Page 24 of A Match Made in Slumber

Elian

It came to me later that night.

Without warning, like a sudden blow to my temple. The calculations manifested in my mind—unequivocal, definite, clear. It all clicked with perfect sense. The structural framework for the spell. The exact mix of the resin compounds. The right saturation of colours for the crystalline tip. And the perfect timber to support the required burning time. How could I have not seen it before?

I had no doubts—I knew the blueprint was right. I just knew it would work.

By the time it took Kill’em and Settie to complete a single evening game of Warlords of the Alghatran, I’d finished making the entire prototype of the Match of Interdimensional Return.

I studied it as it lay pristine on my workshop counter. I stared at it for a long time until my vision blurred. Or perhaps I’d just had a cry but didn’t want to admit it. My thoughts wandered into the void, a stone in my stomach.

Then, having found a fresh friction strip to go with it–definitely not skipping that step this time–I placed both items inside the satin-lined golden box I used on occasion for luxuries, top-tier matchsticks or custom-made talismans.

Finally, I hid the box on the highest shelf underneath the lavender canopy and didn’t tell a soul.

Everything Sucks Until It Doesn't

Timeline: Forty-eight hours until the Great Fetter

Elian

The dense, humid heat of midsummer had settled over the market square by the tenth day, thick enough to make breathing feel like inhaling hot medicinal vapours.

Business had been brutal.

Fern hit a goldmine with his Glacier-Mint Cordial, which lowered the drinker's core body temperature on consumption and gave them a puff of fresh, misty breath for added novelty. Whoever could get their hands on them walked around the market puffing away and inciting jealousy in the unlucky puffless ones who’d come too late. My indoor cooling enchantments proved so highly sought-after that punters had fought over them. Or they would have for sure if Kill’em hadn’t run our stall with an iron fist. I’d continue striking Frost-Veil matchsticks every couple of hours like a person possessed, just to prevent the air around our booth from simmering. This small luxury had nearby vendors weeping with gratitude. My head, however, pulsated with a dull tension due to the constant alchemical expenditure.

Still, I had a spring in my step. That evening, the highlanders from Dun Steorra—the rugged, mountainous territory where deep mineral mines and forestry supplied half of Everend’s wealth—were staging their traditional cultural dances in the central plaza. Morrigen, who had spent his childhood in the chilly northern hills of Bryhurst, had been looking forward to the event all week. Demonstrating a whole routine of intricate leg sweeps and jumps, he’d promised to teach our group the fast-paced northern jigs. The prospect of dancing with Kill’em had kept me smiling through the worst of the afternoon rush.

But we never made it to the plaza that day.

When we returned to the cottage to wash the market sweat from our faces and don a fresh change of clothes, a hurried banging rattled the front door.

“Who’s using their knuckles like a hammer?” Kill’em reached the latch first and pulled it open.

Morrigen and Verity stood on the porch. The humid evening air pressed in behind them, but neither moved to step inside. Verity held a hand raised to his chest, the skin across his digits blooming with red. Morrigen seemed flustered, his usual scholarly composure absent. Postures stiff, their gazes held a brittle, uneasy urgency.

“Oh, hello,” I said, stepping up behind Kill’em’s shoulder, my brow furrowing. “I thought we were meeting directly at the plaza? Where are Fern and Settie?”

“Never mind that now, Elian.” Verity’s tone sounded flat and jagged. This odd lapse in his usual courtly manners stopped me short. “Morrigen needs to speak to you both.”

We followed the guests into the kitchen.

An icy prickle of disquiet settled into my stomach. Still, I moved toward the counter, my hands shifting towards the teapot by pure habit. “I'll pop the kettle on. You both look like you've been running—”

“Don't bother with the tea,” Morrigen interrupted. He sat heavily at the wooden table, unrolling a dense, ink-scrawled parchment he had pulled from the depths of his robes. "There's something you need to know.”

I froze, the ceramic pot turning slippery in my palms. I put it down and exchanged a brief, alert look with Kill’em. His expression remained calm, settling into the calculating stillness of a commander preparing for a frontal assault. I lowered myself into a seat, and he moved to stand next to my chair, his hand a heavy, comforting weight on my shoulder.

“Tell us,” Kill’em said.

Morrigen ran a tense hand over his mouth and chin. As he began talking, his speech took on an increasingly rapid cadence. “I’ve spent the last eight hours in the archives with the senior scholars, dissecting the latest theoretical hypotheses on multidimensional rifts. Since Keălhem’s accidental summoning, the mechanics around his arrival have become a fixation amongst my colleagues. Everyone is combing through the texts in search of a historical precedent. Nobody has found one, but after hours of cross-referencing their data and tearing through their own theories, it’s clear I’ve missed a critical variable.”

He tapped a complex cosmological diagram on the parchment and lifted his eyebrows.

Kill’em and I continued to stare.

Morrigen tsked with impatience and turned the picture around, as if a better glance would enlighten us. “We didn't account for the lunar transition. The moon wanes to total eclipse on the twelfth day of the market. In exactly two days.” Morrigen glanced from Kill’em’s face to mine. “It’s known as the Great Fetter. As the moon dies, the veil between the planes will experience a violent, localised surge of pressure. It’s a closing window. Before the night passes, the threshold will seal itself completely. ”