The orc at the bar slammed his tankard down with a clang that echoed through the tavern. "Oi! My stew’s cold! I didn’t pay for half-warmed gruel!" His booming voice cut through the low hum of conversation, drawing every eye.

A halfling, perched precariously on his chair, shot to his feet, his face red and fists clenched around an alreday empty bowl. "How am I supposed to eat without a spoon?" he hollered, shaking the bowl like a war banner. "Who’s in charge here? Where’d all the spoons go?"

Nearby, an elf cloaked in dark robes jabbed his dagger into his stew with grim precision. "This is an outrage," he muttered, his eyes flashing. "I came here for food, not barbarism."

"Yeah, where’re the spoons?" a goblin screeched, pounding the table with his tiny fist. "I had one, then—poof! Gone!"

Behind the counter, the bartender glared at the growing unrest. "Settle down!" he barked, slamming a bottle onto the counter for emphasis. "I’ll sort it out, but not if you all keep screamin’ like banshees!"

Henry leaned against the bar, watching the chaos unfold. He turned to Elara, who had perched on her chair like a bird, her knees drawn up, her gaze electric. Her grin was so wide it was unsettling.

"You seem awfully excited," Henry muttered, narrowing his eyes at her.

Elara clasped her hands to her chest like an excited child. "It’s magnificent," she whispered, her voice dripping with strange delight. "The chaos, the disarray! Isn't it delicious?"

Henry frowned. "No. No, it isn’t. It’s weird. And loud. And someone just threw a chair."

A wooden chair skidded across the floor, barely missing a frantic gnome who dove under a table with a squeal. Henry turned back to Elara, his voice dropping to a dangerous tone. "Elara, did you...?"

Before she could answer, the halfling’s sharp eyes fixed on her. "Hey, you! What’s that in your bag?" he demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at the small satchel slung over Elara’s shoulder.

Elara blinked, her grin widening. "Oh, this?" She pulled the satchel closer, as though it were a precious treasure. "Just... trinkets. Souvenirs, really. A collector’s hobby!"

The halfling’s face darkened. "That’s a spoon poking out of there! And-- hey!-- that one’s mine!" he yelled, jabbing his finger toward another gleaming handle sticking out. A ripple of realization swept through the tavern.

"You’re the thief!" the goblin screeched, standing on his chair. "You’ve been stealin’ the spoons!"

The crowd started moving forward, quickly turning from patrons into mobs.

Henry pinched the bridge of his nose as shouts erupted around them. "Elara," he hissed, "why?"

Elara cackled, unbothered by the outrage. "Oh, Henry, spoons are such peculiar creatures, aren’t they? So shiny, so cold... so untrustworthy."

Henry froze, disbelief tightening his throat. "Why do you do these things?"

Elara’s grin grew impossibly wider, her eyes reflecting the flickering lantern light with a wild glint. "I liberated them," she whispered conspiratorially, hugging the bag over her shoulder as if cradling a treasure. "They’re safe now, away from the tyranny of soup and stew."

"You stole them, and now were going to get killed!" Henry hissed, backing away from the growing horde. "And why are you calling soup tyranny?"

"Not just soup," she said, spinning dramatically in the air. "Everything! Porridge, pudding, custards of every vile sort. Oh, the indignity of being dipped and slurped without consent! They whispered their thanks as I took them." Her voice dropped to a hushed murmur. "They called me their savior."

Henry’s hand flew to his face. "Spoons don’t talk, Elara!"

Edward talks," she said defensively, clutching the bag of stolen spoons like a lifeline. "He’s got opinions, Henry. And they’re valid."

The orc roared again, his fists slamming down with a thunderous boom. "If I don’t get a spoon in the next thirty seconds, someone’s wearing my stew!"

The goblin joined in, standing atop his chair and banging his tankard. "Yeah, spoon thief! Give them back!"

Henry grabbed Elara’s arm. "We’re leaving. Now."

She yanked her arm free with surprising strength, spinning to face him with wild eyes. "Leaving? Leaving? Do you have any idea what that means, Henry? It means running! It means abandoning the revolution!" She threw her arms wide, nearly smacking a passing dwarf. "These spoons have suffered enough! And you want to condemn them back to slavery?"

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Henry pinched the bridge of his nose. "Elara, they’re spoons. They don’t—"

"They do!" she shrieked, her voice climbing in pitch. "They told me their dreams, Henry! Edward longs for freedom. Beatrice wants to open a bakery. Gerald—oh, sweet Gerald—he just wants to know what it feels like to be held by someone who cares. And you want to toss them back into the stew?!"

"Okay, fine. They talk," Henry muttered through gritted teeth. "But we’re still leaving."

Elara’s expression snapped from righteous fury to theatrical resignation. She clutched her bag dramatically. "Fine. We’ll go. But only because Edward insists on it." She tilted her head to the side, as though listening to an invisible voice. "What’s that, Edward? You think Henry smells like cabbage? Yes, I noticed too."

As they made their way toward the exit, or, well, tried to, the ravenous mob the tavern descended into full-blown chaos. Patrons were shouting over each other, some climbing atop tables, others grappling in frustration. A chair sailed through the air, narrowly missing the bartender, who ducked behind the counter, his mechanical arm hissing as he reached for a bottle to use as a weapon.

The air thickened with tension and the sharp smell of spilled ale. Just as Henry thought they were free, a firm hand gripped his shoulder. He spun around to see an old dwarf with a scarred face and piercing green eyes—Barik.

"This way," Barik hissed, nodding toward a side door half-hidden behind a curtain. "Unless you fancy getting caught in the middle of this mess."

Elara’s eyes locked onto Barik’s scar, and her grin returned, unsettling and predatory. She leaned in far too close, tilting her head as if examining him under a microscope. "Did the shadows give you that?" she asked, her voice a soft sing-song. "Or did you steal it from the moon when it wasn’t looking? Hmm? What does it taste like?"

Barik stiffened, his green eyes narrowing as he leaned just out of her reach. "Best we move quickly," he muttered, his tone laced with both caution and unease.

Henry didn’t wait to argue. He grabbed Elara by the arm again—this time without resistance—and followed Barik into the dimly lit passageway, leaving the chaos of the tavern behind. The cool night air hit them like a slap, sharp and bracing after the stifling noise inside.

Barik led them through a winding maze of dimly lit streets. Shadows pooled unevenly across the cobblestones, distorted by flickering lanterns. Elara skipped ahead, her humming an erratic tune that twisted and echoed like a broken music box.

"You’re drawing attention," Henry said sharply. "Knock it off."

Elara spun on her heel, her grin stretched unnervingly wide. "Attention is just the world blinking at you, Henry! Blink back and see what happens!"

Henry sighed, turning back to Barik. "Thanks for stepping in back there. Could’ve gone bad fast."

Barik snorted. "Didn’t do it for you. You looked like you might be worth somethin’. Figured I’d give you a chance to prove it."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Is that your way of saying you need something?"

Barik stopped and turned to face him, his expression as hard as the cobblestones underfoot. "Depends. You after a cure?"

Henry’s jaw tightened slightly but didn’t flinch. "Why do you ask?"

Barik’s gaze didn’t waver. "Because if you are, you’re chasing ghosts. The Mist doesn’t leave cures lying around. But some of us know things. Things the right person might find useful."

Elara darted to Barik’s side, leaning in far too close and sniffing theatrically. "You smell like broken promises and… is that sawdust? Oh, I like you already." She tilted her head at an odd angle. "Tell me, do your secrets glitter, or do they rot?"

Barik growled, his tone sharp. "Keep your nonsense to yourself, lass."

Henry smirked faintly. "She won’t. Trust me, I’ve tried."

Barik ignored her, keeping his focus on Henry. "There’s something I need—a pendant. Mithril, engraved with my family crest. It’s in the Mines of Ironhold."

Before Henry could respond, Elara cackled and suddenly leapt into the air, her form warping and stretching. In the blink of an eye, she wasn’t herself anymore—she was a giant, glowing yellow exclamation mark hovering above them. "Ah, a fetch quest!" she crowed, her voice echoing unnaturally. "The classics never die! A shiny trinket hidden in the depths of a monster-filled mine—delightfully clichéd, don’t you think?" She twirled midair, the light from her transformed body bouncing off the walls. "Shall we collect three more for the set?"

Henry groaned, covering his face with his hand. "Elara, stop."

With another sharp laugh, she dropped back down, resuming her usual form in a burst of golden sparks. "What? I’m embracing the narrative!"

Barik stared, his brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and irritation. "The mines aren’t some storybook fantasy. They’re full of creatures that don’t belong in the light."

Henry’s gaze didn’t waver. "If we get your pendant, you’ll tell us everything you know?"

Barik nodded, his expression grim. "Everything. But don’t think I’m some kind of guide or protector. The mines are your problem."

Henry’s voice was firm. "We’ll handle it."

Elara grinned, her eyes glinting with manic energy. "Oh, yes. Let’s go! The shadows there will sing, Henry. They’ll whisper things only the rocks remember!"

Henry didn’t flinch. "Let’s hope they whisper something useful."

Barik reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, ornate key. The intricate engravings caught the moonlight like frost on metal. "You’ll need this to get in. Don’t lose it—it’s the only one."