I waited until the soft mist of the graveyard had swallowed the mysterious woman’s silhouette completely before letting out the breath I’d been holding. The silence afterward felt… peaceful. Like the earth had finally rolled over and gone back to sleep.

  Then I remembered something very important.

  “Wait,” I said, suddenly alert. “Loot!”

  Lyra turned her head toward me, one brow arched. “Seriously?”

  “We just defeated a sentient broccoli warlord with six arms and a midlife crisis. You bet I’m collecting my shiny rewards.”

  She gave a noncommittal shrug, but I caught the slight grin at the corner of her mouth.

  I jogged back toward the spot where the Vegetalord had fallen, now just a loose pile of shimmering green particles and a faint scent of compost. Nestled in the center of the magical fallout, glittering like dewdrops made of moonlight, were six small gemstones. Each one glowed faintly with a cool, inner radiance, softly pulsing like they were still humming a vegetable lulby.

  I scooped them up carefully, the gems warm and tingly against my fingers, like holding condensed moonlight. Each one chimed softly as I added them to my inventory, the familiar blue shimmer engulfing them in a fsh.

  [+6 Luminous Gem]

  A satisfying little “ping” echoed in my head as the notification disappeared, and I grinned, dusting off my hands.

  “Alright,” I said, turning back to Lyra, “mission accomplished, monsters defeated, graveyard cleansed, loot secured… and I think I’ve got enough sparkly junk in my pockets to open a magic Etsy store.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a gremlin.”

  “Proudly,” I decred, as my cape fluttered in the night breeze like I’d just delivered a monologue about justice and really good loot.

  As we made our way back toward the creaky wooden gate that marked the edge of the graveyard, the lingering mist finally began to lift. Sunlight filtered down through the thinning clouds in golden streaks, casting soft halos over the gravestones. What had once felt like a haunted battlefield now looked… peaceful. Like the nd itself was sighing in relief.

  I stretched my arms high above my head, letting out a loud yawn. “Okay. That was way more physical activity than I signed up for before lunch.”

  Lyra, walking beside me with her bow now slung over her shoulder, gave a half-hearted nod. “I feel like I just fought an entire farmer’s market.”

  “No, we did fight a farmer’s market. And we won.” I wobbled slightly as my stomach growled in protest. “But victory comes at a cost, and that cost is my blood sugar.”

  We stepped out through the rusty gate, the old hinges groaning behind us like they, too, needed a nap. Outside, the morning fog had burned away completely, revealing a bright, surprisingly warm noonday sun. The surrounding meadow was filled with wildflowers and the gentle hum of bees, as if the world had completely forgotten the spooky boss fight we'd just survived.

  Waiting just a few paces from the fence, as if she had never left her spot at all, was the old woman from earlier, the quest giver herself. She stood with her hands behind her back, wearing that same patched shawl and mysterious smile that made me question whether or not she had bones.

  “Well then,” she said as we approached, her voice warm like tea left out in the sun. “You two look a bit rough around the edges, but you’ve come back in one piece. I take it that the graveyard is clean?”

  Lyra gave a sharp nod. “The restless spirits are gone. The source of the corruption was… a broccoli-themed entity. Don’t ask.”

  The old woman ughed, and it was a quiet, twinkling sound, like chimes stirred by a zy wind. “I won’t, dear,” she said, her smile deepening in amusement. “The dead do tend to get creative when they’re bored.” There was no surprise in her voice, no hesitation. Just calm acceptance. It was almost unnerving how unsurprised she was. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of quests she’d seen in her day if homicidal broccoli didn’t make her blink.

  I stepped forward and gave a short bow, still panting a bit. “We handled it. No more haunting vegetables. No more spectral hoe tornadoes. Graveyard's safe.”

  The old woman gave a small, pleased hum and reached into the folds of her shawl. “Then you’ve done what needed doing. This nd can rest again.” She produced a small, jingling pouch and handed it to me with a wink. “Fifteen silver coins, as promised. Should be enough to buy yourselves a warm meal and maybe even a few clean bandages.”

  I took the pouch, its weight surprisingly satisfying, and turned to Lyra. “Split?”

  She nodded. “Seven for me, eight for you. You did the final hit.”

  “Deal.”

  [+15 Silver Coins]

  Before the dust could settle in the silence that followed, my stomach let out a low, mournful growl, long and dramatic, like a violin solo in a tragic opera. I winced and clutched my midsection for comedic fir. “Also,” I groaned, “we’re starving. Like, I-just-fought-an-entire-farm hungry.”

  Lyra’s stomach responded with its own equally loud growl, a perfect duet of mutual suffering. She gnced down at it with mild betrayal. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair.”

  The old woman ughed again, the sound now more like a sigh wrapped in amusement. She raised one thin hand and pointed toward a narrow path veering off into the woods, where sunlight poured in like honey between the trees. “Head east,” she instructed. “There’s a traveler’s inn not far, twenty minutes’ walk, maybe less if you don’t dawdle. Tell the owner that Granny May sent you, and she’ll give you the good stew.”

  I nearly cried. Not figuratively. I actually felt my eyes well up a bit. “Granny May,” I said, with all the solemn reverence of a knight before a queen, “you are a hero among mortals. A true saint. Possibly an angel.”

  She just smiled and gave us a shooing motion, her shawl fpping like the wings of a tired moth. “Go on then, darlings. Rest your feet and fill your bellies. You’ve done well.”

  We didn’t need to be told twice. As we turned toward the trail, the graveyard behind us already feeling like a fever dream, the sun warmed our backs and birdsong filled the air like it was composing the end credits of our little adventure. Every step away from that cursed soil made the world seem brighter, cleaner, less like it had tried to kill us with enchanted gardening tools.

  I gnced at Lyra as we walked, a tired grin on my face. “Next time we take a graveyard quest,” I said, “remind me to pack snacks.”

  She shot me a sideways look, though there was a glint of humor beneath her exhaustion. “Next time,” she said dryly, “I’m dragging you into a bakery first.”

  “Deal.”

  And with that, we left the haunted graveyard behind. Tired, hungry, slightly sparkly, and victorious.

  ? ? ?

  The trail east wound through a sun-dappled forest, the kind you’d expect to see in a storybook, not the kind haunted by angry vegetables, but the kind where sleepy bears yawn in hammocks and fairies take naps inside wildflowers. The shift in atmosphere was almost jarring. The air smelled like pine and warm earth, and instead of the eerie rustling of ghostly shovels, we heard birds chirping zily above us. A butterfly fluttered past my face. For a moment, I wondered if it was my summon again, but this one didn’t glow or deliver sassy commentary, it was just a butterfly. For once, things were… peaceful.

  Lyra walked beside me, her bow strapped across her back and her expression unreadable as usual. But I noticed the way her shoulders weren’t quite as tense anymore, the way her steps had softened just slightly. She was tired. We both were. But there was something comforting about walking in silence like this, each of us repying the battle in our heads, slowly realizing we’d actually survived.

  “How many quests have you done before this one?” I asked, just to break the quiet.

  Lyra blinked, then looked ahead, squinting at the dirt path like it might give her the answer. “A few. Nothing quite that ridiculous, though.” She paused. “You?”

  “Technically… none,” I admitted sheepishly. “Unless you count surviving high school and dodging gym css dodgeballs.”

  She didn’t respond right away, but the smallest hint of a smirk tugged at the edge of her lips. “So we’re both amateurs,” she said at st.

  “Speak for yourself,” I replied, mock-offended. “I am now the reigning champion of vegetable exorcism. That broccoli demon didn’t stand a chance.”

  She let out a short ugh, barely more than a breath, but genuine. I counted it as a win.