Chapter 19: Dandy in VandiOne moment, they were trudging through the violet-lit, humming gloom of the Crystal Forge, surrounded by the echoes of dead machinery and the dust of silenced souls. The next, they stepped through the southern archway and were blinded. The sun—that hateful, overzealous star Miz’ri had spent her life avoiding—was waiting for them. It smmed into them with the force of a physical blow, a wall of white-gold heat that smelled of dry grass and pollen.

  "Ugh," Miz’ri groaned, immediately throwing her arm up to shield her sensitive eyes. She fumbled for her goggles, jamming them onto her face. "It's disgusting. It's so… awfully bright."

  Beside her, Artie hissed in agreement, pulling his hood low. "The day star is such a bully to those it forgot were originally its children," he muttered. "No wonder everyone up here is so wrinkled, eh Cousin?." Miz nodded in awful agreement.

  But for the rest of the caravan, it was salvation. The merchants wept openly, falling to their knees to kiss the dusty road. Talisa just stood there, blinking, her face tilted up to the warmth, letting the sun burn away the lingering chill of the necropolis.

  Ahead of them, the path was blocked. Not by monsters, but by bureaucracy. A sturdy wooden barricade had been erected across the pass, manned by soldiers in tabards of wheat-gold and green. They weren't the polished, imperial guards of a capital city; they were militia—humans, interspersed with a surprising number of halflings and gnomes who scrambled atop the barricades with crossbows that looked too big for them.

  "Halt!" a halfling captain shouted, peering down from a crate. "The Karupunlin Pass is closed by order of the Vandi Council! Turn back or—" He stopped, squinting at the ragtag group emerging from the 'Death Pit'. "Wait. Did you lot just come through the Singing Mines?"

  "We did," Gourdy bellowed, stepping forward, his armor still stained with bck goblin ichor and violet crystal dust. "And we silenced the choir. The road is open." The militia lowered their weapons, staring at the group with a mix of awe and suspicion. They opened the gate slowly, the heavy timber groaning.

  "Welcome to Vandi," the captain said, pronouncing it with a hard 'i'—Van-Dye. "Though I don't know how you still have your skin attached."

  The caravan master, weeping with relief, put a hand on Gourdy’s shoulder. "We stop here," he sobbed. "I’ll give you the payout once I’ve had a beer and a priest. Thank you. Thank you all." The merchants peeled off, heading toward the militia outpost to file their reports and colpse. The Garden Gang and their two strays were left standing on the road, the contract fulfilled.

  "Well," Baby said, dusting a speck of ash from her otherwise immacute dress. "That wasn't so bad. I only almost died twice."

  "Three times," Artie corrected. "You forgot the bridge."

  "They cheated,," she chirped. "So it doesn't count."

  The ndscape of Vandi was aggressively wholesome. Gone were the jagged peaks and the industrial scars of the north. In their pce were rolling hills that looked like a giant had upholstered the world in gold velvet. Wheat fields stretched to the horizon, broken only by neat stone fences and the occasional farmhouse with a thatched roof. It smelled of baking bread, yeast, and honest manure.

  It was a functional, thriving civilization built on grain and trade, utterly unconcerned with the horrors lurking in the mountain behind it. "It’s beautiful," Talisa sighed, her stomach letting out a traitorous, audible growl that ruined the moment. Miz’ri ignored the scenery, her eyes fixed on the mercenaries. Now that the danger was gone, the professional mask of the Garden Gang was slipping.

  Gourdy and Artie were walking ahead, heads bent close together. The massive Half-Orc reached out, his hand resting on the small of Artie’s back—not a shove, but a gentle, guiding touch. Artie didn't flinch. He leaned into it, his shoulders dropping, the constant tension of the drow scout evaporating under the orc’s hand. He whispered something, and Gourdy chuckled, a low rumble that sounded affectionate.

  Miz’ri narrowed her eyes behind her goggles. Who are you two, really? her paranoia whispered. But then Artie looked up at the Orc, and the expression on his face wasn't conspiratorial. It was soft, the look of a man who had just walked through hell and found his safe harbor. Oh, Miz’ri realized, the thought nding with a strange thud. Perhaps we all have our secrets. She felt a sudden, inexplicable pang of envy. Not for the Orc—Void forbid—but for the ease of it. The quiet certainty of a hand on a back that didn't demand payment or submission.

  "They're cute, aren't they? The second they get to safety they get all soft." Baby chirped again, practically cooing. Miz’ri jumped. Baby had materialized beside her, smelling of ozone and expensive perfume. She gestured ahead. "Boys! Go handle the paperwork. Get us paid. We’ll meet you at the closest Inn to the east gate."

  Gourdy waved a hand without turning around. "Try not to burn down the town, Baby."

  "No promises!" the cheerful blonde said with a pyful flick of her skirts and a wink of her eye.

  As the men walked off with the Merchants in tow, Baby turned to the two women and the disguised skeleton. "Alright, dies. And Pappy. The boys are doing the boring stuff. Which leaves us with the important stuff."

  "Food," Talisa moaned, clutching her midsection. "Please. I feel like I'm eating my own ribs."

  "You can wait," Miz’ri snapped reflexively. "We need to secure lodging first. Security before comfort."

  "Oh, hush, you brooding buzzkill," Baby chided, looping her arm through Miz’ri’s rigid elbow. "The girl saved the day. She silenced a mountain. Buy her a nice meal, like some noodles or something."

  Miz’ri looked down at the sorceress attached to her arm, then at Talisa, who was looking at her with those big, pleading, starvation-eyes. "Noodles?" Miz’ri repeated. “What kind?”

  "Vandi does it best." Baby promised. "Hand-pulled. Spicy broth. Roasted vegetables…," she leaned in, "Come on grumpy girl, our heroine deserves the best, right?."

  Miz’ri looked at the retreating backs of Gourdy and Artie, their intimacy a private world she couldn't touch. Then she looked at Baby and Talisa. Two women who, against all odds, seemed to see her not as a monster, but as a person who might want lunch. The silence in her head was quiet. The prospect of sitting down with equals—women who fought, bled, and burned things—suddenly sounded better than any tactical advantage.

  "Fine," Miz’ri grunted, allowing Baby to steer her. "No seconds."

  "Deal," Baby beamed. "Come on, Talisa. Let’s go spend Miz’ri’s money."

  Talisa cheered, her fatigue forgotten, and hurried to catch up, grabbing Miz’ri’s other hand. "I have my own money!" Talisa protested, though she didn't let go. Miz’ri simply narrowed her eyes and put a hand on her coin purse.

  "Miz’ri, dear, like you don’t enjoy doting on her.” Baby ughed. “Come on Tali, before that little smirk in the corner of her scowl starts to become permanent." Baby pointed directly at the Elf’s face who swatted away her hand. Baby reached out and grabbed both Talisa and Miz’ri by the waist and practically shoved them forward. Dragged by a sorceress and a pilgrim, Miz’ri Niranath walked into the sunlight of Vandi, and for the first time in a long time, she didn't check the shadows for a knife.

  The noodle shop Baby found wasn't a building; it was an event.

  Tucked into a bustling side street of Vandi’s culinary district, it was an open-air pavilion draped in cheerful green canvas. Steam rose in thick, savory clouds from massive copper vats, carrying the scent of ginger, garlic, and slow-roasted pork. It was loud, crowded, and unapologetically alive.

  "Table for three!" Baby announced to the harried server, holding up three fingers. Then she pointed to the corner where Herkel was looming. "And a pce for the Coat Rack to stand where he won't scare the children."

  The server, a stout halfling woman, didn't even blink. "Corner post. Don't block the aisle. Sit."

  They were ushered to a low wooden table near the rail. Herkel took his position by the post, folding his arms and looking for all the world like a very tall, very morbid piece of furniture. Locals gnced at him, shrugged, and went back to their soup. In Vandi, if you weren't eating the grain or burning it, you were ignored.

  "I love this pce," Baby sighed, sliding onto the bench. "It smells like civilization."

  Miz’ri sat down opposite her, her back to the wall, eyes scanning the exits. "It smells like onions and body odor."

  "Same thing," Baby winked.

  Talisa practically fell onto the bench next to Miz’ri. She looked like she was about to cry tears of joy just from looking at the menu stes. "It’s real food," she whispered reverently. "Not trail rations. Not porridge. Actual food."

  "Order one of everything," Baby commanded. "No seconds, right Miz’ri?”

  "I meant one dish, one bowl!" Miz’ri growled though her hand didn't move to protect her purse.

  "Come on, honey, she deserves it." Baby said as she yanked Talisa to her side. “How could you say no to this sweet face?” Both of them gave the dark elf an overly rge, saccharine smile of begging.

  Miz cast her hands up, “Fine! Don't compin when we're eating crumbs tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Miz” Talisa wrapped her arms around Miz'ri in a warm hug for long enough until Miz had enough public dispys of affection, starting to squirm out of the grasp within a few seconds.

  “Whatever.” Miz replied while looking at the passing clouds. Inside the traitorous voice chided her for pulling away.

  When the food arrived—three steaming bowls of hand-pulled noodles in a broth so dark and rich it looked like liquid amber, topped with slices of roast pork and a soft-boiled egg—silence descended. For ten minutes, the only sounds were slurping, chewing, and Talisa’s occasional, almost obscene moans of delight.

  Miz’ri ate efficiently, her eyes darting between the street and her companions. She watched Baby pick at her cintro with delicate precision. She watched Talisa devour her noodles with a hunger that was honest and terrifying.

  "So," Baby said, finally pushing her bowl away and leaning back. "That was… intense back there. In the Forge."

  Talisa nodded, wiping broth from her chin. "The Conductor. I’ve never felt so much… sadness. It wasn't angry. It was just loud."

  "You did good, Tali," Baby said, her tone surprisingly serious. "I’ve seen Archmages choke when the resonance gets that high. You walked right into it."

  "I had to," Talisa murmured, looking down at her empty bowl. "It was my duty."

  "Duty," Miz’ri repeated, the word tasting sour. "You use that word like a shield, Talisa. But back there? That wasn't duty. That was power."

  Talisa flinched. "It’s not power. It’s service. I am a vessel. The power comes from the Father, not me."

  "Bullshit," Baby chimed in, swirling her tea. "I saw you. You weren't channeling anything. You were commanding. There’s a difference."

  Talisa shifted uncomfortably, picking at a splinter on the table. "I… I don't feel like a commander. I feel like I'm just trying to keep the cart on the road."

  "And yet," Miz’ri leaned in, her red eyes intense. "You silenced a mountain. You defied a Warlord. You are not the sheep you pretend to be."

  Talisa looked up, her blue eyes clouded with confusion. "I don't know what I am anymore. Before I left Julisia, everything was written down. My life was a script. Now? I’m improvising. And it’s terrifying."

  "Improvisation is where the fun lives," Baby grinned. "So, tell us. Who wrote the script? Who made the girl who apologizes to rocks?"

  Talisa took a long sip of her tea, staring into the dark liquid as if it held the reflection of a life she had left behind.

  "I grew up on Censure Street," she began, her voice soft. "In the capital. The Magleby estate. It’s… big. Eight generations live there."

  "Eight?" Baby raised an eyebrow. "That’s a lot of birthdays."

  "Only three generations have a pulse," Talisa crified. "The rest are… present. In the crypts, or serving in the house. My Great-Great-Grandmother poured my tea every morning. She’s been dead for sixty years."

  Miz’ri grimaced and then tried to correct her face. "Charming."

  "It’s normal for us," Talisa defended, though her heart wasn't in it. "In Julisia, the dead don't leave. They serve. They plow the fields so the living can study. They guard the borders so the living don't have to bleed. It’s… peaceful. We don't have wars. We don't have famine. We just have… quiet."

  She looked out at the bustling street of Vandi, at the children running and shouting. "I never realized how quiet it was until I left."

  "And you?" Miz’ri asked. "Where do you fit in this bustling rabbit’s burrow of humanity?"

  "I’m the youngest," Talisa said. "Two Older Brothers. Davin’s 4 years older than me, and Patrick is 2 so that makes me the baby of the family. My parents… they love me, they raised me with love abound. I know they did. I had the best clothes, all the books I could read, food aplenty. But…they never let me really grow beyond that. Never let me out of their sight. I always had every opportunity I thought I wanted. All the joys of a life promised was presented to me. I never had to work, I never had to worry…” she said with a heavy sigh, “But that also meant I had to teach myself the joy of honest work. To learn so te in life what it means to truly worry about losing something precious. I didn’t learn any of that until I left home…”

  "Sounds terrible," Baby drawled sarcastically. "Torture."

  "I didn’t realize how much of a cage it was until I saw how other people lived." Talisa snapped, surprising them both. "People so capable of taking care of themselves while I struggled to walk a straight line down the road. Like all the lessons I’ve learned so far mean nothing outside the bone-white walls of Julisia. I’m surprised they let me go on this journey considering how they’ve talked about their…investment."

  She traced the rim of her cup. "I overheard them once. My mother and father. I had just begun my regur bleeding the spring before and that seemed to have given them so many ideas." She gestured vaguely to her chest, blushing. "They were talking about my future. Not about what I wanted to study, or who I wanted to be. They were talking about how big my hips are."

  Miz’ri narrowed her eyes. "Go on." Baby leaned in.

  "They called me a 'fertile field'," Talisa whispered, the shame of the memory burning her cheeks "They said I would be good for a litter. That I needed to be matched quickly, before I got 'ideas'. They had my whole life mapped out on a ledger. Marriage at eighteen. First child at nineteen. Eight children by thirty. And then… when I was used up… I would die, and my body would be given to the Ministry to serve as a high-quality bor drone."

  She looked up, tears standing in her eyes. "My spirit hadn't even left my body yet, and they were already counting the coins my corpse would earn. I feel like livestock, Miz. Pampered, loved livestock. But livestock all the same. You know better than anyone else how real that is…" Talisa touched her stomach where the mark of her death y etched into her skin. Her so-called ‘owners’ clearly used the brand on their property to a powerfully debilitating effect.

  Miz’ri stared at her. She had expected a story of religious zealotry, of strict dogma. She hadn't expected this—the cold, industrial commodification of a daughter by the people who were supposed to protect her. A life written by cruel familial hands. It felt disturbingly familiar.

  "So you ran," Miz’ri said softly.

  "I walked," Talisa corrected. "I volunteered for the Pilgrimage. It was the only way out. The only way to buy time for me to think, to decide who I am. If I take Herkel to Vigil, if I complete the Rite… I earn a pce in the Priesthood. I earn some degree of autonomy. I don't just have to be their ‘fertile field’. I can be a Keeper, I can have purpose beyond what comes out of me." She ughed, a brittle, breaking sound. "But every step I take away from Censure Street… I feel like I'm doing something wrong. I have doubts, Miz. Terrible doubts. About my Parents, the Ministry, The Cycle, and…and…Theodore…" Spinning the little silver ring around her finger in raw anxiety.

  She looked at Miz’ri, her eyes pleading for understanding. "Am I wrong? For wanting to be more than a field to be worked until it's barren?"

  Miz’ri felt a surge of cold fury—not at the girl, but for her. She reached across the table, covering Talisa’s trembling hand with her own. "You are not wrong.” Miz’ri stated, her voice hard as diamond. "You are no plot of nd. And anyone who tries to put a plow to you without your permission will answer to me."

  Talisa squeezed her hand back, hard. Baby watched them, her pyful smile gone. She looked at Talisa, then at Miz’ri, seeing the invisible chains that bound them both to their pasts.

  "Well," Baby said quietly, lifting her cup. "To hell with Censure Street. And to hell with the script of life."

  "To hell with them," Miz’ri agreed, raising her imaginary gss.

  Talisa wiped her eyes and lifted her tea. "To hell with them," she whispered, and for the first time, she sounded like she meant it.

  Baby set her tea cup down with a sharp cck. The steam from the noodle bowls was still rising, but the air around the table had changed. The sorceress looked between Miz’ri’s defensive tension and Talisa’s tear-streaked vulnerability, and her expression softened into something rare for her: genuine, grounded authority.

  "You both speak about your lives like they’re stories someone else is writing," Baby said, her voice dropping an octave. Gone was the flirtatious lilt. "I spent twenty years in that library. I know how it feels to be a character in someone else’s py."

  She leaned forward, her jewelry jingling. "I was born into a house of schors who in all their vast stores of knowledge didn’t know what to do with a child born somewhere between man and woman. Well they decided I was man enough so they raised me to be a Gentleman Archmage. They gave me a name that felt like a stone in my mouth, dressed me in stiff robes, and sent me to a prestigious academy to be the 'son' they needed to carry on the lineage."

  Talisa blinked, her own sorrows momentarily paused by the intensity in Baby’s eyes.

  "Drumspire Academy was supposed to be my cage, but I turned it into my boratory," Baby continued, a fierce pride lighting up her face. "Not for biology—for me. I spent my years there trying on new identities like they were silk scarves. I changed my face with minor illusions, I shifted my voice, I experimented with transmogrifying magic but in the end I would always end up back in my flesh. I ck the practical skills with that discipline to make any changes permanent. Though, when I asked the librarians to call me 'she' just to see if the world would end. It didn't. It felt like finally being able to breathe after drowning."

  She smiled, but it was a sharp, jagged thing. "Word got back to my Father, of course. My parents didn't just cut me off; they tried to have me 're-educated'. They said the investment was failing. So, I did the only logical thing."

  “Did you kill your parents?" Miz’ri guessed, her red eyes tracking Baby’s hands. “Burn them alive?”

  "No, I don’t know or care if they are even still alive. I burned everything they ever told me to be," Baby corrected. "I walked out of that rotten institution with nothing but the clothes on my back and a name I’d picked out of a storybook. I tried mundane jobs for a while—tailoring, serving, brewing—but I was miserable because I was still trying to fit. I only found my magic when I stopped trying to be an 'Archmage's Son' and started being a Rowdy Witch. I rejected the binary, I rejected the lineage, and I rejected the shame they tried to force on me."

  She reached out, taking Talisa’s hand in her left and Miz’ri’s in her right. Her touch was warm, humming with the low-grade static of her power. "I was born anew the day I stopped caring if my father recognized me. I went by a few names in my wanderings until I met Artie three years ago when I was a mess. But we stuck together. And then we found Gourdy a year back. After that we became the Garden Gang! With them I'm not someone anymore, I'm Baby Bok Choy! Fiery mage of a powerful mercenary company. And helping Artie fall for that big, beautiful oaf? That’s my success story. I’m free, dies. Entirely, happily, loudly myself."

  A stray tear escaped Baby’s eye, but she didn't wipe it away. She looked at them both with a defiant, joyous crity. "Thank you for listening. It’s been a while since I said all that out loud."

  The silence that followed wasn't heavy like the Crystal Forge; it was contemptive. Talisa looked at Baby with a new kind of reverence—not for a goddess, but for a woman who had simply decided to be happy.

  "You're amazing," Talisa whispered, squeezing Baby’s hand. "I wish I had half your courage."

  "You walked into a sonic wind, Tali. You've got plenty of courage. You're just using it for other people right now," Baby winked. Then, she turned her gaze to the dark elf. "What about you, Miz? We’ve heard about the velvet cage and the rotten academy. What about the spider's web?"

  Miz’ri felt the temperature in her blood drop. The mention of her past always felt like a physical weight on her chest.

  "She’s told me a little about her family; she's the baby just like me.” Talisa added softly, emboldened by the camaraderie. "But all I really know about the Reaches Below is scary stories and rumors. Though from how you described your Mother, I’d be terrified to meet her in person. Tell me, what was she like?" she trailed off, seeing the look on Miz’ri’s face.

  Miz’ri pulled her hand back from the table, her fingers curling into a fist. Her expression went stone-cold, the "Shade" returning to her features with a suddenness that made the nearby diners look away. "My history is a grave, one that I rarely visit." Miz’ri said, her voice like grinding gss. "I thought you respected graves, Pilgrim."

  “Miz, we didn't mean—" Talisa started, reaching out.

  "Don't," Miz’ri snapped, standing up abruptly. The chair scraped harshly against the stone floor. "My past isn't a 'script' to rewrite or a 'puzzle' you two ninnies can solve. It’s a wound, and one that will never heal.” Her gre was as cold as ice, red eyes connecting straight with Talisa’s trembling blues. “I told you I would protect you, Talisa, and you agreed to the price. I didn't say I would invite you into my head." The tension was a physical pressure now, threatening to shatter the fragile peace they had built. Miz’ri looked like she was ready to draw her sword—not at them, but at the memories they were forcing her to face.

  "ANYWAYS!" Baby shouted, cpping her hands together with a burst of bright pink sparks that made several people jump. "We are getting far too moody for such a sunny day! I can feel my hair starting to frizz from all this drama."

  She stood up, gracefully sliding out from the bench and grabbing her staff. "Miz’ri is right. Talk is cheap, and we have a city to explore. I bet the boys have already found an inn, and knowing Gourdy, he’s probably already argued with the innkeeper twice. We should go find them before they get us banned from the district."

  Talisa looked between them, her heart sinking at Miz’ri’s sudden wall of ice, but she followed Baby’s lead. As Miz’ri settled the bill with the halfling server, she looked over to Talisa who stood by the railing, staring out at the golden fields of Vandi. She watched the two women walk toward the street—the sorceress who had found her truth, and the pilgrim who was just beginning to seek hers.

  Miz’ri felt a strange, uncomfortable sensation in her chest. For the first time, she wasn't just seeing them as "lesser" beings or useful tools. They had depths. They had scars that matched her own, even if the shapes were different. Miz’ri adjusted her goggles and followed them into the heart of the city, her shadow stretching long and dark behind her.