Charles the Goblin

“Introducing the Lady most fair— Miss Olivia Harrison of OtherWorlds Media, Shepherdess of the Station, Guardian at the Gate, Citizen of the unaligned Realm Mundane!” So that was her introduction. Her ears flicked once. She took a breath. Then she stepped forward. She moved exactly as she’d practiced—slow,

By mid-afternoon, the implications finally landed. Olivia was going to meet a queen. Not a metaphorical one. Not a ceremonial one. Not a “local festival with a sash and a tiara” queen. A real one. Real friggin’ royalty. Not just any queen, either—the Queen of Winter. The thought

Olivia felt it before she consciously decided to speak. Not in her stomach. Not in her chest. Along her hackles—an instinctive prickle that Greymuzzle had taught her to respect, especially when it urged careful honesty rather than caution. So she leaned into it. “I… get the feeling you and

Early morning. Nothing unusual. If anyone noticed the fur, the tail, the way her feet hit the ground bare and sure, their brains obligingly filled in the blanks. Fur tracksuit, some part of them decided. Costume, said another. Good for them, concluded the rest. No one stared. No one called

By evening, both of them stirred at nearly the same moment. Olivia’s stomach growled—sharp and insistent. Greymuzzle’s answered it an instant later, deeper and far more offended. They both froze. Then Greymuzzle stretched, rolling his shoulders and flexing his claws against the tile. “No proper prey around

By late morning, Olivia moved differently. Less sharp panic in her motions. Less apology in her posture. She still wasn’t right—Greymuzzle made that clear—but she was beginning to find something steadier underneath the strain. When she paused at last, bent over with hands on her knees, he

By seven, the breakroom had become what it always became on Fridays: comfortably ungovernable. The weekend pizza buffet stretched across the counter, boxes stacked two deep, steam fogging the lids as Hosts drifted in and out, plates balanced on knees and elbows, arguments and laughter overlapping without ever quite colliding.

By mid-afternoon, the lobby was finally getting the attention it deserved. Greb stood on the step stool, carefully adjusting one of the framed movie posters while Clockett hovered nearby, polishing chrome fixtures with almost devotional focus. The large trash can on wheels sat open and waiting. Olivia was on

When they returned downstairs an hour later, Olivia’s hair was a mess, her ears relaxed, and her tail swayed with a looser, happier rhythm. Lenny carried a bottle of water in one hand and leaned into Olivia’s side with practiced ease. They paused in the breakroom doorway. Charles

The station hummed the way it always did. Not audibly—not unless you were paying attention—but Olivia felt it in the floor beneath her feet, in the low vibration that traveled up through the desk and settled behind her ribs like a second, steadier heartbeat. Phones blinked patiently. The