This has been a long time coming: my return to writing long-form fiction. Over my sabbatical from the blog, I read Save the Cat by Blake Snyder, and it really opened my eyes to the importance of structure in storytelling. Using his story beat technique, I took a failed post idea, a follow-up to A Slice of Sliberbergian Chaos in the same police log format that tried to tell an actual story, added some additional worldbuilding, and beat it out using Mr. Snyder’s formula to create a narrative that I think is engaging.

Will Tilly Bramblethorn be able to branch out? She has no choice, because a chance encounter with a pair of cute grey eyes and their respective owner will lead her down a path she never expected, motherhood.

Also in pursuit of full transparency, this piece was written with the help of chatgtp, but I did not simply ask it to write the story for me. While do try to write almost all of my stuff with chatgtp only providing editing advise I struggle with writing characters from a first-person perspective of characters in the character’s voice, especially one that I have no relevant comparable life experiences such as a jaded, 25-year-old pixie woman in a fairytale world that merges Celtic and Germanic culture, who is deeply disappointed with her life, definitely fits the bill (I might be a little jaded, but the rest still applies). So I wrote the story like usual and had Chatgtp translate it Page by Page into Tilda’s voice. The results speak for themselves. I hope you enjoy this first chapter.

Chapter 1: No Respect

You know what no one tells you growing up? That doing everything right still gets you nowhere. You study, you sweat, you sacrifice—only to end up where ambition goes to die: the dispatch desk. With a headset made from scrap pipe and tape, five giggling subordinates who would rather be shopping for dresses, and a stack of paperwork so high you’d think it was a cursed mimic tower. And for all that? No respect. None. Zilch. Not from my colleagues, not from my family, and certainly not from the civvies who think I’m a secretary with sparkles.

Name’s Bramblethorn. Tilly Bramblethorn. Duty Sergeant of the SLiberberg Watch, Dispatch Division, Day Shift, Alteburg HQ. That’s right—the “Pixie Princess Division.” (No, I don’t like the name. Yes, I will hex you if you use it unironically.)

I come from a long, proud line of Watchfolk. My grandda was Captain of the Maple Tree Watchhouse in Pixiewood. My da still works there as a duty sergeant. My brothers? Detective, patrol sergeant, corporal, and constable. It’s like being the only non-wolf in a litter of direwolves. Me? I’m herding glittery chaos and writing incident reports while my girls debate whether duty boots clash with wing shimmer.

Every day I wake up and ask myself: why? Why, oh Great and Mysterious Lord and Lady of the Fey, did I end up here? I did the work. Cracked the manuals, cast the practice spells, even sat through Professor Scrogg’s three-hour “Introduction to Subtlety” lecture without screaming. I passed the endurance trial, aced the legal theory, even won a bloody ethics debate. And what did that get me? A “regret to inform you” letter and a desk job. At dispatch. Where dreams go to be filed in triplicate and eaten by rats.

Still don’t get how rough dispatch is? Come along. I’ll give you the grand tour. But first: morning misery.

It’s hot. The sun’s barely up and my bedroom already smells like wilted fairy blossoms and sweat. I’m half-passed out on crumpled silk sheets in a well worn lace-trimmed nightgown that says “temptress” but feels like “damp dishrag.” My recycled wristwatch-alarm buzzes at 7 a.m. like a bee on too much sugar. I groan. The day’s already ruined and I haven’t even stood up yet.

I bury my head under the pillow. Nope. Not doing this. Maybe if I lie still enough, I’ll get turned into a toad and someone else will have to handle dispatch.

But no such luck. The heat presses down like a smothering curse, and eventually I groan, roll, and launch into the air. My wings buzz half-heartedly as I glide across the room to the bathroom.

Check the roof tank—plenty of water. Thank moonlight. I peel off the nightgown, chuck it over the vanity, and hop into my bathtub-slash-repurposed gravy boat. Pull the raincoat curtain closed, crank the valve. Water comes out warm. Of course it does. Why wouldn’t it? Heatwave’s still cooking the city like a cursed pie.

Post-shower, I towel off with a napkin square and glare at my reflection in the compact mirror. Still got it: lean frame, patrol-fit, sharp green eyes, green hair, and dragonfly wings that glimmer like warning signs. My face? Pixie-average. Good enough for undercover work if I ever get the chance—which I won’t.

Hair in a bun. Teeth brushed. Wings dried. No makeup today—dispatch doesn’t deserve my best face.

I rummage through the dollhouse wardrobe, yank out the uniform: crisp blue coat (with wing vents), white blouse, white stockings, sensible lace-ups, and the bowler hat with the Watch emblem. Badge goes on the lapel like a badge of shame. One last look in the mirror. I sigh.

“Professional. Alert. Barely caffeinated,” I mutter.

And with that, I’m off—wings buzzing, stomach growling, hope already on life support.

Time to face another day in the fairy-infested bureaucratic hurricane we call Sliberberg.

Normally I make myself a nice little bowl of granola with some fruit shavings and a splash of almond cream—civilized, nutritious, and slightly smug. But not today. Today it was already hot enough to poach eggs in a puddle, and I wasn’t about to spend my last reserves of morning patience chewing toasted oats. I’d scrounge something on the way in.

I floated down from the second-floor overlook into the parlor—if you could call it that. Really, it was just a glorified dollhouse showroom stuffed with furniture someone clearly thought was charming when it was just small and uncomfortable. Not that I use most of it. It’s not like I host soirées or have a bustling social calendar. I don’t have friends, I have coworkers and witnesses. Occasionally I have witnesses who don’t lie to my face. That’s about as close as it gets.

My feet barely touched the floor before I was out the front door of my “fashionable bungalow” and into the blinding, blistering light of day.

And here’s the thing. I know exactly why I bought a house at the edge of Pixiewood, right where it meets the Park’s big central lawn—and every morning I regret it anew. Yes, I make a full Watchman’s wage, and yes, at one-sixth the size, my coin stretches like illusion-twine. Sure, I got a two-bedroom pixie-sized home at a bargain price thanks to the tree-lady who owns the land. But you know what doesn’t stretch? Shade. There’s no shade out here. None. Just solar death. My next-door neighbor baked a cake yesterday using a solar oven, and I’m not talking metaphorical.

To add insult to sunstroke, I can see one of the police call boxes from my front door. Which means every time someone mistakes a squirrel for a shapeshifter, guess who’s first on the magical communication line? Spoiler: It’s me.

“Well, well, you’re up and at ’em early, Tilly,” came the voice that sounded like creaking floorboards in an old farmhouse. I looked up.

Willowheart.

There she was—my landlady, one of the few souls I’d ever admit to kinda liking. Elderly awakened willow tree. Rough bark face. Deep-set eyes like knot-holes. Roots literally anchoring my home. Moral compass stuck somewhere between “concerned aunt” and “ancient druid grandma.”

“Morning, Willowheart,” I said, straightening up and slipping into my ‘Professional Watchwoman’ voice. I floated up to eye level, wings buzzing. “Can’t get respect if you don’t put in the work. That means early mornings and doing everything twice as well just to get taken half as seriously.”

She made that old-lady tsk-tsk sound, the one they must teach you in matriarch school, and gave me a look like I’d just announced I was going to marry a banshee.

“I never understood your obsession with your career, Tilly,” she said, bark-voice gently disapproving.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” I huffed, crossing my arms and pointedly not making eye contact. “My dad’s a desk sergeant, practically guaranteed a captain’s badge next cycle. Rowan’s a bloody detective. Manac, Corlon, and Fredilic all wear patrol stripes. The Bramblethorns are respected. And me? I’m stuck in dispatch with a glitter-happy gaggle of pixie girls who think writing up an incident report means drawing hearts above the i’s.”

I paused, wings twitching. “They treat me like a joke. The only way out is promotion. That’s how I get my due. That’s how I stop being the punchline.”

Willowheart gave a slow shake of her trunk. “If you want respect, Tilly, you could try branching out.”

Yes. She said it like that. Branching out. And no, it wasn’t even ironic.

“As you are now, you are a single quivering shoot reaching for the sun,” she continued in that elder-teaches-the-child tone. “But if you throw out a branch, you will find new avenues for yourself… and likely, respect.”

I barely held back an eye roll. “Please,” I muttered, already floating backward. “Anyway, it was nice talking. I’ve got to grab something edible before I report in. Riot squad’s on magical beast standby again, and I don’t want to miss the start of the chaos.”

I waved as I zipped toward the gate.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, youngin,” Willowheart called after me.

She might’ve tried to wave—I think. But with all the houses cradled in her limbs, it was hard to tell. Either way, it was more sentiment than most folks send me in a week.

Just outside the park gates—under a particularly broadleafed bush and nestled between a pair of upturned teacups—sits one of the few good reasons I don’t burn Pixiewood to the ground in a fit of sunstroke-induced rage: Guenfer’s Café.

Technically it’s called The Little Leaf, but everyone just calls it Guenfer’s. Built out of repurposed odds and ends—button tables, matchbox booths, a bar carved out of a chess piece—it’s a proper café, scaled for us small folk and blessed by moonlight herself. Why? Because Guenfer, the leprechaun who runs it, is a bona fide Sister of the Silver Moon. Yeah. That Silver Moon. Trained under Tansy bloody Fleetfoot. That makes Guenfer’s the park’s own Silver Moon satellite café, complete with pastries, herbal infusions, and espresso that could resurrect the dead or at least make me tolerate a Monday morning.

So yeah. Not just coffee. Respected institutional coffee.

I zipped there as fast as I dared without flash-boiling my wings, ducked through the tin-lid door, and sighed the sweet sigh of shade and caffeine. It was already a decent crowd for 8 a.m.—an assortment of sprites, leprechauns, and pixie lads packed into bric-a-brac chairs, sipping from bottlecap mugs.

I knew most of them, of course. Pixiewood’s small like that. Everyone’s a cousin or a cousin’s enemy. Most of the lot were tradesmen on their way to jobs in High Street boutiques, the Nachtglanz theaters, or the Grand Fey Marketplace—fancy places where they’d charm customers and pretend not to be allergic to glitter.

I dropped to the back of the line. I knew my order: triple berry iced latte, vegan milk, no foam, and one of those raspberry danishes that taste like guilty pleasure and childhood disappointment. At least it was cooler in the bush than outside, though the wait time was moving at glacial speed. Note to self: invent time-magic for queues.

I hovered a little, fidgeting like someone whose stomach was writing angry letters to management. That’s when it happened.

I didn’t notice them enter.

Didn’t notice the creak of the door or the thundercloud of smug that followed.

No, I only noticed when a meaty arm slung itself across my shoulders like we were in a family drama with bad writing.

“Heya, shortstuff.”

Ugh. Manac.

I turned slowly and saw the unholy trio: Manac, Corlon, and Fredilic—my brothers, biological embarrassments, and personal plague.

“Queen of the Pixie Princesses,” Manac said with a stupid grin. “How’s the tiara fitting?”

I scowled and pouted, mostly because decking him would’ve meant losing my place in line. I loathed that nickname. I don’t know who coined it—the ‘Pixie Queen’ for dispatch sergeants or the ‘Pixie Princess Division’ nonsense—but I’ve got a mental list of suspects and a prep’d toad spell ready.

Still, the worst part? Manac said it without a shred of malice. He had no idea I hated it. None. Like it was just good-natured family banter. Which made it worse.

“Not worth it,” I muttered, voice tight. “The sooner I get out of there, the better.”

“Oh don’t be like that, sis,” Fredilic piped up. “Can’t be that bad. You’re working with some of the prettiest girls in Pixiewood.” He elbowed me and lowered his voice. “Hey, is it true Buttercup’s single again? Maybe you could, you know, introduce us?”

I don’t know what it is about being in dispatch that makes people think I moonlight as a social coordinator. I’ve lost count of how many Watchmen ask me to play matchmaker. It’s like they assume I’ve got a bulletin board in the breakroom tracking every girl’s romantic status like a bloody tactical map.

“How would I know?” I snapped, fuming. “I’m not her mother.”

“Easy, sis,” said Corlon, doing his best peacekeeper routine. “No need to shout. We just want to know how our favorite sister’s doing. And come on—it can’t be that bad in the Pixie Princess Division.”

That. Was. It.

I unloaded.

I went full detonation: sarcasm sharpened, pitch raised, hands gesturing wildly like I was directing traffic in a typhoon. By the time I’d finished my tirade about being stuck with sparkle-drunk rookies, policy contradictions, and the endless humiliation of being dismissed because I’m tiny and winged, the three of them looked like they’d been hit with a banishment spell.

The café had gone silent. Everyone was staring.

Good.

My turn finally came. I floated up to the counter like a war hero returning from battle.

“Triple berry iced latte, vegan milk, no foam. Raspberry danish.”

Guenfer raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Bless her.

I took my order and left without a word, too caffeinated to care and too embarrassed to process.

I barely made it three wingbeats past the bush before some bleary-eyed teenager with a baby carriage nearly steamrolled me. It was a miracle I didn’t spill my drink—guess the gods were feeling merciful today.

I zipped up, ready to give her a good solid lecture on pedestrian etiquette. Then I got a look at her and her charge.

The girl—barely out of her teens—looked exhausted. Hair in a messy braid, dark circles under her eyes, posture of someone who hasn’t slept since Beltane. The baby in the carriage? Wailing. Red-faced, angry, barely a month and a half old if I had to guess.

I hovered for a second, rage cooling into recognition. She wasn’t the mother. Caretaker, maybe. Big sister, maybe. Definitely overwhelmed. And that baby? Screaming with the force of a banshee with a hangover. I sighed and stood down. No lecture. Not today and needed to get to work.

So I zipped through the park gate onto High Street. The street runs the length of Zollstock like a very posh artery—three-quarters of a mile of cobblestone commerce carved through a sea of upper-middle-class smugness. It stretches from Pixie Court to Zollstock Circus and is, rather predictably, the only patch of retail real estate in an otherwise aggressively residential district. And, lucky me, it also happens to be my daily commute.

The street hugs the Alteburg’s rocky flank for most of its length. Picture narrow sidewalks, human-sized of course, lined with artisan boutiques, herbal perfumeries, and bakeries that all seem to think a croissant is worth five silver. At 10 past eight, the street was already bustling—because of course it was.

I zipped along at just above human head height, dodging top hats, parasols, and the occasional oblivious pedestrian with a newspaper. Or in this case, a newsie. One of those half-grown goblins in a cap three sizes too big, bellowing the day’s headline like it was some ancient prophecy of doom:

“Record-Breaking Heatwave Enters Fourth Day! No Relief in Sight!”

Great. Fantastic. Just what I needed—another day of sweating through my uniform in the dispatch center while dealing with dispatchers too dazed by sun and sparkles to file their reports correctly.

As I zipped over the heads of errand-runners and nannies dragging sticky-fingered children to their overpriced playdates, I spared a glance at the road. It was an absolute mess. Carriages jammed end-to-end, drivers leaning out their windows to yell at each other in increasingly creative dialects.

Watchwoman’s instinct kicked in, and I didn’t even need a divination scroll to know what was happening: every idiot with coin and common sense was fleeing the city for Gibree. The beach town’s only five miles up the coast from Sliberberg, and it’s the default panic button for anyone who thinks fresh air and a salted rim on their drink will cure heatstroke.

Which meant—lucky me—my team and I were about to inherit the glorious responsibility of managing a traffic jam three miles deep. All in a city where roughly half the population can throw fireballs, magic missiles, or polymorph spells.

The commute took fifteen minutes—twenty if you count the five I spent internally preparing to hate my day. Northgate loomed up ahead, and I zipped through into the Alteburg’s bailey, paved entirely in grey stone and as charming as a funeral procession. The Alteburg was supposedly the original castle of our Eternal Prince, Frederick von Mountainheart—though honestly, the only thing princely about it is the cost of repairs.

The place is a triangle of gray on gray: ancient walls, two gatehouses, and a courtyard designed by someone with a grudge against color. To my right was the old keep, now a jail. To the left, the courthouse—slightly more ornate, because law requires drama. Straight ahead: Watch Headquarters.

A brick monstrosity in that particular brand of pseudo-Neogothic that screams, “I once saw a cathedral and got confused.” The windows are pointy, the corners are fake-fortified, and someone had the bright idea to build a four-story bell tower. Somehow, despite the effort, it manages to look more utilitarian than everything around it.

At least it’s consistent.

I landed just as the Guild of Clockmakers’ tower chimed 8:30. Early. I was actually ten minutes ahead of schedule. Maybe the heat had scared off time itself.

I zipped toward the tiny folk entrance—half-height door, full-sized annoyance—and pushed inside. The lobby was pleasantly dim and smelled like paper and old spells. I made a beeline for the front desk to clock in.

And that’s when fate decided to test me.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted a familiar squat form—greenish skin, armor that almost fit, and a voice that hit my ears like a badly tuned violin.

Corporal Knobs.

He was in full performance mode, regaling a knot of patrolmen with the latest chapter of “How I Got Myself Injured Again Trying to Be a Hero.” The man lives for drama and concussions. My favorite combination.

Now, Knobs isn’t the worst goblin on the Watch. He’s clean enough, relatively odorless, and wears a uniform without too much modification. But he’s the sort of extrovert that makes you wish for invisibility magic. Constantly chasing glory, diving headfirst into “opportunities,” and racking up injuries like he’s trying to complete a set. Every time he goes down, guess who gets the paperwork? Spoiler: it’s me.

To make it worse, the disdain is mutual. He doesn’t like me because I don’t laugh at his stories. I don’t like him because he thinks everything is a story.

So, I zipped past, silent, head high, determined not to dignify him with so much as a nod.

Didn’t matter.

“There goes the Pixie Ice Queen,” he said in that snide little voice of his.

I didn’t look back.

But oh, I heard it. And I felt every part of me clench with the kind of fury that could freeze an entire swamp.

Pixie Ice Queen.

They love that nickname. And by “they,” I mean the entire patrol division with the emotional maturity of a soggy scone. I hate it. I hate the way they say it like it’s clever. I hate the way it sticks. I hate that I don’t even know who started it.

But most of all?I hate that they might be right.