“Four percent is still a percent,” she said. And she walked through the Shadow like it was mist. The Fractured Prince sat on a throne of broken mirrors, each shard reflecting a different version of himself—prince, martyr, monster, child. He was beautiful and hollow, his chest open like a cabinet, a shard of black glass where his heart should have been.
Most people in Dustwallow received logs with entries like “Deliver flour to the mill” or “Patch the roof of the Widow Greaves.” Simple. Achievable. Boring. rpg maker mv quest log
Outside, the sun rose. It had never been in danger; the log had exaggerated. That was the thing about quest logs. They made everything sound epic. Sometimes a prince was just a sad boy with a bad heart-shard. Sometimes a hero was just a potter’s daughter who tripped a lot and had inexplicably good luck. Iona returned to Dustwallow. The log went dormant, its pages blank except for one final entry: “Four percent is still a percent,” she said
“You didn’t choose this quest. But you chose to keep walking. That’s not nothing.” He was beautiful and hollow, his chest open