In the gilded, sorrowful court of Queen Seraphina, there was no laughter. The Queen had buried her husband and her only child within the span of a single bitter winter. Her kingdom, the Vale of Bells, prospered in wealth but ached in silence. The royal castle, with its crystal windows and silver fountains, felt like a mausoleum.

That night, Thorn crept into the war council. He listened to the generals draw maps and talk of archers and siege engines. Then he tugged the Queen’s sleeve.

But Thorn did none of those things. He stole a spoon, yes, but only because it reflected light in a way that made him laugh—a rusty, squeaking sound like a gate swinging in the wind. He hid under tables and bit the ankles of priests who prayed too loudly. He also, without anyone noticing, fixed the cracked bell in the eastern tower. He used no tools, only his clever, crooked fingers and a mixture of mud and goat’s milk.

She went to the pigsty in her bare feet, a silk robe trailing through the mud. The goblin hissed and bared needle-teeth. “Leave me to rot, great queen. I eat dirt and lie. I am nothing.”