Chapter Three:

  “The Siblings Grim”

  The rain never stopped chattering. It tapped against the roof of the Grim siblings’ shack, a constant, insistent noise that filled every corner of the room. The sound had no rhythm, no mercy, just the endless drumming of water on metal, sharing its secrets with anyone who cared to listen.

  Inside, the air was damp and sour, thick with the smell of wet wood, mildew, and the faint chemical tang of Hex’s latest concoction.

  They sat around their battered wooden table, each lost in their own small rituals. A single candle wavered in the center, its flame struggling against the draft that slipped through the cracks in the walls. The room was dim and claustrophobic, the shadows of the swamp pressing in from all around.

  “Okay's, where's my spoon?” Giggles’ voice cut through the rain’s chatter, loud and accusing. He held up a dented tin cup, glaring around the table. “I can’t eats soup without's my spoon.”

  “You’re not eating soup,” Hex replied without looking up. She was hunched over a bubbling pot, her nimble fingers carefully adding drops of liquid from a small vial. “You’re eating swamp water with a dead frog in it.”

  Giggles frowned, holding the cup closer to his face. “Stills taste good.”

  “Disgusting,” Hex muttered, but there was no real venom in her voice. She was used to Giggles’ peculiarities.

  “Hey, hey, don’t's knock it,” Giggles said, scooping up a chunk of something unidentifiable with his fingers. “This frog got's ... texture.”

  Cackle let out a sharp laugh from his perch on the edge of the table. “You’re gonna turn into a frog if you keep eating those things. Then again, maybe you’ll finally find a girlfriend.”

  Giggles hurled the tin cup at him, but Cackle ducked, grinning wide. The cup clattered to the floor, spilling its murky contents. “Missed me!” Cackle sang, snapping the rubber band of his slingshot for emphasis. “Better luck next time.”

  “Enough,” Bash rumbled, his voice low and steady. The rasp of cloth and oil blended into the symphony of rain and bubbling potions as Bash maintained his sledgehammer. His massive hands moved with surprising care, the weapon looking almost delicate in his grip. Each motion was deliberate, methodical, like everything Bash did.

  “Let him throw things,” Cackle said, leaning back on the table with his hands behind his head. “It’s not like he’s got anything else to do. Right, Giggles?”

  Giggles, now crouched on the floor picking up his cup, shot him a glare. “Least I's don’t spends my day looking ugly.”

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  “Says the one that looks like what you been eatin,” Cackle retorted, his grin widening.

  Hex slammed her hand on the table, silencing them both. “Will you two shut up? I’m trying to concentrate here! One wrong drop, and this whole shack will blow sky-high.”

  Giggles and Cackle exchanged a glance, then simultaneously mouthed the words, “Blow sky-high,” as if it were some kind of joke. Hex ignored them, muttering under her breath as she adjusted the flame beneath the flask.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Bash said quietly, his focus still on his sledgehammer. “That’s not going to work.”

  Hex’s head snapped up. “And what makes you the expert on alchemy, oh wise and mighty Bash?”

  “I don’t need to be an expert to know that swamp water and rat teeth don’t make gold,” Bash replied evenly.

  “It’s not gold,” Hex hissed, her eyes narrowing. “It’s, never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Giggles leaned over the table, his grin wide and lopsided. "Ooooh, Hex makin' some swamp juice? My favorites!"

  Hex grabbed a nearby vial and hurled it at him. Giggles yelped, ducking just in time as the glass shattered against the wall behind him. A faint puff of purple smoke rose from the shards, filling the air with the smell of burnt licorice.

  “Okay, okay!” Giggles held up his hands in surrender, coughing as the smoke wafted toward him. “No needs to get nasty.”

  “Then shut up,” Hex snapped, returning to her work.

  Cackle snickered, but even he kept quiet this time. The siblings fell into a tense silence, the only sounds the rain, the bubbling of Hex’s flask, and the steady rasp of cloth and oil as Bash maintained his sledgehammer. For a moment, it felt almost peaceful.

  Then came the knock.

  It carved through the rain, sharp and merciless. The siblings froze, tension crackling in the candlelight. The draft whispered secrets against the walls, carrying the weight of something unseen.

  “Who the hell knocks out here?” Cackle whispered.

  Bash rose, sledgehammer already in hand. The chair groaned as Bash stood. Each step toward the door carried the weight of years spent surviving.

  “Coulds be food,” Giggles muttered.

  “Or death,” Cackle added.

  The knock returned. Stronger. Commanding.

  “Who’s there?” Bash demanded, voice wrapped in steel. He held his sledgehammer high, ready.

  The rain shifted rhythm, a death march slowing to an elegy. Then a voice flowed through the cracks, honey poured over grave dirt: "I'm here to make you an offer."

  Hex's fingers found her necklace, dead petals drinking light. "What kind of offer?"

  "The kind that changes everything." Power coiled through her words, tightening their grip. "Open the door."

  "No way," Cackle snapped, slingshot ready. "That's how people get murdered."

  "Or worse," Giggles added, spoon raised, a general's sword before battle.

  Bash stood mountain-still, shoulders blocking the door. "We don't take kindly to strangers."

  A laugh drifted through the cracks, wind through dead leaves. "Strangers, no. But allies? That's a different story. You've got talent, Grim family. Talent that's being wasted out here in the muck."

  "Who are you?" Hex demanded, conviction cracking.

  "Open the door," the voice whispered, "and I'll tell you everything."

  The rain's rhythm shifted yet again, a war drum now calling to arms. The siblings exchanged glances, each reading the unspoken words between them.

  Bash turned to his family. Hex nodded. Cackle's grin returned; a weapon unsheathed.

  The latch lifted, destiny's key turning in fate's lock.

  She stood in the rain, a piece of night given form. Water parted around her, refusing to touch the darkness of her cloak. Shadows too deep for nature pooled where her face should be, but they felt her smile, warm, comforting. A mother pleased with her children.

  "I told you," her voice wove through rain's endless chatter. "I'm here to make you an offer."

  The rain hammered harder, applause for the performance about to begin.

  The woman who commanded the rain stepped forward, and tomorrow flooded in behind her, a tsunami of possibility.