Part I: Last Call and Bad Decisions
The Welcoming Hand was as loud as ever.
Rain drummed on the windows. Laughter rolled off the rafters. Someone in the corner was playing a flute badly enough to be arrested. And behind the bar, a two-headed ogre named Gertrum (both heads named Gertrum) was juggling mugs and insults in equal measure.
Talia Vey sat at her usual corner table, boots on the bench, coat slung over a rafter like a wet flag, and a mug of something dark and dangerous in one hand. She was three drinks past cautious, and two away from reckless.
Perfect balance.
Deacon was off doing something grim with crossbow bolts, and Jandar—thank the gods—had sailed off to “secure trade routes,” which usually meant conning nobles and charming tavern owners. For once, she had the Hand to herself.
Until the door burst open.
Rain and wind howled in. So did the goblin.
He was barely three feet tall, dripping wet, wearing a cloak made of mismatched pelts, a crown that looked suspiciously like a broken chamberpot, and he was flanked by two bigger goblins in piecemeal armor. His eyes glowed with overconfidence and possibly fermented mushroom wine.
He pointed at the bar and declared:
“I, Chieftain Bloggo the Unbent, demand the strongest drink this house can conjure, and a worthy foe to match wits and livers with!”
The bar went silent.
Gertrum (left head) said, “No pets on the furniture.”
Gertrum (right head) added, “...Unless they tip.”
Bloggo turned, scanned the room, and spotted Talia—half-finished drink, half-lowered brow, full smirk.
“You! Woman of scar and sass. You look like you’ve swallowed bad luck and spit it back with interest.”
She blinked. “Thanks?”
“I challenge you,” he said, puffing out his tiny chest, “to the ancient rite of kingship: The Goblet Gauntlet.”
A pause.
Gertrum (left head) whispered, “That’s not a real thing.”
Gertrum (right head) replied, “It is now.”
Talia sighed, finished her drink, and stood up.
“Alright, Chief Bathroom-Crown. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The tavern exploded with cheers.
A table was cleared. Mugs were slammed down. Someone lit a candle dramatically.
The rules were unclear. The drinks were murky. And at least one of them may have contained a pickled eel.
Talia didn’t care.
Drink for drink, round for round, she kept up with Bloggo. The little goblin matched her shot for shot, only occasionally falling off his stool. He told increasingly ridiculous stories of leading goblin raids on lighthouses and converting cows to worship mud gods.
Talia, for her part, shared nothing—just raised her mug and kept the grin.
Halfway through round ten, Bloggo stood, swayed, and pointed.
“By right of drink and destiny... you have bested me.”
“Clearly,” Talia slurred, barely upright.
“Then by the laws of my people—you are Chieftess now!”
“Wait, wh—”
The goblins threw flower petals and confetti from somewhere. One blew a horn. Bloggo passed out under the table. And Talia’s head hit the bar with a thunk.
She woke up the next morning in a jungle cave.
On a throne made of bones, coconuts, and driftwood.
Wearing the chamberpot crown.
“...Oh no.”
Outside, hundreds of goblins chanted:
“ALL HAIL TALIA THE UNBENT!”
Part II: The Goblin Council Will Now Come to Order
Talia Vey had faced sea monsters, black-market necromancers, and one cursed mayonnaise golem. But nothing had prepared her for goblin politics with a hangover.
She sat slumped on her throne—a wildly unstable pile of bamboo, rope, driftwood, and at least one ribcage—wearing the chamberpot crown at a defiant tilt. Her hair was still wet. Her boots were gone. And someone had tied a ceremonial dead parrot to her shoulder as a symbol of her rank.
“Can I abdicate?” she croaked.
The goblin scribe standing to her left gasped and clutched a bundle of scrolls to his chest.
“By mud-law, the Unbent may not bend!” he squeaked. “To step down is to step in—and nobody wants that. It’s symbolic. And literal.”
Talia massaged her temples. “Great. Fantastic. Who’s in charge of coffee around here?”
Three goblins ran off shouting, “The queen desires hot bean water!”
Another climbed up the side of the throne and shoved a scroll in her face.
“Today’s schedule, Your Majesticness!”
The parchment read:
First Royal Squabble: Who owns the left half of the sacred toad?
Second Royal Decree: Approve or deny “knife juggling with the fire rats” as a school activity.
Third Royal Duel: Pick a side in the duel between Gnashtooth and Gnashtooth over who’s really Gnashtooth.
Talia stared.
“I’m not doing any of this.”
The scribe beamed. “Very good, Queen! A bold decree of sovereign indifference!”
She tried to stand, only for the throne to creak ominously. A ceremonial gong was struck, which startled her into sitting back down.
“This is absurd,” she muttered.
“Yes,” said the goblin scribe, “but it is tradition.”
A group of advisors filed in, each more ridiculous than the last: one wore a helmet made of spoons, another carried a battle standard made from laundry, and the third had a live possum strapped to his chest “for diplomacy.”
They all bowed.
The spoon-helm one stepped forward. “Oh Glorious Crown-Gobbler, First of Her Muck—”
“No.”
“—we bring urgent news from the Mudwatch!”
Talia blinked. “What’s the Mudwatch?”
The possum goblin raised a hand. “We watch mud. Make sure it’s still there.”
“...Of course you do.”
Spoonhelm continued. “There are... stirrings. Hobgoblin stirrings. From the north ridge. Big ones. Wearing uniforms. Looking real stabby.”
Talia sighed and rubbed her eyes. “And I suppose I’m expected to lead you into glorious battle?”
The goblins all nodded enthusiastically.
She looked around.
They adored her.
They actually believed she could lead them. Even if she had no idea how she’d gotten here, or what she'd said while blackout drunk, somewhere in the haze she must've convinced them she was a goddess of tactics and fire.
She sighed, stood (carefully), and adjusted the chamberpot crown.
“Alright. Get me coffee, a map, and someone who can form a coherent sentence.”
The goblins cheered.
A war drum was struck.
The dead parrot fell off her shoulder.
“And someone bury this.”
Part III: The Art of Goblin War
The training field—if it could be called that—was a sun-bleached clearing in the jungle, surrounded by spears stuck in the dirt, various explosive “surprises,” and what might’ve been a ceremonial boulder-launcher (currently stuck in a tree).
Talia stood with arms crossed, a stick in one hand like a pointer, and the remains of her hangover clinging to her like an ill-fitting cloak.
“Alright,” she said, “we have a few hours before stab-happy hobgoblins show up. So today, we’re going to learn something wild and dangerous.”
A hundred goblins leaned forward, eyes wide.
“We’re going to learn how to not immediately die.”
There were gasps. Someone fainted.
Talia paced in front of them like a drill sergeant who’d long since given up on dignity.
“Lesson one: Don’t rush the enemy screaming while on fire.”
“What if we want to be on fire?” asked a goblin with a soot-streaked face and no eyebrows.
“Then do it after the enemy is on fire.”
They nodded like this was the wisest thing they’d ever heard.
She continued.
“Lesson two: When I say ‘flank,’ I do not mean yell the word ‘flank’ and charge in a straight line.”
Several goblins looked away guiltily.
“Lesson three: Shields are not hats.”
“They can be!” shouted a goblin with a pot strapped to his head.
Talia sighed. “Look, I’m just trying to give you a chance. Hobgoblins march in formations. They know tactics. What do we have?”
“Enthusiasm!” shouted one.
“Mushroom bombs!” yelled another.
“This possum!” added the diplomat goblin, still inexplicably carrying the possum from earlier.
Talia ran a hand through her hair. “Alright. Let’s start simple. Throwing spears. Everyone line up and aim at that dummy.”
They lined up. They threw.
The dummy was untouched.
Talia was hit in the leg.
“New rule,” she said, lying on the ground, “you don’t throw anything until I say so, and if I’m within thirty feet of you, you don’t throw at all.”
The goblins scrambled to help her up, some of them saluting, others trying to present her with victory snacks (two-day-old fish and something that might have once been pudding).
Still, as the sun set, something began to emerge from the chaos.
A few spear throws hit their marks.
A goblin with one eye developed a talent for tripping others at just the right moment.
Even the possum learned to bite ankles on command.
They were a mess.
But they were her mess now.
She looked out at her goblin army as they tried to sing a war chant and set a tree on fire by accident.
“Gods help me,” she muttered, “this might actually work.”
Part IV: The Broken Blade
Talia awoke with slightly less of a headache and slightly more of a crown.
The goblins were already waiting outside her jungle hut—drumming on coconuts, blowing into hollowed gourds, and chanting what sounded like “Hail the Queen, Hope She Doesn’t Explode!”
A nervous scribe-goblin ducked inside.
“Your Majestic Unstabbedness—today is gift day!”
Talia blinked. “Is that a real thing or did you just make it up to get me outside?”
The scribe hesitated. “Yes.”
She sighed, rubbed her eyes, and walked out barefoot into the clearing, where the entire goblin tribe had assembled around a stone altar covered in flowers, feathers, and what might have been smoked rat jerky.
Spoonhelm stepped forward, dramatically unrolling a scroll (upside down).
“In honor of your bravery, wisdom, and refusal to die in your sleep, the tribe bestows upon you our most sacred relic—”
He whipped off the cloth.
“—Shardsong!”
Talia stared.
It was a broken sword.
Half a blade. Jagged at the end. The hilt was wrapped in faded cloth and something that looked like seaweed. It shimmered faintly in the sun.
“You’re giving me a broken weapon,” she said flatly.
Spoonhelm gasped. “Not broken, my Queen. Mysteriously incomplete.”
“Ah. Of course.”
He beamed. “It’s been passed down through the tribe for generations. No one could ever pull it from the Stone of Royal Prophecy.”
She looked at the blade. “It was sitting in a cracked soup pot.”
“Exactly!” he said, nodding furiously. “The Prophetic Soup!”
Talia opened her mouth. Closed it again.
She picked up the sword. It was lighter than it looked. Cool to the touch. It didn’t sing, didn’t glow, didn’t do anything dramatic.
“Feels like a glorified butter knife.”
But the moment her fingers closed around the hilt, she felt something.
A low thrum. Like distant thunder through her bones. Like a voice, not speaking, but waiting.
The goblins cheered. Confetti was thrown. One of them tried to dance and fell into the soup pot.
Talia looked at the blade again, furrowed her brow, and muttered, “What are you?”
Then she sheathed it, crown still crooked, and turned to face her strange little army.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s go stop a hobgoblin warband with a dead parrot, a possum diplomat, and a sword that came from a stewpot.”
They roared.
The war drums began to beat.
And far below the surface of the sword, something ancient stirred.
Part V: A Meeting of Minds (and Mismatched Armor)
The field was flat, dry, and utterly silent.
On one side: rows of hobgoblin soldiers in gleaming black-red armor, standing in perfect formation, shields raised, spears grounded, faces stern. Banners flapped in the wind, each marked with the sigil of the Ash Legion—a rising flame over a broken crown.
On the other side: the goblins.
Half of them wore helmets that weren’t theirs. A quarter wore no helmets at all. One had painted war paint on his feet. They stood in uneven rows, some upside down, most humming what they believed was a war chant but sounded suspiciously like a tavern drinking song.
Talia stood in front of them, arms crossed, the broken blade Shardsong strapped to her back, and a stolen cloak fluttering behind her. The chamberpot crown sat lopsided on her head like it belonged there—which, unfortunately, it now did.
She chewed a piece of jungle mint and waited.
From the hobgoblin line emerged a tall figure—broad-shouldered, red-skinned, and draped in spiked armor too heavy to be practical. A massive scar ran down his left cheek, and he carried a greatsword like it weighed nothing.
“Queen Vey,” he said, voice low and precise. “I am General Karthas of the Ash Legion. I come with terms.”
Talia raised an eyebrow. “That so?”
Karthas glanced past her at the goblins. One was juggling rocks. Another was picking his nose with a stick.
“Your army... does not inspire fear.”
Talia smirked. “That’s because you haven’t seen them throw soup yet.”
Karthas didn’t smile. “We offer you the chance to surrender. Disband your... force. Leave the ridge. Return to whatever swamp spawned you.”
The goblins booed. One threw a mango. It missed by ten feet.
Talia took a step forward.
“You know, Karthas... I’ve met a lot of overconfident warlords in my time. Most of them died trying to pronounce my name.”
Karthas looked her over with measured disdain. “You wear a chamberpot as a crown.”
She shrugged. “You wear armor like someone who’s never had to run for his life.”
He paused.
Then smiled faintly.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “When the sun rises, my legion marches. You have until then to surrender.”
Talia nodded once. “I’ll see you at breakfast, General.”
They turned, each walking back to their lines.
Behind her, the goblins erupted in whispered excitement. One shouted, “Did we win?!”
Another asked, “Do we get pancakes at this breakfast?”
Talia exhaled through her nose and grinned.
“Get some sleep,” she said. “Tomorrow we fight like queens.”
Part VI: War at Dawn
The sky was streaked with orange and gray, the jungle mist curling like smoke over the ridge. Birds had long since fled. Even the bugs seemed to know better.
Talia stood at the front of the goblin formation—if it could be called that. Half of them were in armor; a few wore cooking pots. One had fashioned a cannon out of a log and was whispering apologies to it.
The air smelled like nerves, old fish oil, and goblin optimism.
The hobgoblins approached in flawless rows, shield walls gleaming in the morning light, banners snapping sharp in the breeze.
General Karthas stood tall behind his forces, sword drawn, face stone.
Talia rolled her neck, stretched, and tapped Shardsong’s hilt.
“Alright,” she muttered, “let’s make this look like I had a plan.”
She raised one hand.
The goblins sprinted forward, screaming wildly—some with weapons, others with soup ladles, one with what looked like a flaming mushroom.
Talia ran with them.
And, somehow, it worked.
The battlefield turned to madness. Goblins ducked under sword swings, stabbed at ankles, tripped foes with nets, shouted nonsense spells. Shardsong sang in her hands now, clearer with every strike—sparks flying from the broken edge, a forgotten rhythm returning.
Talia cut down a pair of soldiers, ducked a spear, and yelled, “LEFT FLANK, STOP SPINNING!”
From the ridge above, a distant blast echoed.
And then—
“FEAR NOT, CITIZENS—I HAVE ARRIVED!”
Everyone—goblins, hobgoblins, even Talia—looked up.
A bronze dragon swooped in from the clouds, wind screaming off its wings.
Atop it stood Jandar, resplendent in carapace armor, elegant cape whipping behind him, Stormpiercer glowing at his side like righteous thunder.
“WE’RE SAVING THE QUEEN!” he bellowed.
Behind him, Kragorn followed, and Deacon Bruce stood on its back holding both crossbows and the most exasperated expression possible.
They landed hard, scattering dust, glory, and at least one goblin cannon team.
Jandar struck a heroic pose and pointed his sword at General Karthas.
“Unhand the lady or prepare to taste storm and steel!”
There was a pause.
The battlefield blinked.
Talia, covered in blood and goblin glitter, called out dryly, “We’re winning, Jandar.”
“What?”
Deacon dismounted calmly, crossbows slung, surveying the chaos.
He called over to Talia, deadpan.
“Tried to tell him.”
Talia smirked.
“You’re late.”
Jandar looked around. Saw the dozens of downed hobgoblins, the victorious goblins building a very unsafe celebratory tower out of spears and helmets.
He slowly lowered his sword.
“Right. Tactical... arrival.”
One of the goblins shouted, “HE SAVED US!” and another yelled, “NO HE DIDN’T!”
A third just ran in circles yelling “DRAGON!”
Talia sighed, wiped her blade on a goblin flag, and walked past Jandar.
“You’re buying drinks.”
“I just landed.”
“And you missed the soup cannon.”
Deacon chuckled.
“Told you she didn’t need saving.”
Jandar shrugged and grinned.
“Doesn’t mean I didn’t make it look good.”
Epilogue: One Crown, Two Crossbows, and a Mug of Regret
The Welcoming Hand Tavern was loud, smoky, and filled with the kind of laughter that only follows absolute, improbable victory.
Talia Vey leaned against the bar, boots on the counter, chamberpot crown just slightly askew on her head—not that she’d admit she was wearing it on purpose now. She sipped her drink with the slow satisfaction of someone who’d survived a goblin uprising, led a jungle tribe, and technically conquered a hobgoblin legion.
Behind her, goblins clambered over rafters, retelling the battle for the tenth time, each more exaggerated than the last.
“And then the Queen exploded in lightning—BOOM!—and the hobgoblins were like ‘AAAHH NOOOOO’—”
“Didn’t she fall in a pit?”
“Dramatically!”
Jandar stood at a nearby table, one boot up on a stool, cape somehow still wind-blown indoors.
“Let it be known,” he declared loudly to a small crowd, “that we arrived precisely when morale demanded a dramatic rescue.”
“You mean after the battle was won?” Talia called over her shoulder.
“Strategic entrance,” he said, pointing with his mug. “Besides—Deacon agreed.”
Deacon Bruce sat at the bar, sipping quietly from a wooden tankard, expression as flat as ever.
“I said nothing of the sort.”
“That’s how I interpreted it,” Jandar replied, unbothered.
The door burst open, and a goblin courier ran in, saluted with an upside-down map, and shouted, “YOUR MAJESTY! THE JUNGLE TRIBE REQUESTS PERMISSION TO INVENT A NATIONAL ANTHEM!”
Talia didn’t turn around.
“Tell them I want drums. And fewer explosions this time.”
The goblin saluted again (accidentally hitting himself in the face) and ran out.
Jandar raised his glass.
“To Queen Talia, leader of goblins, breaker of hobgoblins, and wearer of cookware!”
“May she reign at least until breakfast,” Deacon added, raising his tankard.
Talia clinked her mug to theirs with a grin.
“If either of you ever tells anyone about the soup cannon, I swear to every god on land and sea...”
Jandar winked. “Too late. I’ve already commissioned a song.”
The three of them laughed.
Outside, the storm passed. Inside, the ale flowed.
And in the corner of the bar, tucked against the wall, the broken blade Shardsong hummed quietly in its scabbard, not yet whole—but no longer silent.
