The room smelled of stale ambrosia and cosmic ozone.

  It was a space that existed sideways from reality, a pocket dimension cluttered with the detritus of a god who had stopped trying to impress anyone eons ago. Maps of continents floated in the air, but most of them were tilted crookedly, leaking sand onto the floor. Empty goblets of Star-Nectar—a vintage that tasted like burning galaxies and regret—were scattered across the obsidian table, alongside half-eaten slices of what looked like pizza, but with toppings that screamed when you bit them.

  The Weaver sat slumped in his favorite chair, a throne carved from a single thundercloud that he had softened with a throw pillow. His robes were undone. He was wearing fuzzy slippers shaped like hydra heads.

  He was also absolutely, spectacularly wasted.

  He leaned over the Scrying Pool, his chin resting in his hand, watching the ripples. In the water, tiny figures were laughing and drinking in a tavern called The Bent Root.

  “Look at ‘em,” the Weaver slurred, gesturing vaguely at the pool with a half-empty goblet. “Look at my little idiots. Drinking the Blue Cap. Do they know the Constitution saving throw on that stuff is a fifteen? No. ‘Cuz they never read the lore notes.”

  He took a drink, missed his mouth slightly, and wiped a trail of glowing blue nectar from his beard.

  “I tried to warn ‘em,” he muttered to the empty room. “I buzzed the kid. I buzzed him three times!”

  He picked up a sleek, glowing stone tablet from the table—the master control for the Ward Stone he had gifted Kaelen weeks ago. It was currently blinking with an unread notification: [ALERT: SALT FLATS REQUIRE WATER PREP. DRINK WATER, YOU FOOLS.]

  “Does he look?” The Weaver shouted, throwing his hands up. “No! He treats it like a paperweight! It’s buried in his bag under three pairs of socks and a wheel of cheese! And even if he did check it, he wouldn’t hear the hum because the Dwarf is singing about rocks at ninety decibels!”

  He groaned, rubbing his temples. “Why do I bother? I should just let ‘em dehydrate. Teach ‘em a lesson about resource management.”

  But he didn't turn the pool off. He just refilled his goblet.

  Being a god was lonely. Being a drunken god watching his favorite show was even lonelier.

  He reached out and tapped a rune on the table. The air shimmered, and two spectral projections flickered into existence on the far wall.

  “Pick up,” the Weaver grumbled. “I know you’re not doing anything. The Void is closed on Tuesdays.”

  The image snapped into focus.

  “WEAVER!” a voice boomed, loud enough to shake the floating maps.

  Valtor, the Retired God of War, was currently shirtless, sitting on a pile of skulls that looked suspiciously like beanbag chairs. He was holding a keg the size of a beer barrel on one shoulder and looked like he had been partying since the Dawn Age.

  Next to him, lounging on a chaise made of shadows, was Nyx, the Retired Goddess of Secrets. She was spinning a dagger between her fingers and looked delightfully tipsy.

  “Val!” The Weaver greeted, raising his glass. “Nyx! You guys up?”

  “We are eternal,” Nyx giggled, her voice like silk over gravel. “Time is a construct. Also, yes. We’re hammered. What do you want, Weaver? Still watching your ant farm?”

  “It’s not an ant farm!” The Weaver protested. “It’s a narrative! It’s a complex simulation of free will and… and stuff!”

  “It’s ants,” Valtor rumbled, taking a swig from his keg that would have drowned a whale. “Messy ants. I saw the last boss fight. The Dwarf threw his axe at a corpse, Weaver. A corpse! He yelled at it! That’s just bad form.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “He was jealous!” The Weaver defended, pointing a shaky finger at the projection. “I gave the boy—Kaelen—a +2 Returning Spear. Beautiful work. Custom enchantment. And Faelar got insecure because his axe doesn't have a homing beacon! I can’t control their emotional insecurities, Val! I’m a storyteller, not a therapist!”

  “Just smite them,” Valtor suggested, belching a small cloud of fire. “That’s what I did in the Second Age. Very efficient. Drop a meteor. Boom. Reroll. Start fresh. I’ll lend you a Paladin. A real one. Not this… hic… this anxious fighter you’re obsessed with.”

  The Weaver shook his head violently, nearly falling out of his cloud-chair.

  “No! No meteors! You guys don’t get it.”

  He leaned closer to the projection, his eyes swimming with drunken emotion.

  “Why do we do this, Val? Why are we retired?”

  “Because mortals are exhausting,” Nyx drawled.

  “Because we know everything!” The Weaver shouted. “Omniscience is boring! I know how the Great Crusade ends. I know the physics of a supernova. I know exactly how many grains of sand are in the hourglass. There is no surprise. There is no… spark.”

  He pointed down at the Scrying Pool, where Kaelen was currently hugging Faelar in a drunken stupor.

  “But these guys? The Misfits? I don’t know what they’re gonna do. I didn't write the chicken, Nyx. I rolled a random encounter table and it came up ‘Poultry.’ It was a joke! Now the chicken is a god! I didn't plan that! The Dwarf weaponized a floor-polishing spell! I didn't plan that!”

  He wiped a tear from his eye.

  “They surprise me. And I haven't been surprised in a thousand years.”

  Nyx softened, her expression turning from amusement to something almost pitying. “You really love them, don’t you? Even the stiff one?”

  “He’s not a stiff,” The Weaver sniffed. “He’s a survivor. You saw the tavern tonight? He told them about the Warrens. He’s finally leveling up, guys. Not his stats… his heart.”

  “Oh, gag me,” Valtor groaned. “You’re getting sentimental. Drink more nectar.”

  “I’m just saying,” The Weaver slurred, “he’s a good kid. Even if he ignores my messages. I sent him a hint about the Vipers—‘USE FIRE’—in giant glowing letters. You know what he used? A hammer. He just hit the fire-vulnerable snake with a hammer. It took forty rounds of combat. It was painful to watch.”

  “Alright, alright,” Valtor sighed. “So, what’s next for your little circus? They’re heading West, right?”

  “The Salt Flats,” The Weaver confirmed. He spun his chair around—a dizzying maneuver—to face the massive tabletop map behind him.

  The map was a living replica of the world below. Tiny clouds drifted over it. Tiny waves crashed on the shores. The Salt Flats of Aethelgard were a patch of blinding white crystal near the center.

  “I need to set up the encounter table,” The Weaver muttered, standing up. He swayed, grabbing the table for balance. “Gotta give ‘em something fun. Something… crispy.”

  He reached for a wooden box on the high shelf labeled STANDARD DESERT THREATS (LEVEL 3-5). It contained Scorpions, Salt-Lizards, and Dust Mephits. Manageable. Educational.

  However, the combination of fuzzy slippers, a tilted floor, and three quarts of Star-Nectar proved to be a tactical disadvantage.

  The Weaver reached up. His foot slipped.

  He flailed, his elbow slamming into a completely different shelf. Specifically, the shelf marked ABYSSAL / DEEP OCEAN NIGHTMARES (LEVEL 10+).

  A heavy, dust-covered box tipped over.

  “Oops,” The Weaver whispered.

  A single, massive miniature fell from the box. It wasn't a scorpion. It was a monstrosity of black obsidian and writhing tentacles, with a beak the size of a carriage and eyes that burned with void-light.

  The Void-Kraken.

  It tumbled through the air, bouncing off a mountain range, and landed with a distinct, heavy THUD right in the middle of the Salt Flats.

  On the magical map, the sand instantly rippled as the miniature burrowed in, turning the white crystal black.

  The room went silent.

  “Weaver,” Nyx said, her voice dripping with glee. “You just dropped a Kraken in a desert.”

  The Weaver squinted at the map. He swayed. He looked at the box. He looked at the monster.

  “It’s… it’s a Sand Kraken now,” he declared, waving a dismissive hand. “It swims in the sand. Evolutionary divergence. Very rare.”

  “It has gills, Weaver,” Valtor pointed out.

  “They’re sand-gills!” The Weaver insisted. “It filters dust! It’s homebrew! Totally intended! It’s a regional variant!”

  “They’re level five,” Valtor said. “That thing eats battleships for breakfast. It’s going to TPK your precious Misfits in one round. They’re gonna die, and then I’m gonna say ‘I told you so’ for the next eon.”

  The Weaver stared at the map. The Sand Kraken was already setting up an ambush near the main road.

  “Nah,” The Weaver said, sinking back into his chair. His eyelids were getting heavy. “They’ll be fine. Builds character. Besides… they have the Chicken. The Chicken will figure it out.”

  He took one last drink from his goblet, spilling half of it onto his robe.

  “To the Misfits,” he toasted to the empty room. “Try not to die. I’m gonna go pass out for a century. Wake me if the elf starts dating the villain.”

  The Weaver’s head hit the back of the cloud-chair. Within seconds, the room was filled with the thunderous sound of divine snoring.

  On the map, in the blinding white wastes of the Salt Flats, the Void-Kraken settled into the dunes, waiting for breakfast.