There are many things I expected in my long, storied existence. Conquering nations. Flattening cities. Being forged in the belly of a fire-dragon beneath a blood moon while choirs of the damned sang hymns to my glory. All very reasonable expectations.

  What I did not expect was to be compared—by a child—to a magical spoon.

  Let me explain.

  Ren, in his ongoing quest to dismantle my sanity using nothing but kindness and root vegetables, has volunteered——to teach at the village school.

  He claims it’s just a visit. Just one morning of helping children “understand peaceful problem solving.” This phrase, I’ve learned, is Ren code for “subjecting me to another situation where I can’t legally commit violence.”

  So now we are here, standing in a thatch-roofed classroom filled with tiny, sticky humans.

  The children range from muddy to dirtier than the concept of war itself. One of them has a frog. Another is actively eating a crayon. They all stop what they’re doing when Ren walks in, their grubby faces lighting up like small, chaotic stars.

  “Farmer Ren!” shouts one, leaping up. “Did you bring the shiny sword again?!”

  Ren beams. “I did. He’s very special.”

  I glow against my will. Not magically. Just… from the heat of a thousand suppressed expletives.

  He lays me gently across the front desk like a sacred relic. The children crowd around, poking and prodding me with fingers that smell like jam and mystery. One of them taps my blade and whispers, “Is he magic?”

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  “He’s very old,” Ren says.

  Great. Now I’m a grandfather clock.

  “And he’s wise. And a little grumpy.”

  I vibrate ominously.

  The smallest child—a curly-haired goblin with a suspicious glint in her eye—grins up at him. “Like a spoon!”

  Ren blinks. “A spoon?”

  “Yeah! Mama says her old spoon talks to her when she bakes too much. And it gets mad if she uses too much cinnamon.”

  Several things happen in my mind at once. None of them are polite. One of them involves unmaking the concept of cinnamon at the molecular level.

  But Ren just laughs. “He’s a little more dangerous than a spoon.”

  I would like it noted that I once split an emperor’s skull and set his throne room on fire at the same time.

  But no, let’s compare me to cookware.

  The lesson continues. Ren reads a story about a duck who solved a feud between two rival worm farms. There is singing. There is clapping. I contemplate seppuku, but alas—I have no hands.

  At the end of the session, Ren gives a short speech about courage and kindness. He finishes by saying, “Sometimes being gentle is the bravest thing you can do.”

  The children nod solemnly, as if he’s delivered the wisdom of sages.

  And then one of them raises her hand and asks, “Can Mister Glimmers come to our birthday party?”

  I hum. It is not a friendly hum.

  Ren smiles. “I’ll ask him.”

  You will

  Back at the cottage, I expect to be set aside so I can fume in peace. Instead, Ren places me on a pillow near the fireplace, pours himself a cup of that ridiculous emotional clarity tea, and just sits.

  No words. No speeches.

  Just calm.

  And as the fire crackles and the goat sighs deeply in her sleep, I realize something with a kind of horrified awe.

  I did not hate the school.

  I did not hate the children.

  I hated being compared to a spoon, yes, but… watching Ren with them? Listening to them laugh and learn and look at him like he was made of starlight and promise?

  It stirred something in me I thought long dead.

  Hope.

  A dangerous feeling.

  I hum once. Quiet. Low. Not angry.

  Ren doesn’t look up. He just smiles.

  He heard me