They moved deeper into the Maze, the air growing warmer, the corridors narrower, and the atmosphere unmistakably… mischievous.

  Leo slowed his pace.

  “Anyone else feel like the Maze is… smirking at us?”

  Harlada scanned the walls.

  “The traps are changing. No more clear pressure plates. No obvious runes.”

  Bert prodded the floor with his toe.

  “Even the dead ends look like real corridors now.”

  The Maze pulsed, almost teasingly.

  Difficulty escalation acknowledged.

  Ingenuity recommended.

  Leo groaned. “When the Maze recommends ingenuity, we’re doomed.”

  They continued cautiously, each turn feeling tighter than the last.

  Then Harlada stopped dead.

  “What is—”

  She looked down.

  Her bootlaces were tied together.

  She hadn’t tied them like that.

  Leo yelped as his notebook was suddenly yanked out of his hands by an invisible string — flung three meters down the corridor — and landed in a neat little stack of rocks labeled “PROPERTY OF NOT-LEO.”

  Bert tried to take a step forward—

  and fell face-first into the floor with a thunderous SMACK.

  Harlada rushed to help him, only to have someone yank a strand of her hair — hard — and dart away with a high-pitched cackle.

  Bert pushed himself up, dazed. “Ow… what—who— WHY?!”

  A tiny voice echoed through the corridor:

  “Heheheheheheheheheheheheheee!”

  Leo froze mid-reach. “Did… did that laugh sound like it came from knee-height?”

  Harlada rubbed her face. “The traps aren’t just traps anymore. These are juvenile tricks.”

  Bert looked up, horrified. “Juvenile? Like—”

  A pebble hit Leo squarely in the forehead.

  Another pebble hit Harlada.

  A third pebble hit Bert, bounced off, and hit him again.

  More high-pitched giggling.

  Three identical voices in unison whispered from around a corner:

  “Heheheheheeeee…”

  The trio looked at each other.

  They nodded slowly.

  Then, perfectly synchronized, they said:

  “Gnomes.”

  ***

  The three took off in a sprint.

  Not a graceful sprint.

  Not a heroic sprint.

  A pure panic sprint.

  “Just run!” Harlada shouted. “We don’t fight gnomes. We OUTPACE them!”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Leo nodded vigorously. “Yes! Shorter legs! We have a speed advantage!”

  From behind them came three indignant shrieks:

  “THAT’S SIZEISM, YOU RACISTS!”

  Harlada nearly tripped. “They HEARD YOU.”

  Bert shouted back over his shoulder, “WHY ARE YOU LISTENING TO US? GO AWAY!”

  A tiny voice yelled:

  “WE HAVE EXCELLENT HEARING! UNLIKE YOU LOOMING SKY-GIANTS!”

  Leo wheezed. “They’re called normal-sized people!”

  Another voice shouted:

  “BIGOTRY!”

  The corridor behind them erupted in the pitter-patter of extremely fast, extremely furious tiny feet.

  “Faster!” Harlada barked.

  They pumped their legs harder, weaving left, then right, then left again.

  Every turn brought them closer to the Maze’s center — the air thickening with arcane static now, traps humming softly behind the walls.

  Bert gasped, “Are they… gaining?! How are they gaining?!”

  Leo screamed, “SMALL LEGS DON’T SHORTEN THE STRIDE WHEN YOU HAVE NINE OF THEM AT ONCE, BERT!”

  From behind:

  “WE ARE A LEGAL TEAM OF SHORT-KINGS!”

  Harlada shoved Leo ahead. “Don’t look back!”

  Leo didn’t.

  He looked forward.

  Then stopped dead.

  Harlada rammed into him.

  Bert rammed into both.

  “What—what—WHY ARE WE STOPPING?!” Bert shrieked.

  Leo held up a shaking finger.

  Ahead, around the next bend, drifting down the corridor, came:

  Soft humming.

  Unsettling giggles.

  A faint smell of burnt ‘oregano’.

  Bert whispered, “No… no no no… that’s the Wizards…”

  Harlada clenched her staff. “We’re sandwiched.”

  Leo’s breath hitched. “Gnomes behind… Wizards ahead… what do we even—”

  A dreamy voice floated through the air:

  “Someone left a snack on the ground… is it… edible?

  Is reality edible?

  Are we edible…?”

  Another voice responded:

  “I’m gonna lick it.”

  Harlada’s eyes widened. “They haven’t seen us yet.”

  Bert whispered, “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  Leo nodded weakly.

  Then from behind them, the gnomes yelled:

  “STOP RUNNING, YOU LONG-LIMBED DISCRIMINATORY MENACES!”

  The Wizards perked up.

  “Oh! Voices!” one giggled.

  “Oh! People!” said another.

  “Oh! Snacks!” squealed the third.

  The trio stared at each other, pale and trembling.

  They were trapped.

  Between furious gnomes and high-as-heaven sorcerers.

  Leo swallowed.

  “…We’re dead.”

  ***

  The trio stood frozen in the corridor, sandwiched between two disasters:

  Wizards ahead.

  Gnomes behind.

  The Wizards’ humming grew louder.

  The Gnomes’ furious foot-patters grew closer.

  Bert whispered, “Okay, okay, think—how do we turn two problems into one?”

  Leo whispered back, “We make them see each other.”

  Harlada narrowed her eyes. “Or better… we make them hate each other.”

  Bert blinked.

  “…how?”

  Leo took a deep breath.

  He cupped his hands and called toward the Wizards, voice artificially cheerful:

  “HELLO THERE! We found some… DECOR for you!”

  The Wizards stopped humming.

  A dreamy voice drifted through the haze.

  “Oooooh… decor?

  Like candles?

  Or illusions?

  Or edible candles…?”

  Harlada shouted, “No! Even better! Your Garden Gnomes are here!”

  Silence.

  Three seconds.

  Four.

  Then from the Wizard corridor:

  “Garden gnomes…?”

  A confused gasp.

  “You mean the tiny statue guys?”

  “Those things you put in hedges?”

  “The ones you paint when you’re bored?”

  Behind the trio, three tiny gasps sucked all the air out of the hallway.

  “EXCUSE YOU?!”

  I assume this is something for psychologists to unpack.

  well, not chocolate.

  I crave your praise more than all food except chocolate.

  And yakitori, great now i'm hungry.