Chapter 2: Glowing Problems Fitzwilliam stared, and it wasn’t his usual “Buttonsby has done something incredibly stupid” stare. This was… horror. Genuine, unadulterated horror. The dagger, still clutched in Bartholomew’s sweaty palm, wasn’t just warm anymore. It was radiating light. An unnatural, sickly green glow that pulsed with an almost palpable energy. He knew, instantly, that the situation had gone from bad to catastrophically worse. He’d dealt with Sentient Shankers before, in his younger, more reckless days. He’d even – he shuddered at the memory – briefly wielded one. But he’d never seen one *glow*. “Buttonsby,” he managed, his voice a strained whisper. “Run!” He knew it was a useless command. Where was the boy going to run? And more importantly, would running even help? But it was the only thing he could think of in that moment, watching the dagger throb with malevolent energy. He scrambled back, knocking over a stack of alchemical ingredients. Powders and liquids spilled across the floor, mixing into a bubbling, iridescent mess. The air crackled with static electricity. Bartholomew, predictably, just stood there, gawking. Fitzwilliam wanted to throttle him. Was the boy incapable of independent thought? Did he need to be explicitly told to breathe? “Buttonsby, I said *run*!” he roared, trying to inject some urgency into his voice. He fumbled for his wand, his fingers trembling. Dispelling the magic seemed like the logical thing to do, but a part of him – the part that remembered his brief, ill-advised dalliance with a Sentient Shanker – screamed at him to do the opposite. Some magic was best left alone. He pointed the wand at the dagger anyway, muttering an incantation he hadn’t used in decades. It was a basic banishing spell, designed to… well, to banish things. He wasn’t entirely sure what would happen when he used it on a Sentient Shanker, but he figured it was worth a shot. The spell hit the dagger with a flash of blue light. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the green glow intensified, becoming almost blinding. The air shimmered, distorting the shapes of the objects in the room. Instead of banishing the magic, Fitzwilliam had just supercharged it. He cursed under his breath. Of course he had. A wave of chaotic energy erupted from the dagger, washing over the study like a magical tsunami. Books flew off shelves, their pages flapping wildly. Furniture danced and twirled, seemingly possessed. Potions bubbled and frothed, changing colors with alarming speed. The very fabric of the room seemed to warp and twist, reality itself bending to the dagger’s will. It was like the study had been turned inside out, transformed into a bizarre, nightmarish parody of itself. Fitzwilliam’s carefully organized chaos had been replaced by *actual* chaos. He watched in horror as his prized collection of enchanted thimbles began to sing a Gilbert & Sullivan song, their tiny voices echoing through the room. His self-stirring cauldron started brewing a concoction that smelled suspiciously like burnt toast and despair. And his meticulously labeled jars of pickled newt eyes began to wink suggestively. This was… not good. “Buttonsby!” he yelled again, trying to be heard over the cacophony. “Get out of here! Now!” Bartholomew still hadn’t moved. He was staring at the chaos around him with a mixture of fear and… was that fascination? Fitzwilliam couldn’t tell. The boy was an enigma wrapped in a cloak of incompetence. He grabbed Bartholomew by the arm, yanking him towards the door. The golden chain connecting them strained, pulling Fitzwilliam off balance. He stumbled, nearly falling into a pile of sentient dust bunnies. “Come on, you blithering idiot!” he shouted, dragging Bartholomew along. “We need to get out of here before this whole place implodes!” He didn’t know what was going to happen, but he knew it couldn’t be good. Sentient Shankers were bad enough when they were just influencing their wielders. A Sentient Shanker that was actively warping reality? That was a recipe for disaster. They reached the door, Fitzwilliam practically dragging Bartholomew through it. He glanced back at the study, his heart sinking. The chaos was intensifying. The singing thimbles were now tap-dancing on his desk. The cauldron was overflowing with burnt toast soup. And the newt eyes were definitely leering. He turned to flee, but it was too late. With a deafening roar, a portal ripped open in the wall of the study. It wasn’t a neat, controlled portal like the ones they used for interdimensional travel. This was a raw, untamed tear in the fabric of space, swirling with chaotic energy. It looked like a psychedelic washing machine, all bright colors and distorted shapes. The portal pulsed, drawing everything towards it with irresistible force. Books, furniture, potions, even the tap-dancing thimbles were sucked into the swirling vortex. Fitzwilliam felt himself being pulled forward, his feet sliding on the now-slick floor. He grabbed onto the doorframe, his knuckles white. He wasn’t going to let himself get sucked into that… thing. He had no idea where it led, but he was willing to bet it wasn’t a pleasant destination. “Buttonsby, help me!” he yelled, his voice strained with effort. “Grab something!” Bartholomew, finally snapping out of his stupor, reached out and grabbed… nothing. He flailed his arms wildly, trying to find something to hold onto. He managed to brush against a coat rack, sending it crashing to the floor. Fitzwilliam groaned. Of course. The pull of the portal was getting stronger. He could feel his grip on the doorframe slipping. He knew he couldn’t hold on much longer. Suddenly, the golden chain connecting him to Bartholomew went taut. He glanced over and saw the boy digging his heels into the floor, his face contorted with effort. Bartholomew was actually trying to help. Fitzwilliam was momentarily stunned. He’d always assumed Bartholomew was completely useless. Maybe, just maybe, there was a glimmer of competence hidden beneath all that incompetence. But it wasn’t enough. The portal was too powerful. With a final, desperate yell, Fitzwilliam lost his grip. He was yanked forward, tumbling headfirst into the swirling vortex. He had a brief glimpse of swirling colors and distorted shapes before everything went black. Bartholomew stared at the spot where Fitzwilliam had been standing, his mouth agape. The portal shimmered for a moment, then vanished, leaving behind nothing but a faint smell of ozone and burnt toast. He was alone. Completely, utterly alone. He looked down at the Sentient Shanker, still glowing brightly in his hand. It felt… warm. Almost… expectant. He swallowed hard. He had no idea what to do. Fitzwilliam was gone. Sucked into some sort of interdimensional washing machine. And he, Bartholomew Buttonsby, the most incompetent wizard’s apprentice in the history of Fitzwilliam Academy of Magicka, was the only one who could save him. He glanced around the ruined study. Books were scattered everywhere, their pages ripped and torn. Furniture was overturned and broken. The air was thick with the smell of spilled potions and burnt toast. It looked like a magical bomb had gone off. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He needed to think. He needed to come up with a plan. He needed to… He had no idea what he needed to do. He was just an apprentice. He wasn’t trained for this sort of thing. He was supposed to be cleaning dungeons and brewing simple potions, not rescuing his mentor from alternate dimensions. But Fitzwilliam was gone. And if he didn’t do something, the old wizard would probably end up as some sort of interdimensional snack. He looked down at the dagger again. It pulsed with green light, as if urging him to action. He could almost feel its… influence. Its desire for… something. He wasn’t sure what, but he knew it was important. He closed his eyes, trying to focus. He needed to find a way to track Fitzwilliam. To figure out where the portal had led. To… He opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on a small, leather-bound book lying amidst the wreckage. It was Fitzwilliam’s personal journal. He always kept it locked, hidden away in a secret compartment in his desk. But now, it was lying open, its pages fluttering in the breeze. It was a sign. It had to be. He reached for the journal, his fingers trembling. He flipped through the pages, scanning the entries. Most of them were filled with arcane notes and diagrams that he couldn’t understand. But then, he came across something that caught his eye. It was a sketch of a strange, swirling symbol. Beneath the sketch, Fitzwilliam had written a single word: “Giggle Caves.” Giggle Caves? What were the Giggle Caves? He’d never heard of them before. He flipped through the journal again, searching for more information. He found a few more references to the Giggle Caves, but they were all cryptic and vague. It was clear that Fitzwilliam had been researching them, but he hadn’t written down much about them. He did find one entry that stood out. It was a warning, written in bold letters: “Stay away from the Giggle Caves. They are not what they seem.” Great. That wasn’t ominous at all. He closed the journal, his mind racing. The Giggle Caves. That was the only clue he had. He didn’t know what they were, or where they were located, but he knew he had to find them. He looked down at the Sentient Shanker again. It was still glowing, its light pulsing with increasing intensity. He could feel its influence growing stronger, its desires becoming more insistent. He realized something. The dagger wasn’t just influencing him. It was guiding him. It knew where the Giggle Caves were. And it wanted him to go there. He didn’t know why. But he knew he had to trust it. He had no other choice. He took another deep breath, steeling his resolve. He was going to find Fitzwilliam. He was going to rescue him from whatever nightmarish dimension he’d been sucked into. And he was going to do it with the help of a sentient, shanking dagger that was trying to… well, he wasn’t entirely sure what it was trying to do. But he was pretty sure it involved the Giggle Caves. He glanced around the ruined study one last time, taking in the chaos and destruction. Then, he turned and walked towards the door, the Sentient Shanker leading the way. He was about to embark on an unplanned adventure. An adventure that would take him to places he’d never dreamed of. An adventure that would test his skills, his courage, and his sanity. And it was all thanks to a glowing dagger and a missing mentor. He stepped out of the study, into the dimly lit corridor. He had no idea where he was going, or what he would find. But he knew one thing: he wasn’t going to give up. He was going to save Fitzwilliam, even if it meant… He paused, his eyes widening in surprise. Standing in the corridor, just a few feet away, was… a garden gnome. Not just any garden gnome. This was *Fitzwilliam’s* garden gnome. The one he’d accidentally turned into a miniature dragon a few weeks ago. The one that was supposed to be guarding the entrance to the herb garden. The gnome was staring at him with wide, beady eyes. It was clutching a tiny, miniature sword in its stubby little hands. And it looked… determined. Bartholomew stared back, speechless. What was the gnome doing here? And why did it look like it was ready for battle? The gnome took a step forward, its tiny sword held high. “Buttonsby,” it squeaked, its voice surprisingly high-pitched. “We have to save him.” Bartholomew blinked. Did… did the gnome just talk? He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He was starting to hallucinate. That was probably a bad sign. “Save who?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. “Fitzwilliam!” the gnome squeaked again, its voice filled with urgency. “He’s in trouble! We have to go after him!” Bartholomew stared at the gnome, his mind reeling. A talking garden gnome. A sentient, shanking dagger. An interdimensional portal. His life had officially become too ridiculous for words. But the gnome was right. They had to save Fitzwilliam. And it looked like he wasn’t going to be doing it alone. He took a deep breath, a grim smile spreading across his face. He had a feeling this was going to be a very long day. “Alright,” he said, his voice filled with newfound determination. “Let’s go save our wizard.” He turned and started walking down the corridor, the Sentient Shanker glowing brightly in his hand. The gnome scurried along beside him, its tiny sword held high. They were an unlikely pair, a bumbling apprentice and a talking garden gnome. But they were all Fitzwilliam had. And they weren’t going to let him down. They had a wizard to rescue. And a whole lot of giggling to do. The dagger glowed.