Curse of the Labubu

Rae

“This is the last time I take a tracking job from a satyr with a twitchy eye.”

I mumbled it for the third time as I pushed my way through a patch of hanging moss that smelled like drenched socks and disappointment. The forest didn’t care. The forest never cared. Especially for travelers of the wood. It always managed to keep things at bay.

By the time I reached the Witchgrove was all crooked shadows and smelled of bad intentions. Trees leaned in like they were eavesdropping. Roots twisted above ground in knotty fingers, waiting to grab the unworthy. Fog slithered low across the path, curling around my ankles like it was trying to swallow me out whole.

Which, in this cursed dreadful place, it wasn’t even the weirdest thing I’d seen today.

My boots lingered again—stuck in some kind of sap disguised as moss—and I growled low in my throat as I yanked myself free. A branch snagged my sleeve for the fourth time. The compass hanging from my belt spun in manic circles. And the map in my pocket? Completely unreadable now that the goat blood ink was sweating. Literally. The map was sweating. It was smearing all over my cloak.

Frustration didn’t even cover how I was feeling. I was, officially, over it.

“This was supposed to be a milk-run,” I hissed to my surroundings. Go check out a report of ‘something screechy’ at the edge of the grove. Probably a cursed squirrel or a possessed weasel, right? Easy coin. In and out. “Yeah right.” I said under my breath.

A flicker of movement passed out of the corner of my eye. The trees ahead.

I stopped. My hand slipped to my dagger. My breath staggered.

Silence.

SCREEEEEEEEE.

The sound shattered the wood like a knife piercing through tin. High-pitched. Feral. Absolutely not a squirrel.

I crouched instinctively, reaching for the hilt of my blade again, my heart hammering once—twice.

Whatever was ahead, it wasn’t small. And it wasn’t friendly.

Of course.

Because jobs that start with twitchy-eyed satyrs never end with anything but blood and bad choices.

I crept forward easily, my boots silent on the leaf rot, hand still on my blade of course. The trees opened into a small glade like a wound carved into the forest—unnaturally circular, with moss that curled away from the center like it was afraid to touch what sat in the middle. That should have been my clue. The inkling to walk away, but curiousity got the best of me.

A thistle-woven cage thumbed faintly with red light. It had old curse marks burned along the vines, etched deep into every thorn. The metal laced between the thistles was dull and rusted, but not with time—with magic.

And inside it… something moved. Something small.

I squinted.

Was that… fur? What the…?

The thing stirred, rising slowly with all the dramatic flair of a stage actor preparing to deliver his final monologue. I took in the sight of piercing bug eyes the size of river stones and orange? Fangs too large for its tiny mouth, and a puffball body covered in gremlin-level rage fur. Also orange?

It glared straight into at me. Like it was trying to figure out my soul. And then—

“Ah, at last,” it said, in a shrill, nasally voice. “My rescuer. Kneel before your Alpha King.”

It spoke.

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

What the hell was this thing?

“…You look like a sock that lost a fight with a blender.” I started to laugh.

It straightened—well, puffed up—and placed one clawed paw against its chest like I’d insulted royalty.

“I demand respect!”

“I demand coffee.” I stepped closer, circling the cage. “Life’s full of disappointment.”

Its ears twitched. It tried to follow me in a circle, but tripped over its own feet and thunked into the cage wall.

Honestly pathetic.

I crouched to peer in, curiosity outweighing concern. “What even are you?”

“I,” it hissed, eyes gleaming, “am cursed. Forever in this Labubu form. And powerful. And deeply misunderstood. Also, slightly hungry.”

I covered my mouth to silence my chuckle. Then bent to pick up the Labubu?

“You bite, I break your legs.”

“You’d strike an Alpha in his time of need?”

I poked the cage with my dagger. The whole thing shivered. He wad no bigger than my hand.

He lunged at the bars, claws extended—

—and promptly got caught in the thistles. His shriek sounded like a goat being tickled and stabbed at the same time.

I stared, unimpressed. “Yep. Definitely king material.”

I stood.

Brushed the dirt from my pants. And turned around.

“Nope, I dont think so.”

There was only so much weird I was willing to tolerate in a day, and I’d hit my limit five sarcastic comments ago. Whatever the hell it was or he was —possessed furball, cursed joke, deranged forest cryptid—wasn’t my problem. I needed to take him back.

Let some other idiot fall for the dramatics of this creature. Whatever story he was trying to spin my direction.

I stepped past the edge of the clearing—

And the world stopped.

The wind, which had been tugging at my hair a second ago, went still.

The birds? Silent. Unnerving.

Even the groaning trees seemed to hold their breath.

My boot landed on a root—and then I heard it.

Not from ahead.

Not behind.

Right beside my ear.

A voice like breath against skin. Cold. Ancient.

“He must be freed by choice.”

I froze.

My hand flew to my blade again, but no one was there.

“Is someone there?” I said turning sharply.

Not behind me.

Not above.

Not even a shadow out of place—except for the way the fog had thickened like a wall at my back.

I turned back slowly this time.

The creature was quiet.

No more posturing. No more grand declarations of kingship or greatness. Just… still. Staring.

Watching me.

Not smug.

Not smirking.

Just waiting.

And for the first time, I had the terrible sense that he wasn’t the only thing cursed in this clearing.

I stared at him.

He stared at me.

The silence stretched so long I could hear my own heartbeat. Or maybe that was the cursed wood holding its breath again.

I sighed—the loud, long-suffering kind. “This is a bad idea.”

He tilted his head. Blinked slowly, like I was the idiot in this scenario.

Reluctantly, and with every bone in my body screaming don’t, I stepped back into the clearing. The moment my boot touched the moss again, it shivered.

“If you bite me,” I muttered, unsheathing my dagger, “I swear I’ll use you as a boot warmer.”

His eyes glimmered, but he said nothing. Just watched. Waiting.

I reached the cage and brushed a few thistles aside, revealing the lock—a hunk of silver, old and thorned and laced with runes that looked like they’d been carved with hate. It hummed the second I touched it.

I hesitated.

Then, because apparently I have no survival instincts, I gripped it and twisted.

CREEEAAAK.

The cage door groaned open.

And the ground exploded.

Cracks split through the dirt, glowing molten red beneath the moss. The light pulsed—alive—and then:

BLOODVINES.

They shot up from the earth like whips, hissing and writhing. One coiled tight around my arm, yanking it upward. Another slithered toward him, the creature inside, snatching his fuzzy little leg and dragging him out of the cage with a startled yowl.

“WHAT IS HAPPENING?!” I screamed, stumbling backward as the vines pulled tight.

“YOU FOOL!” He shrieked. “YOU’VE DOOMED US BOTH!”

“You were in a cage!” I yelled back. “How is this my fault?!”

With a final snap, the vines coiled through the air and lashed our wrists together—mine glowing with pulsing red, his twitching and smoking faintly. There was a blinding flash of light, a boom like thunder cracking through bone, and then—

Silence.

The vines vanished.

My knees hit the cold moss. I was panting, sweating, and swearing under my breath.

That voice again. Whisper-soft, but no less final.

“Three acts of love. Break the beast. Or become one.”

I looked down.

My wrist was marked now—like a brand made of veins and vines, glowing faintly beneath the skin. The thing, still smoking a little, had flopped into my open pack and curled in like a pissed-off porcupine with delusions of monarchy.

What just happened?

I didn’t speak. Just stood up. Adjusted my bag. Trudged toward whatever path still lay ahead.

And muttered, mostly to myself:

“I should’ve taken the satyr’s other offer. Sure, he was missing a horn, smelled like spoiled fig wine, and his hooves looked like they’d lost a fight with a cheese grater—but at least his idea of trouble didn’t involve bloodvine binding of sorts and a pocket-sized rage monster.”