The kingdom of Elgaria was a realm steeped in ancient magic, forgotten gods, and extremely poor signage.

  Take, for instance, the weather-beaten wooden sign nailed crookedly to a tree just outside the village of Mudbottom. It read, “Welcome to Mudbottom: Don’t Feed the Chickens After Midnight. Seriously.” Below that, in a different handwriting—likely the same mad artisan—someone had added, “The Goblins Don’t Like It.”

  This was the first thing Sir Cedric of Thistledown saw as he emerged from a hedge, armor clanking like a silverware drawer in an earthquake.

  “Well,” he muttered, brushing leaves from his tabard, “at least we’re not lost.”

  Behind him, a shadow slipped through the brush without a sound. Dorian, who claimed to be a rogue but had the suspicious cleanliness of a tax accountant, emerged with a dramatic twirl of his black cloak.

  “We were lost,” Dorian said. “You just didn’t notice.”

  “You call it lost,” Cedric huffed, “I call it tactical wandering.”

  Moments later, a third figure stepped daintily from the underbrush, robes pristine despite the mud—thanks, presumably, to magic. Lyra, sorceress, scholar, and professional eye-roller, took one look at the sign and sighed.

  “I can already tell this will end in fire.”

  “Hopefully their fire,” Cedric said, drawing his sword. It made a heroic schwing! noise, which he’d practiced for weeks.

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  Dorian glanced around. “So, where’s the danger? A proper adventure requires a threat. Bandits? Undead? Mildly upset ducks?”

  As if summoned by narrative convenience, a high-pitched screech rang through the trees. A rustle. Then a stubby green figure burst from the bushes wielding a bent fork like a dagger.

  “GOBLIN!” shouted Cedric, far too excited.

  “Dinner fork!” added Lyra, slightly concerned.

  The goblin lunged for Dorian, who sidestepped with the grace of a cat avoiding a bath. Cedric charged with a war cry that mostly sounded like, “YAAAAA-something-stuck-in-my-boot!” and bashed the goblin with his shield. The creature flew ten feet and hit another signpost, this one reading: “Beware: Goblin Infestation. Do Not Engage Unless You’re Feeling Lucky.”

  Three more goblins poured from the trees, this time carrying a rusty saucepan, a broken broom, and what might once have been a violin.

  Lyra raised a hand. “By the Third Flame of Alzareth and the Sacred Winds of Fl—”

  “Just blast them!” Cedric interrupted, deflecting a saucepan.

  With an eye-roll that might’ve caused a small earthquake somewhere, Lyra summoned a fireball and launched it at the goblins. It exploded with a WHOMP, sending them cartwheeling into a suspiciously soft pile of moss (which glowed briefly, revealing a hidden sign: “Free Goblin Disposal Zone Sponsored by Timmery Signs Co.”)

  Dorian tiptoed over to the pile and prodded a groaning goblin with the tip of his dagger. “Still breathing. Must be defective.”

  “Loot?” Cedric asked.

  “Loot,” Dorian confirmed, already rifling through a small goblin sack.

  They found:

  7 copper coins

  1 questionable mushroom

  A half-eaten scroll titled “How 2 Speak Human Good”

  And a hand-drawn map marked with the words “Shiny Thing Here” and a crude X.

  Lyra scanned the map. “This X is suspiciously close to the edge of the Here Be Teeth forest.”

  Cedric grinned. “That’s exactly the sort of place where treasure should be.”

  “I’m still hung up on the fact that one of them was armed with a violin,” Dorian muttered.

  As the trio set off toward their next inevitable disaster, they passed yet another sign nailed to a tree at a jaunty angle:

  “Treasure Ahead: May Contain Teeth.”

  Nobody mentioned it, but all three silently nodded. The sign guy? He got around.