There are those who wish to rewrite their destinies, to carve from stone their own tales. Those patrons of Lore, outcast by Archaea, who scorn Fate and tempt Death. Those too corrupt for good, and too good for darkness.

  They call themselves The Fractured Fate.

  ·??·

  “-and then he lost it!” the young man groaned, thunking his head on the bar so hard it rattled the other mugs and plates. His jet black hair, which was usually tied back at the base of his neck, dangled loose over his ears. He sported a wide bandage across one shoulder, a split lip, and bruises riddling his arms where his sleeves were rolled up.

  “I didn’t lose it,” one of the other men at the table grunted. This one sported the same face as his brother, only with cropped hair and biceps the size of a hgral’s incisor. His cheeks were flushed – with ale or embarrassment, one couldn’t be quite sure. Three other figures sat along the bar, and the whole Alehouse seemed to be leaning in to listen to their tale. “I know where it is.”

  The first brother stood and planted his hands on his hips. A throb of pain shot through his shoulder, but he ignored it. “Oh, yeah, Zev? Where is it?”

  “Ronan-”

  “I’ll tell you where it is. In a bloody direfox’s den!” Ronan paused. “And how did it get in that direfox’s den?”

  “I was singing-”

  “You were singing!”

  “But-”

  Another voice cut in, before the brothers could come to blows. “What happened to your pin?”

  “My-oh.” Ronan’s uninjured hand went to his chest. “I gave it away.”

  The air in the Alehouse seemed to stand still. Even the midnight black horse in the corner stopped mid-sniff on a plate of carrots. Twenty-something eyes turned on the young man. He shifted.

  Behind the counter stood the proprietor of the Alehouse. She’d been cleaning a mug with a rag, simply listening. Loreweaver’s silver hair and ageless face seemed to glow in the soft light of her establishment. Now, she raised a singular brow. “Gave it away?”

  Ronan nodded and slipped back into his seat. His brother heaved a sigh of relief. “Like I said, before this buffoon lost all our gold… we made a friend.”

  “A friend.” Everyone knew you didn’t hand out your guild pin to any old – or new – friend. Guild pins weren’t just a symbol of membership. They signified allegiance. Brotherhood. In many cases, a guild meant the difference between survival and a Fateless end. Many guild members only took their pins off to bathe – and even then they were left within arm’s reach, in case some bath-inhabiting horror bubbled up from the drain or a spider-wing dropped from the ceiling.

  (The latter was only slightly inconvenient, but its ability to shred any fabric into a beautiful web-like pattern was nonetheless terrifying.)

  The rest of the Alehouse held its breath, but Lore simply continued pulling her rag across the rim of the glass. “A friend,” she repeated, her tone dripping with curiosity.

  “Hm,” Zev grunted, but was apparently content to let his brother tell the rest of the story.

  Ronan cleared his throat. “She saved my life.”

  ·??·

  Six Days Earlier…

  ·??·

  The aqua stone glimmered in the glaring evening light. It seemed to capture the sunlight, drawing it in, weaving it, twisting it in hundreds of little directions. Perfectly round, palm-sized, smooth from years of tumbling through water and sand, fractals of light-

  Nike flung the stone aside and rocked back on her heels. Somewhere in the distance, it crashed through the trees and fell to the forest floor with a soft thud. Her gaze scanned the desolate ground, running over the grooves in the sand, catching on every glimmer of light, every movement in the dirt…there…something was rustling…

  A dormouse popped its head above the silt.

  Nike of Pragnos stood up with a sigh. Nothing. To be entirely honest, she had no clue what she was looking for.

  Twas a terrifying beast, the drunkard had said, nearly soiled me britches, ‘s that terrifying.

  Yes, Nike had said, keeping her voice level – not that it was a hard task. Emotions were strange things. She preferred not to parade them around for all to see when she barely understood them herself. But what did it look like?

  ‘S big as me. Or bigger. Coulda been a giant. Or a dr-dru-drungool. He’d grinned, having successfully stuttered out the word.

  Nike had been about to correct him that – no, drungels hardly towered over anything, except perhaps an ordinary fox. Maybe a badger. Fortunately, at that point another townsperson had stepped in. It ‘as these big black wings, the matron said. She’d lifted her arms and spread them as wide as she could. Saw it takin’ away my dear Mr. Ecklus, when ‘e went to check on the chickens. Found ‘is arm in the chicken coop the next mornin’. She’d shuddered, her eyes welling with tears, and another townsperson stood to help her into a seat.

  Serves him right, you ask me, a voice had called out from the corner of the tavern. It was young, belonging to a teenager. He’d sulked into the back of the room, melting poorly into the shadows. Ecklus was a right ol-

  His words fell away when Nike turned her gaze on him. She relished the small flicker of emotion – satisfaction? – that sparked in response to his frozen gaze. Her appearance was almost always unsettling at first. But you’re the Champion of Light, those who dared to say anything would stutter. Most, like this surly teen, said nothing.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  She narrowed her eyes at him, and she knew what he saw. A strange woman, long walnut hair pulled into a braid, blades – all three of them – glinting at her hips. Her expression was shuttered and cold and those eyes, those crimson eyes practically glowing in the low light.

  After that, one brave – or reckless – townswoman had stepped forward. It always disappears round The Circle.

  The others nodded. The Circle.

  The Circle, they murmured in agreement.

  What circle? A sliver of impatience slipped into Nike’s voice. Where is it?

  Just north of the crop fields, they’d said, yeh can’t miss it.

  At least they’d been right about that. You couldn’t miss it – and it was indeed a circle. A singular slab of stone, perfectly round, about fifteen feet across and covered in a light layer of sand. There were carvings carefully scripting into the stone, though Nike had yet to come across a monster who carved ancient languages into rock. That wasn’t to say they couldn’t… but most of the monsters she was called upon to take care of were too busy picking off lonesome villagers one by one for their latest meal… or worse.

  She suspected this black-winged monstrosity the villagers of Darton had set a bounty for was no different.

  Then again, she’d also expected to find the monstrosity in question at The Circle. So far, she’d been here for several hours, the sun was beginning to set, and she had yet to even touch her greatsword.

  The sun peeked over the edge of the trees, shooting golden streaks across the sky. It would have been beautiful, but Nike paid no notice. Instead, she settled herself atop the center of the stone circle, and waited.

  ·??·

  The first rustle came an hour after the sun had fully disappeared behind the horizon. Nike’s eyes snapped open. It was dark, but ever since her…incident…she’d possessed exceptional dark vision.

  Rustle.

  Something in the trees at the edge of the cleared shifted.

  Rustle!

  It was getting closer, and moving silently. Too silently. Nike followed the shadow with her eyes, barely moving her head. Her greatsword made a soft zing! as she carefully extracted it from the gilt scabbard at her waist.

  Rustle.

  Her eyes flitted to the other side of the circle. A second creature? The townsfolk hadn’t said anything about two bat-winged beasts. Then again, they hadn’t said much of anything at all. Only a handful of them had ever seen it, and always at night or during-

  Crack!

  A predatory gleam flitted across Nike’s glowing gaze. She adjusted the grip on her greatsword – not today, beast – and lunged.

  “Blaarrrghh!” Her greatsword clanged against something metal. Her target stumbled back, hefting something – a battleax? – and glaring. Nike frowned. He certainly didn’t look like a bat-winged beast… Evidently, he’d come to the same conclusion, because he grunted, “who’re you?”

  Nike jutted her chin. “Who’re you?”

  “I asked first.”

  In the darkness he hardly saw her move a muscle, but suddenly she was in front of him, her wicked blade pressing into his neck. He flinched. “I have the sharper blade.”

  His throat worked. He opened his mouth but made the mistake of looking into her eyes…and flinched again. “M-monster,” he breathed.

  This time, Nike did grin. It was toothy and predatory and made her appear nearly as insane as she knew she was. “Perhaps. So maybe you’d like to tell me why you and your friend followed me here.”

  “My friend?”

  “Yes.” Nike tore her blade from his throat and swung it to her other side.

  “Shit!” The other young man froze, hands in the air. He looked at the first figure. “She’s fast.”

  Grunt.

  “She’s three seconds from taking your head off,” Nike growled. She didn’t know who these men were, but they were loose variables. Stick-cracking, swearing, annoying loose variables.

  She didn’t like loose variables. “Who are you.”

  “They said this is where the monster disappears,” the newcomer said. “Could I just-” he tried to step to the side, but Nike followed him with her blade. He froze again. “Nevermind. We’re with The Fractured Fate.”

  Nike stayed silent.

  “The guild. The Fractured Fate Guild-”

  “Ronan,” the first one rumbled.

  ‘Ronan’ shook his head. “Right. Well, we’re here on behalf of the townsfolk of Darton, so if you don’t mind-”

  “I’m looking for the monster.”

  The first one spoke, his voice low and grumbly. “Us too.”

  “Too bad.” Nike didn’t put away her blade, but she let it hang at her side. At worst, these two were a nuisance. Not worth bloodying her blade – at least not today.

  “Maybe not,” the ‘Ronan’ one said. Nike swung her gaze back to him. Usually, the full force of her glare was enough to put someone off, but his pondering look barely wavered. If he were shaken by her crimson gaze, he barely showed it.

  If Nike were capable of the emotion, she’d be impressed.

  “What if we helped each other?”

  “I don’t work with others.” And she’d never get anything done with these two idiots bumbling around. Just look at them – the big one barely had enough brain cells to string together a full sentence, and the chatty one wasn’t even smart enough to be scared of her. She had no time for-

  “Sure, neither does my brother.” The ‘Ronan’ one strode over to his brother – in a wide arch around the reach of her sword. Not quite so unaffected after all. “But he can’t seem to get rid of me, can you Zev?”

  ‘Zev’ just grunted. His eyes narrowed.

  Nike narrowed her eyes back. Say no. Tell them to buzz off. You don’t work with others. “Help each other,” she just echoed.

  ‘Ronan’ nodded. “Help each other. You know, share information. Watch each other’s backs. Help each other.”

  “Help each other.” Nike frowned. She had worked with others in the past. Rarely, and it had almost always ended with a knife in her back – literally. Assuming these two had any practical skills, which was highly unlikely, the big one was looking at her like he was already contemplating how best to twist the knife.

  Better the enemy you know, her old commander liked to say, and the sooner you know your enemy –

  M-monster.

  – the sooner you can water the dirt with their blood.

  He’d been a dramatic old codger.

  Nike cocked her head, like a kallicha studying its prey. “Okay.”

  ‘Ronan’ and ‘Zev’ shifted. They shared a glance, like they weren’t certain that was going to work. “Okay?” Ronan echoed.

  Nike raised a brow. How many times did she have to say it? “Okay.”

  A slow grin spread across Ronan’s face. “Okay.”

  ‘Zev’ grumbled something about the bounty, snapping his mouth shut with an oof. Ronan held his grin. “We can split the bounty.”

  “The bounty’s all yours.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t care what happens to the money,” Nike said, “as long as I get the kill.” The brothers shared another glance, equal parts relief and trepidation. Who did we just get ourselves into, they were probably wondering. It was a familiar expression. She just sheathed her greatsword and spun back towards The Circle. “Don’t screw this up.”

  Stolen Victory (Tales of the Fractured Fate, 01)

  The latest installment will release in 2-3 parts in the second week of each month. Don't feel like waiting? You can read 'advance stories' up to 3 months ahead of time on Patreon

  Join Nike, Ronan, Zev, and all the other misfit members of The Fractured Fate in this exciting collection of short dark fantasy adventures.