Fourth Entry

The shrine was quiet in the early afternoon light, its stone facade catching the sun like it was trying to stay warm. She didn’t look up when I entered—just gestured gently for me to join her. I knelt down more cautiously than I expected. Despite all my mixed feelings about the gods, Sister Garaele gave me no reason to distrust her in particular. I had asked her with very few, very low words about the nature of this light she happened to see in me. She nodded and sat before me within the open shrine, beginning a quiet ritual over a brass bowl filled with curling incense and a faint trace of firelight.

I didn’t speak right away. I let her continue. The flickering of the flame caught my eye, and as she muttered prayers under her breath, the incense began to swirl with unnatural purpose. Within the smoke, shapes took form—flickering, fleeting things like memories trying to remember themselves.

That’s when I saw him. A svirfneblin—kind-faced, though I didn’t recognize him. He was gently setting a crying baby into a little basket, wrapping it carefully in a blanket far too large for it. And on that blanket, embroidered with neat, loving stitches, was a word written in Gnomish. I couldn’t even pronounce it. I’ve studied the language, but never spoken it aloud.

Still… I recognized the blanket.

There was a robe I used to wear as a child, long before my bones were even done growing. Scratchy, makeshift, always too big. But it had those embroidered stitches sewn inside the lining—frayed with time, but still somewhat there. It had never occurred to me it might mean something.

A name? My name…?

I don’t know how long I stood there watching. Sister Garaele had begun to speak again, her voice distant, explaining the limits of this form of divination. Something about how it reveals memories and crafts them beyond symbols, like the legend on a map. I wasn’t listening. I was too busy staring at the baby. At the way it wouldn’t stop crying.

And then, the smoke shifted.

Dark shapes emerged—wisps of shadow, not fully formed. They came quickly, too quickly, like a nightmare just beginning to take shape. They snatched the baby and disappeared into the fog. The kind deep gnome dove forward, but it was too late. The basket lay empty. Silent. Then faded.

My throat was tight.

That could’ve been just a random vision. A false memory shaped by the crazed retellings of my unreliable caretakers. But I felt it in my marrow—this wasn’t random. This was my story, or a small part of it. And for once, it wasn’t told through sermons and screams. Just a picture in smoke, and silence.

Sister Garaele’s voice brought me back again. She was speaking about sorcerers now—how their magic doesn’t always come from gods, or bloodlines, or bargains. Sometimes it just happens. A cosmic glitch. A ripple in the weave. “A surprise from the universe,” she said.

I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear that until she said it.

When the incense faded, I stayed seated, breath still shallow from whatever that vision had stirred loose. Garaele looked apologetic—said that if she had rarer materials, she could try a more powerful divination. Something more concrete. But for now, this was all she could offer.

Strangely, it was enough.

Even the faint possibility that my magic is a fluke—that I wasn’t chosen, but simply struck by lightning in the wrong place at the wrong time—that was comforting. It gave me enough hope to walk away with lighter steps than I arrived.

On the road back, the sun was setting, and the air was cooler. I found myself reaching for the memory of that gnome’s face, though it was already fading. I wanted to remember his expression longer.

By the time I reached the camp, Super had already spotted me and came bouncing over, eyes wide with some new curiosity. “Spar with me?” he said eagerly, hopping once like it was a form of punctuation. “I wanna see all your tricks.”

I smiled—just a little.

Yes, I thought before I agreed. Maybe that’s all this is. Tricks.

It felt odd, being greeted not with suspicion or questioning, but with excitement. Despite his “cool and aloof” front, Super was practically vibrating with anticipation. He jabbed the air a few times in demonstration, then wiggled his fingers at me like he was trying to goad magic out of my sleeves. “Just a friendly spar,” he had chirped. “Not to the death.”

“That’s… a low bar for friendliness.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. I don’t think he blinked once during the entire exchange.

We found a small clearing just outside the cave mouth, soft earth underfoot and plenty of space between the trees. The others kept half an eye on us, but no one interfered. Maybe they were curious to see what I’d do. Maybe they just wanted the distraction.

He went first—lunging, fast. Far faster than I expected. I ducked, barely, and felt the wind of his palm brush past my cheek. My pulse spiked. He came again, not aiming to harm, but testing. Watching.

So I gave him something to watch.

I conjured a small, focused orb of thunder—not the full storm, just a flicker, a spark—and let it crack near his feet. It wasn’t meant to hit. Just warn. The ground lay singed and the concussive clap rattled the loose leaves of surrounding trees. Super let out a delighted croak and sprang backward with a flourish.

He was… having fun?

We traded motions like that for a few minutes. Dodging, dancing, learning. His style was unpredictable and bizarre, a mix of acrobatics and instinct. Mine was restrained, reactive, precise. I wasn’t trying to win. I was trying to stay whole.

But something happened as we moved. Something subtle. I laughed. Not a full laugh—just a small, surprised thing that broke out of me when Super slid across the ground on his belly like a skipping stone to avoid a gust of wind I hadn’t meant to summon. I swallowed immediately, almost expecting that the simple act of chuckling would summon Overseer’s hand from the ether to strike me across the face. But nothing.

He gestured at my reaction, loud and unbothered. “See? Not scary.”

And maybe that was the point.

By the time we stopped, I was winded but… clearer. Like shaking dust off an old cloth. I bowed my head to him, hands still buzzing faintly with leftover magic.

“Thank you,” I said.

He tilted his head. “For losing to me?”

“No. For asking.”

And for not being afraid of me.

———

I think something shifted in the days after that spar. Not just in me, but between us—me and them. Maybe it was the way Super paraded around afterward declaring that I was “a lightning witch” with zero reverence in his voice but a respectful smile nonetheless. Or maybe it was that, for the first time, I stopped shrinking into myself so much when anyone walked close.

Syldithas was the first one I caught, regarding this revelation. He wandered near where I was sketching, arms folded, watching the goblins organize under Ragar’s barked orders. After a long silence, he muttered, “Scary, but effective.”

I raised a brow. “Ragar?”

He glanced down, then gave a toothy, embarrassed grin. “You, when you’re in battle. But that’s not a bad thing.”

And that was it. No deeper conversation, just that acknowledgement, casual and fleeting. But it stuck with me.

Finnegan caught me humming one of his songs under my breath the next morning. He gasped like I’d just revealed a scandalous secret and insisted I sing with him, which I refused. Twice. He tried again later in the day. Then again the next. I never gave in, but I think I missed the absurdity of it all when he finally stopped asking.

Ragar never said anything directly to me, as she was more keen to “converse” with anyone who was willing to snap back at her, namely Syldithas. But her presence was steady. Constant. She took over patrolling our perimeter without asking, taught the goblins hand signals for different enemies, and always made sure I was never standing closest to the cave entrance when we slept. She never looked at me when she did it, but I noticed. I think that’s how she offers comfort—by making it unspoken.

As for Raph’æl…

I don’t know if it was on purpose or not, but he stopped resting near me after my visit to the town. Not in a cruel way—he was never cruel. Just… distant. He seemed quieter than usual, retreating into private moments of prayer or quiet reflection when he wasn’t tending wounds or trying to keep Finnegan out of trouble.

But he still looked at me. When he thought I wasn’t paying attention. When I looked down as I affixed components to my wand or pretended to be listening to someone else. I’d catch him out of the corner of my eye, gaze lingering a little too long, expression unreadable.

I don’t know what he was seeing in me or thinking about back then. I should ask him someday.

Although with how things are faring in the present day… I’m a bit afraid to find out the answer.

By the end of our fifth day in the goblin den, Ragar had somehow managed the unthinkable: thirteen goblins had agreed to follow us. Not out of fear, nor just to chase the next free meal, but out of some strange, begrudging respect for her no-nonsense command. I’m not sure if that makes her brilliant or terrifying. Likely both.

Smeak, on the other hand, continues to be a walking lesson in misplaced confidence. We made the mistake of letting him lead us to Cragmaw Castle. Every direction he had given us was “left,” even when there was no path to the left. At one point, we circled the same thicket three times before Syldithas lost his patience and tried to triangulate our position using the moss on nearby trees. Super remained unfazed, eating a handful of beetles he insisted were “trail rations.” I am increasingly convinced he is the only one among us who is never confused.

Despite the detours, spirits remained high. Thirteen goblins and six adventurers marching to reclaim a fortress—gods, we must have looked absurd. But for the first time in a long while, absurdity felt like camaraderie. Like the beginning of something bigger than ourselves.

Maybe this will go better than expected, I thought then.

Not so much now.