Chapter 1: Just Another Day

Bram Thistleside was ankle-deep in Window Malfey's cabbage
when the hedges whispered that he had company.

Not the pixies—he was already dealing with those. Not the goat—though it was still enchanted and watching him with an unsettling air of judgment. No, this was something new. Something official. At the far end of the lane, two figures in dark robes glided past the widow’s gate, murmuring in low tones as they left Briarbrush village. Assistant mages—government issue, by the cut of their sleeves and the bureaucratic severity of their posture. They moved like they didn’t want to be seen, and yet very much wanted everyone to know they had been there.

Bram paused just long enough to watch them vanish around the bend, curled boots quiet on the dewy cobblestone.

“Charming,” he muttered. “Because what this village really needs is more people in official robes who think mistakes are something other people do.”

But there was no time to worry about creeping officialdom. Not when a pixie had just swapped out the buttons on his coat for pickled beets.

It had begun, as many mornings in Briarbrush did, with whispered curses, talking plants, and at least one partially-sentient piece of garden equipment.

The village itself was a quaint and crooked place nestled among rolling emerald hills that yawned lazily toward the horizon. Its cottages leaned on each other like old friends after a pint too many, and the cobbled lanes wound with no particular urgency. Wildflowers lined the ditches like gossiping nobles. Somewhere, a rooster with delusions of grandeur crowed from a rooftop and was immediately ignored by all.

Bram Thistleside stood resolute in the garden of Widow Malfey. The old woman’s glitter-cabbages were upended, her hedge-gnome statues wore the wrong outfits (again), and the birdbath rotated slowly like a lazy top.

He wore a battered leather coat that smelled of peppermint and goat hair, and carried a copper-threaded net still humming from a recent enchantment. His belt sagged under the weight of rune-etched jars, tools of the trade for a pest-controller of the realm—though “pest” rarely meant anything normal, and “controller” often meant “good at apologizing afterward.”

His eyes gleamed with a particular mix of confidence, weariness, and the grim awareness that pixies were a menace best handled before second breakfast.

He was surrounded.

Pixies, no larger than a man’s thumb and twice as mischievous, whirled through the air like a glitter storm made entirely of spite. Their wings, delicate and translucent like dragonfly silk, caught the morning light in bursts of iridescence. Hair like fire, moss, or moonlight trailed behind them. Each one wore scraps of jacquard and lace stolen from clotheslines and dollhouses.

They darted between the trellises, tugging at Bram’s ears, tying the laces of his boots together, and replacing his buttons.

Their laughter rang like tiny silver bells, sharp and unkind.

"A net! Look, sisters! The brave hero brings a net!"

"Perchance he seeks butterflies for breakfast?"

"Or perhaps he thinks himself a knight! Should we curtsy?"

Bram, despite the aerial torment, did not falter. He moved with the measured patience of a man used to being mocked by things that fit in teacups.

"Say what you will, flutter-fiends," he growled, stepping lightly across the uneven flagstones, careful not to trip over the animated garden hose that had recently developed opinions. "You’ll find no meal nor mercy here."

With a practiced swing, swift and sure, he swept the net through the air. It sizzled faintly as it cut the space between two rose bushes, capturing three of the glimmering wretches in a single motion. They shrieked in protest, kicking at the mesh.

Bram popped open a rune-etched jar with a flick of his thumb, and the net released its cargo into the container with a satisfying fwump. The lid clicked into place, sealing the pixies within.

"This is an injustice!"

"The mayor’s bloomers begged to fly!"

Bram narrowed his eyes. "They begged to stay folded in a drawer, last I checked."

Around him, the remaining pixies buzzed in alarm, their formation breaking into disorganized spirals. One lobbed a clump of moss at his head. Another turned invisible and attempted to tug at his nose hairs.

But Bram was quicker. Two more sweeping motions, a bit of boot-stomping, and one expertly thrown jar later, the garden grew still. The air shimmered with the last of the pixie dust, now drifting harmlessly toward the ground.

Widow Malfey’s begonias stopped hissing.

The birdbath resumed simply being a birdbath.

And the goat—whose horns had been transfigured into ornate silver spoons—blinked at Bram with the slow, soulful gaze of a creature who had seen too much.

"It was a close call, old friend," Bram murmured, wiping sweat from his brow and giving the goat a companionable pat on the rump. "But the day is ours."

The goat sneezed. One spoon fell off.

Bram nodded solemnly. "Progress."

***

He slung the heavy satchel of jars over his shoulder with a grunt, the glass containers inside clinking softly, each glowing faintly with the frustrated magic of captive pixies. The satchel tugged at his shoulder, uneven with weight and still warm from the mischief it contained. A faint hum pulsed through the leather as if the jars whispered to each other in indignation.

Bram set off down the meandering lanes of Briarbrush, his boots clicking against cobblestones slick with morning dew. The lanes twisted and forked like tangled roots beneath a great tree, some leading to homes, others doubling back on themselves just to confuse travelers and drunks alike. Ivy clung to the stone walls like gossip to a scandal, and wildflowers burst from cracks in the road as though eager to watch the day unfold.

The homes along the street leaned into each other, their timber frames warped with age and affection. Shutters clacked in the breeze like gossiping hens. Thatched roofs bore moss like unruly hair, and here and there a weather vane spun lazily, chasing memories of wind rather than its present direction. Chimneys puffed lazy plumes of smoke—woodsmoke, mostly, though the occasional cough of blue or violet hinted at more magical cookery inside.

Children darted through the village green, shrieking and laughing, their pockets jingling with marbles that whispered secrets in forgotten tongues. One girl knelt in the grass, holding a particularly chatty marble close to her ear, eyes wide as if the glass orb had just revealed the secret location of an invisible dragon nest.

From a stoop draped in patchwork quilts and mossy flowerpots, Old Narn Gribble raised a hand bent with age but strong with opinion. Her shawl bore embroidery that occasionally rearranged itself when not being watched, and in her lap, a skein of shimmering magical thread hovered and twisted mid-air, knitting itself into something with too many sleeves.

"Bram, my lad," she croaked in a voice both fond and scratchy as a well-loved record. "Mind the sky. Hex-pigeons about."

Bram tipped his head in greeting. "I’ve heard, Nan. Mimicking tax collectors now, I’m told."

She cackled, long and wheezy. "Well, perhaps Harold will finally pay his dues."

A tin watering can next to her gave a small snort of steam, as if in agreement.

Bram chuckled and continued on, passing the ancient stone well nestled beneath the shade of a silver-leafed birch. A brass plaque above the well read: *One apple per bucket. Do not haggle.* The surface of the water shimmered unnaturally, as though recalling its long-ago tenant—a kelpie who had once demanded apples, honey, and the occasional haiku in exchange for potable water.

Further down, he passed the smithy, a squat building of stone and stubbornness. Flames flickered in the open forge, and enchanted tongs hovered midair, wrestling playfully with an argumentative hammer. Sparks danced like fireflies as the tools bickered over technique.

Just as he approached the village square, with its clocktower leaning dramatically westward and its market stalls half-assembled, a voice rose from the quiet.

It was rich and smooth, the kind of voice that might narrate a fairy tale or condemn a dessert, and it dripped sarcasm like honey from a cynical hive.

"You call *that* pest control?"

Bram stopped, one foot mid-step. He scanned the street, then lowered his gaze.

Perched atop a mossy stone no larger than a dinner plate sat a frog. He was unmistakably magical—not for his size or coloring, which was a dignified green mottled with gold, but for the sly knowing in his eyes. They were the eyes of someone who had seen generations rise and fall and found each equally ridiculous.

The frog smirked.

"And what are you, then?" Bram asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Croaksley, if you please," the frog replied, offering a small, courtly bow that would have put half the nobility to shame. "I speak, I judge, I observe."

"A talking frog," Bram said flatly.

Croaksley sniffed. "And a pest-controller who thinks copper netting is subtle. What times we live in."

Bram grunted and stepped over him, the satchel on his back jingling like a disgruntled wind chime.

"The jars will shatter," Croaksley called behind him, voice laced with prophecy and smugness in equal measure.

Bram didn’t answer. He didn’t look back. But after a few steps, he adjusted the satchel's strap with a bit more care.

And he walked on, just a little more carefully.

***

Briarbrush Hall, seat of the local lord and a structure that had clearly lost several battles with both time and weather, stood among a ring of ancient elder trees whose branches creaked with voices only the patient could understand. Moss clung to the stone steps like a sleepy cat, and ivy coiled around the arched windows, peering inside with quiet curiosity.

The great wooden door opened with a wheeze that sounded like it hadn’t had a good oiling since the last royal census. Bram stepped into the entryway, where the scent of pipe smoke, wet dog, and slightly burnt toast lingered in the air like guests who wouldn’t leave.

Lord Ulfrey greeted him with a handshake that managed to be both sticky and enthusiastic, as though the nobleman had been interrupted halfway through a marmalade experiment. He wore a vest that may have once been green and boots with silver buckles so tarnished they looked like storm clouds. His mustache curled upward in cheerful defiance of grooming norms.

"Thistleside, my boy," Ulfrey declared, his voice thick with cheer and plum brandy. "Trouble brews in Spindlewood."

Bram followed him into a hallway that resembled a museum curated by a particularly whimsical raccoon. Faded tapestries clung to the stone walls, most featuring indistinct heraldry, scenes of awkwardly posed battles, and one heroic chicken. Taxidermy lined the passage: a monocled fox in a waistcoat, a squirrel frozen mid-duel with a thimble-sized rapier, and a pigeon that had, for some reason, been posed as a bank clerk.

"What sort of trouble?" Bram asked, ducking as a mechanical raven on a pendulum swung too low.

"Echoes that howl without wind," Ulfrey said, guiding him into a small study filled with teacups, scrolls, and enough clutter to make a gnome weep. "Shadows that twist without light. And cows... quoting dark verse."

Bram blinked. "Dark verse?"

"Yes. One was reciting an old poem about futility and mud. Very moving. Quite unsettling."

"You think it’s Morvaene?"

Ulfrey's cheerful expression faltered. He reached for a scroll bearing the blue wax seal of the King’s Marshals.

"I think the old fool never truly agreed to follow his magical restrictions," he muttered. "Not entirely."

He handed the scroll to Bram.

"Take this to the Warden. Do what you must. And Bram... no heroics."

Bram gave a modest bow. "I never do."

As he turned to go, Ulfrey called after him. "And Bram? Don’t provoke the livestock. Not after what happened with the badger-priest."

Bram didn’t miss a step. "He threw the first sermon."

***

At the Thistleside cottage, smoke curled from the hearth in long lazy spirals, scented faintly of rosemary and old boots. The kitchen was a snug riot of clanking pots, drying herbs, half-mended cloaks, and one very judgmental chicken perched atop the cupboard.

Laughter bounced off the low wooden beams as Bram stepped through the door. His mother stood by the hearth, sleeves rolled, hands dusted in flour, and eyes sharper than any blade in the drawer. She turned and pressed a warm roll into Bram’s hand before swatting imaginary lint off his collar.

"You're off again, then," she said, already knowing the answer.

"Spindlewood," he replied. "Possibly cursed cows."

"Hmm." She handed him a wrapped bundle of hard cheese and dried apple slices. "Take the good gloves. Not the ones your brother tried to enchant."

His father, who sat by the fire repairing a boot with quiet deliberation, looked up. He was built like a tree stump and just as rooted. "And the goggles. The anti-illusion ones. Last thing you need is to argue with a cow that isn’t there."

A blur zoomed past Bram’s head, followed by a shriek of excitement.

"And a clean pair of socks!" cried his younger sister as she zipped past astride a broomstick that was clearly listing to port.

His little brother peeked up from beneath the dinner table, where he had built a fort of firewood and bread crusts. He wore a saucepan as a helmet and held a ladle like a scepter.

"If you perish," the boy said gravely, "may I inherit your fire spear?"

Bram grinned. "Use it wisely."

"Define wisely."

"Only light fires if you intend to cook something."

"Reasonable."

With a last glance at the hearth—where the chicken gave him a final look of disapproval—Bram slung his satchel over his shoulder and stepped out into the fading light. The sky had begun its golden descent, painting the hills in hues of amber and rose. Smoke curled from neighboring chimneys. Somewhere in the distance, a fiddle struck up an old tune about goats and ill-advised marriages.

At the gate, Croaksley sat like a little green gargoyle atop the post, eyes gleaming with insufferable satisfaction.

"Told you they’d shatter," he croaked.

Bram didn’t break stride. "They did not."

"Not yet."

Bram sighed. "Fine. Come along. But if you start reciting prophecy, I’ll feed you to the feral field cats."

The frog leapt gracefully to his shoulder, settling in like a prince surveying a kingdom.

"It is not prophecy. It is intuition. A gift some of us are cursed with."

"You’re cursed all right."

And so the pest-controller and his dubious companion set off into the twilight, past hedgerows that rustled with secrets and roads that knew more than they let on. The path ahead was not yet clear, but Bram walked it all the same.

Because someone had to.