behind.

“No.” The word came out quieter than he intended. With the book still open behind him, Scat made his way toward the hearth, increasingly astonished that nothing prevented him from continuing.

Yet the common room remained stubbornly ordinary. Someone opened the kitchen door, and the smell of hot bread reached him before it swung shut again. Scat lingered beside a table where years of careless knives had scarred the wood. He could have spent an hour examining those marks, trying to imagine the people who made them, but the hearth offered a more immediate temptation. Nobody hurried him toward it. Nobody told him to stop.

At the hearth, Scat held his hands toward the flames until the heat began to sting. Even after he withdrew them, a slight ache remained when he flexed his fingers. He examined the reddened skin with considerable satisfaction. The book could take away a room before he finished exploring it, but apparently the fire intended to let him keep this.

The book snapped shut behind him. Scat spun toward the table so quickly that his heel slipped against the floorboards, forcing him to catch himself against the hearth. For one terrible instant, he expected the familiar pressure behind his ribs. When nothing followed, he found Zerai standing over the closed volume, both hands resting on its cover.

“What are you doing?” His voice carried across the common room. “You could’ve sent me back!”

“The binding reacted when you emerged. I wanted to see whether closing the book would restore it.” Zerai studied him, apparently more interested in the result than the fright she’d caused. “Did you feel anything?”

“You could’ve asked.”

The wizard looked down at the cover, then removed her hands. “Yes. I should have warned you. I was concentrating on the spell, and that doesn’t excuse frightening you.”

Elora remained beside the table. “Scat, are you hurt?”

Scat opened his mouth, reconsidered, and pressed one hand against his chest. No tightening followed. The book sat several paces away, closed now, and the distance between them remained ordinary distance. He could cross it if he chose. He could also choose not to.

“Nothing.”

Zerai slid the book several inches across the table. “I’ll move it away from you. Tell me if you feel anything.”

“And if it starts pulling?”

“I’ll stop.” She waited for his reluctant nod before moving the volume farther away. The experiment continued in cautious increments, with Zerai checking for a reaction before each move. Scat’s patience wore thinner every time she asked, though Elora seemed more concerned with his discomfort than whatever the book might reveal.

At the doorway to the kitchen, Scat hesitated. The book remained across the common room, almost hidden behind Lira from where he stood. His first step over the threshold put a wall between them, and he stopped long enough to brace for the familiar wrench behind his ribs. When it failed to arrive, he ventured farther into the kitchen.

The kitchen was hotter than the common room, and Hefkin occupied most of the space beside a steaming pot. He glanced up from his chopping when Scat appeared in the doorway, then set his knife down.

“What’s he doing in here?”

“We’re testing how far he can go from the book,” Zerai explained from behind him. “He needs to cross the room.”

“Then mind where you’re walking. I’ve got stew on, and I don’t need anybody knocking things over.”

Scat inspected the shelves while the half-orc returned to his work. There were enough provisions to feed a small army, and the smell from the pot made him reconsider the wisdom of leaving so quickly. He slowed beside a cooling loaf.

“Leave the bread alone,” Hefkin warned without looking up.

“I haven’t touched it.”

“See that you don’t.” Hefkin pointed his knife toward the passage beyond the kitchen. “Through there, if you’re going.”

Beyond the kitchen, Scat found himself in a narrow passage beside a stack of flour sacks. He lingered there, enjoying the cooler air while Hefkin resumed whatever important business required so much chopping. By any reasonable measure, he should have vanished several rooms ago. The book apparently disagreed, and Scat was delighted to let it remain mistaken.

Zerai eventually joined him with the volume tucked beneath one arm. “Distance doesn’t seem to matter. At least, nothing we’ve tried has made the spell react.”

Scat regarded the book. “You still don’t know why.”

“No. Whatever changed underground, I can’t find a trace of it in the binding.”

“And you’re carrying it around like that?”

The wizard adjusted her grip on the volume. “Would you rather I left it somewhere you couldn’t see?”

Beyond the rear door, Dunmoor stretched wider than Scat expected. Weathered fences hemmed the lane behind the Teacup, with kitchen gardens running toward the low village roofs. Autumn wind caught him the moment he stepped outside, cold against his face and determined to make a nuisance of his clothes. Inside the book, wind came when the book wanted it. Here, it seemed to have business of its own.

Elora joined him on the threshold. “Still all right?”

Scat nodded, distracted by a leaf skittering along the lane. Zerai remained inside with the book, and after a moment he ventured farther from the door. The wind followed him down the lane, tugging at his clothes as the Teacup’s back wall gradually concealed the common room.

By the time he reached the fence, the Teacup concealed the book entirely. Scat gripped the top rail, enjoying the rough wood beneath his palm. Across the lane, a chicken attacked the earth beneath a hedge with tremendous determination. Whenever it uncovered something interesting, it stopped to investigate before returning to its scratching. Scat nearly laughed at the bird’s dedication. Nobody seemed inclined to interfere with its work, which struck him as a thoroughly agreeable arrangement.

“There’s one more thing I’d like to try,” Zerai called from the doorway. She held the book against her chest. “If you touch the cover again, I might be able to tell whether the connection still exists.”

Scat’s fingers tightened around the fence. “And if it pulls me back?”

“I don’t think it will. Nothing else we’ve tried has affected you.”

“That’s a poor guarantee.”

“It’s the best I can give you.” Zerai came no closer. “If the spell’s only weakened, I’d rather discover that here, where we can help you.”

Scat remembered the darkness between the pages. He’d endured it when there was no alternative, but the wind still moved across his face, and the fence remained solid beneath his hands. Zerai could make whatever assurances she pleased. He wasn’t giving up either simply to satisfy her curiosity.

“No. I won’t touch it.”

“Zerai,” Elora said quietly, “put it down.”

The wizard hesitated, plainly dissatisfied with the answer. “We still need to understand what happened.”

“Then find another way. He’s answered you.”

Scat waited for the argument to continue. Instead, Zerai set the book on the back step and retreated far enough to make her intentions clear. “All right. We’ll leave it for now.”

Even after Zerai retreated from the book, Scat kept his grip on the fence. He knew bargains that offered a choice while keeping a knife ready for the wrong answer. Nobody produced one. Elora exchanged a few quiet words with the wizard and left him alone to decide what to do next. He remained there long enough for the fence rail to leave an impression across his palms before admitting that standing guard over a perfectly ordinary stretch of lane was becoming ridiculous.

Eventually, Scat left the fence and wandered along the lane, keeping several paces between himself and the back step. The book remained where Zerai had placed it, its leather cover as ordinary as ever. She could sit beside the wretched thing all afternoon if she pleased. Scat intended to keep his distance.

Zerai sat beside the book, studying its cover with a furrowed brow. “Something changed underground. I don’t know if it changed you, the book, or whatever connects the two.”

A dead leaf tumbled past Scat’s boots as he stood near the back step. “And when it changes back?”

“I don’t know.”

He disliked the answer, but he believed it.

For now, the wind still reached him, and the book rested several yards away without calling him home. Nobody announced a decision about what to do with him. Zerai occupied herself with the cover while Elora remained nearby, apparently content to let him decide whether he wanted company. Beyond the Teacup, Dunmoor continued the stubborn business of being a village under watch. A woman carrying kindling came down the lane and slowed when she noticed the goblin by the fence. Scat prepared himself for the inevitable shouting, but she merely adjusted her burden and continued toward the square. Apparently, whatever objection she had to his presence could wait until she’d delivered the wood.

Scat watched her disappear around the corner.

“That’s it?” he asked.

Elora glanced toward him. “What were you expecting?”

He considered several answers and rejected them all. “More shouting.”

“There may still be shouting.”

“Good.”

Hefkin appeared in the kitchen doorway, wooden spoon in hand. “You planning to stand out there all day?”

Scat glanced toward the lane. “Hadn’t decided.”

“Well, decide somewhere warmer. I’ve got stew on, and I’ll be damned if I’m letting you freeze outside my kitchen.” Hefkin disappeared through the doorway, muttering about people who needed invitations written in gold before they’d come in out of the cold.

Scat remained beside the fence, trying to work out what Hefkin expected in return. The half-orc scarcely knew him, yet he’d offered supper without mentioning payment. Perhaps there was some bargain Scat had forgotten, though he couldn’t imagine when they’d made it. Elora seemed perfectly content to let him puzzle over the matter, which was becoming an irritating habit of hers. Asking whether Hefkin intended to charge him afterward might settle the question, but Scat decided he’d rather risk the stew.

From inside came the clatter of crockery and Hefkin’s voice demanding to know whether anyone intended to eat the stew while it was hot. Scat finally abandoned the fence and followed the smell into the kitchen, where the half-orc was already ladling out another bowl.

Hefkin directed him toward an empty place at one of the common-room tables, where a bowl of stew awaited him. It smelled considerably better than anything Scat remembered eating inside the book, and the thick slice of bread beside it appeared to be included without additional charge. He dipped a corner into the broth, expecting the half-orc to return with instructions about what he owed. Instead, Hefkin disappeared into the kitchen and resumed shouting at someone about dirty crockery.

From his place near the hearth, Scat could see Tomas and Niko talking over their own meal. Neither seemed especially concerned about sharing the room with a goblin, which made the occasional glance toward his bread difficult to interpret. Halfway through the stew, he decided the boys were probably more interested in the food than in him. He was considering whether to claim the remaining bread when Thane noticed.

“You planning to leave any for the rest of us?” Thane asked.

Scat paused with another piece of bread halfway to his mouth. The dwarf’s bowl still held a perfectly respectable helping of stew. “Are you running out?”

“Not yet. But I’ve seen what goblins can put away, and Hefkin’s only got the one kitchen.”

“Then you’d better eat faster.” Scat returned to his bread, reasonably satisfied with the advice. Across the table, Thane gave a reluctant chuckle and reached for another helping.

Scat had barely finished his stew when Hefkin emerged from the kitchen carrying a crate. He planted it beside the goblin’s chair and regarded the empty bowl with an expression that suggested he’d found someone with time on his hands.

“Take that to the shed.”

“Why?”

“Because it belongs in the shed.”

Scat couldn’t find much to argue with in that, although he resented being expected to carry things simply because someone put them beside him. The crate weighed more than it looked, pulling at his shoulders as he made his way through the rear door. Outside, the wind seemed sharper after the kitchen’s warmth. He found the shed beside a stack of split firewood, with several similar crates already inside.

When he returned, Hefkin filled his arms with another crate and went back to chopping before Scat could object.

“This feels suspiciously like punishment.”

“Punishment requires me to care whether you enjoy it.” The half-orc scraped chopped onions into the pot. “I’m busy. You’re available.”

Scat carried the second crate to the shed, still unconvinced Hefkin understood how punishment worked. Back inside, the half-orc barely acknowledged his return before asking him to stack the empty crates against the wall. Scat considered refusing on principle, but the smell of stew remained persuasive, and nobody had threatened to withhold his supper. He stacked the crates, taking care to make enough noise that Hefkin couldn’t mistake his cooperation for enthusiasm.

By the fourth trip, Scat found himself helping a man farther down the lane with a broken cart rail. The fellow described the job as straightforward, which Scat took to mean it wouldn’t involve much effort. That misunderstanding lasted until they lifted the thing. With the man’s considerable grunting providing encouragement of dubious value, they hauled the rail across a yard crowded with wagon parts and finally lowered it beside the cart.

The man wiped his hands on his trousers and pressed two small coins into Scat’s palm. Scat studied them, turning one over to examine the stamped face.

“What’s this for?”

“For helping with the rail. Couldn’t have shifted the bloody thing on my own.”

“You’re giving me metal because I carried wood?”

“It’s money, lad. You work, you get paid.”

Scat weighed the coins in his palm. “What am I supposed to do with them?”

“Whatever you like. Buy yourself something to eat, for a start.”

“From you?”

“From anybody willing to sell it.”

Scat looked toward the Teacup. “So I can give this to Hefkin, and he’ll give me food, even though he didn’t see me carry your rail?”

The man scratched his chin. “Yeah. That’s about the size of it.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Works well enough for the rest of us.”

Scat closed his fingers around the coins. He’d known people to exchange favors, though usually somebody remembered who owed whom and made certain the debt got paid. Apparently, these people had found a way to make strangers participate without knowing what the original bargain involved. He couldn’t decide whether it was brilliant or a particularly elaborate swindle.

Back inside, he placed one coin on the table in front of Hefkin and asked for bread.

Hefkin looked at the coin, then at Scat. “You already get bread.”

“I am buying this one.”

“Why?”

“To see if it works.”

Hefkin’s mouth twitched. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with half a loaf wrapped in cloth.

Scat picked it up, then stared at the remaining coin in his palm.

“So now the metal is bread.”

“No,” Hefkin said. “The metal paid for the bread.”

“That is worse.”

Elora laughed softly from nearby. “You’ll get used to it.”

Scat doubted that. The remaining coin passed between his fingers while he considered how much bread it might purchase. Hefkin had accepted the first without asking where it came from, which suggested the arrangement depended on a remarkable degree of trust. Scat couldn’t imagine it lasting, particularly once someone discovered how easy it was to hand over a bit of metal and walk away with food. He tucked the coin safely away before anyone decided goblins weren’t entitled to participate.

By early afternoon, Scat discovered that Dunmoor contained an astonishing number of people who needed things carried. A woman near the square persuaded him to take a stool upstairs, then thanked him with such enthusiasm that he wondered whether the task involved some difficulty he’d failed to notice. Before he could investigate, a farmer called from farther along the lane, where a sagging gate threatened to pull free of its hinges. Scat held the thing upright while the man worked, listening to complaints about the quality of the original carpentry. Nobody asked why a goblin was wandering through Dunmoor. They seemed satisfied that he was willing to help, and Scat found their lack of curiosity increasingly convenient.

Hefkin kept him busy whenever the other villagers ran out of things to request. By late afternoon, the firewood beside the kitchen door stood in a respectable pile, although the half-orc inspected it with the air of someone determined to find a reason for complaint. Scat waited for the inevitable criticism, mildly disappointed when none came.

“You can finish the rest tomorrow.”

Scat stopped with another log in his hands. “You want me back?”

Hefkin relieved him of the log and fitted it into the stack. “There’s still wood to bring in, isn’t there? I’ll need somebody to help with it.”

“You don’t know if I’ll be here.”

“Well, I expect you’ll tell me if you’re going somewhere.” He gave the woodpile a final inspection, found nothing worth complaining about, and headed for the kitchen. “Come inside. Supper’s nearly ready.”

By the time Scat returned to the common room, the afternoon light had faded from the windows, and Hefkin’s kitchen smelled of supper. Amara had commandeered the table nearest the hearth, where Boran was making the case for an empty cot upstairs. Elora seemed more interested in whether anyone intended to ask Scat what he wanted than in the merits of the accommodation.

“We’ve got an empty cot upstairs,” Boran said when Scat approached. “It isn’t much, but there’s a blanket.”

“There’s no need to decide for him,” Elora replied. “He might prefer somewhere else.”

Amara regarded Scat over the rim of her mug. “Well, young man? Would you like a bed, or do you intend to spend the night standing in the kitchen?”

Scat looked between them. “You’re asking me?”

“Unless there’s another goblin hiding behind you.”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Then you can decide after supper. There’s no sense doing it on an empty stomach.”

From the kitchen came Hefkin’s voice. “And if he’s staying, somebody tell him breakfast starts early. I’m not keeping the stove going because he likes to sleep.”

Scat settled near the hearth, turning his remaining coin beneath one thumb while Amara and Boran discussed the upstairs cot. Across the room, the book rested on an empty table where Zerai had left it. He watched for some sign that the magic intended to reclaim him, but the cover remained closed. Nobody else seemed particularly concerned. They were busy deciding where he might sleep, apparently taking it for granted that he’d still be there in the morning.

Hefkin expected him to carry more wood tomorrow, and the prospect pleased Scat more than he cared to admit. Work had never interested him much, but the half-orc seemed willing to feed him for doing it, which struck him as a reasonable arrangement. The coin remained warm between his fingers. He could spend it whenever he pleased, although he suspected he’d enjoy keeping it a little longer. For the first time, he could imagine waking somewhere other than the book, with a whole day ahead of him and no particular obligation to spend it wisely.

---

Where Does Scat Spend His First Night?

Scat has remained outside the book longer than ever before. Dunmoor has fed him, put him to work, paid him, and started discussing where he will sleep as though morning is something he can reasonably expect to see.

Polls close at 12:00 P.M. CST on November 2nd, 2026

• The Goblin’s Teacup
  • Hefkin has room for him downstairs and plenty of work waiting in the morning. Scat would spend his first night surrounded by the noise and warmth of a place already beginning to treat his presence as ordinary.
• Amara’s Farm
  • Amara offers him a quieter place beyond the center of the village. There is work if he wants it, but she makes no demand of him. Scat would have to contend with something he understands far less readily than wages: hospitality offered without a price attached.
• With the Watch
  • Scat decides he would rather spend the night doing something useful. Dunmoor still has guards watching the roads and keeping an eye on the entrances beneath the village, giving him a chance to earn more than coins while seeing how these people protect one another after dark.

Which path would you take?

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