Three villages south of Emberfen, the town of Larkmere had developed an unsettling habit: smiling.
Not the warm, "hello neighbor" sort of smile. No—this was the wide, glassy-eyed, too-many-teeth kind of smile that suggested something was profoundly wrong.
Rose noticed it the moment they arrived. Children sat perfectly still at their porridge bowls, grinning. The baker waved with all ten fingers—and none of them blinked. Even the mayor greeted them with, "Blessed be the molars," before offering a handshake wrapped in bandages.
"Okay, that's new," Basil whispered, hiding behind Nimbus.
Gregory muttered, "Definitely cursed. Possibly dental."
Mortain frowned. "Something is humming beneath this town. Magic, but twisted. Too orderly. Too… clean."
The group strolled through cobbled streets where the chimneys exhaled in sync and the pigeons all stared in the same direction. Every door had a tiny sigil carved into the frame—a crescent moon with fangs.
They stopped in front of the town chapel. It had once been dedicated to the Goddess of Luck. Now it bore a new symbol above the door: a circle of teeth, whispering.
"Never trust anything that whispers and doesn't have lungs," Rose muttered.
Inside, pews were filled with smiling townsfolk murmuring in unison. At the altar stood a tall figure in robes woven from stitched-together smiles—literally. The cloth grinned.
"Welcome," the robed figure intoned. "We are the Chosen of the Whispering Teeth. Join us in chewing down reality's brittle shell."
"Hard pass," Rose said.
The priest smiled. His lips didn't move. "Oh, but you already have. You stepped through the Veil. You touched the edge. Now it bites back."
At his gesture, the congregation turned.
Their mouths opened—too wide. Their teeth shivered with soft, hissing words. Magic pulsed, thick and sour.
"Back out!" Mortain barked, throwing up a protective barrier as the front row charged, laughter hissing like a swarm of bees.
Rose summoned a ring of fire, forcing the cultists to halt. "What are you people?"
The priest pulled back his hood. He had no face. Just teeth—rows and rows of them where his eyes should have been.
Gregory bleated in horror. "It's a Mouthborne! They worship the primal hunger that lives between realms!"
Rose's eyes narrowed. "Another leftover from the King's fall?"
"Worse," Mortain said. "These existed before him. They fed on kings."
The priest stepped into the flames, unbothered. His smile sizzled. "You carry the Veil's key. The Riftborn seek it. Give it freely, and we shall chew you last."
"I hate cults," Rose growled. "And I hate tooth metaphors."
She hurled her fire forward—not just flame, but will, and fury, and the raw edge of chaos. The cult screamed as the room shattered into sparks.
When it was over, only ash and a few molars remained.
Rose stood in the smoke, breathing hard.
"They're multiplying," Mortain said grimly.
Rose nodded. "Then we better move fast."
From behind them, a survivor whispered, "The Teeth remember…"
But Rose didn't look back.
She was already walking into the next shadow.