Narro had already set up camp by the time Reralt arrived.

  There was still some light left; the sun hadn’t quite dipped below the horizon.

  Reralt stopped about ten meters out.

  He looked... startled.

  Uncomfortable, even.

  Narro thought he saw a bead of sweat trickling down Reralt’s temple—though, knowing Reralt, it might’ve just been oil.

  “What’s wrong, Reralt?” Narro asked wearily.

  He was already bracing for another twist—some new excuse that would make his life worse.

  After the dragon, and the score of butchered men, he’d lost his appetite.

  Please, he thought, let me hold onto my sanity just a little longer.

  Poor Narro.

  “I don’t like runes,” Reralt said flatly, eyeing the ruins just beyond Narro’s firepit.

  “Full of unholy evil, they are,” he added, already reaching back for his sword.

  “You mean the ruins?” Narro asked, glancing at the crumbling stone archways behind him.

  “No. I mean the runes,” Reralt said, with absolute conviction.

  Narro blinked.

  He didn’t see any runes. At all.

  Still, he picked up a half-burnt stick from the fire and walked casually toward the stonework.

  “Don’t, you fool!” Reralt shouted, wrestling with his sword.

  He finally yanked it off his back—sheath and all—and stepped between Narro and the ruins, holding the blade sideways like a holy ward.

  “I’ll not let you awaken the ancient spirits,” Reralt growled.

  Narro tilted his head. “There are no runes, Reralt.”

  “Then what do you call that?” Reralt jabbed his sword toward the ruins with theatrical menace.

  “Ruins,” Narro said slowly, puzzling through the moment. He was still trying to decide whether this was a joke, a fever dream, or early-onset brain damage.

  “A rune is a symbol,” Narro explained carefully. “Ruins are broken-down buildings. From long ago.”

  “I know that,” Reralt snapped, indignant.

  He glanced over his shoulder, eyes scanning the stones—desperate to find a rune hidden among the ruins to justify his panic.

  “There!” he cried suddenly, pointing at an old archway. “A rune!”

  Narro stepped closer, holding his torch high.

  “That’s not a rune, Reralt. That’s just... masonry.”

  Reralt loomed over Narro, casting a long shadow in the firelight.

  His eyes narrowed to slits. His voice dropped, low and threatening.

  “Is it now?” he said.

  Reralt was never wrong.

  Even when he was.

  Narro hesitated, calculating.

  Was this worth it? Was defending basic literacy worth a likely concussion?

  He sighed.

  “Ah yes, I see,” Narro said, looking Reralt dead in the eye.

  Reralt nodded, pleased.

  “Exactly.”

  “Now let’s roast ourselves a duck. The one I shot,” he said, already putting distance between himself and the ruins.

  Narro applauded. He wasn’t sure why—just that it felt like an excellent idea.

  ***

  After they’d finished eating—Reralt reluctantly sharing the last of his wine—Narro felt bold.

  Perhaps it was the drink.

  Perhaps a lapse in judgment.

  Perhaps a quiet death wish.

  “Reralt?” he asked, carefully shifting until he was at least an arm—and sword’s—length away.

  “Yes, my bardic friend?” Reralt replied, casually plucking duck meat from his teeth with the tip of his sword.

  Narro cleared his throat. “Is there any chance you... misinterpreted ruins and runes?”

  He braced for impact.

  “Of course not,” Reralt said, without a shred of conviction. “They’re exactly the same thing.”

  A pause.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Who taught you?” he added, suddenly suspicious.

  “Well, my father. When I was young. Who taught you?” Narro countered, folding his arms.

  “I went to Mocksford. Four years,” Reralt said, smugness dripping from both tone and posture.

  “Wait... the university?” Narro blinked. He couldn’t, in any reality, picture this man attending the most prestigious academy in the world.

  “Yes,” Reralt said proudly. “I was teached in the Givia Wing.”

  He leaned back, clearly enjoying the conversation—under the impression it was inspiring awe.

  “So what did you study?” Narro asked, hovering somewhere between belief—because Reralt was obviously rich—and outright dismissal, because... well, Reralt.

  “Heroism, of course,” Reralt said, as if it were obvious. As if Narro were an idiot for even asking.

  “And you finished?” Narro pressed. By now, he was fully convinced Reralt’s father had simply bought his way in—like so many other wealthy fools.

  “So you’re... Doctor Reralt?”

  Narro’s face conveyed something between amused and confused.

  “Yes,” Reralt said, chest swelling with pride.

  Then, almost confidentially: “But never call me that. Doesn’t sound very heroish. People might imagine me with glasses or something. I never wear my glasses.”

  With that, Reralt stood, dusted off his pants, and wandered off behind a bush to relieve himself.

  Narro stayed where he was.

  Shocked.

  And just a little bit wiser in the ways of the world.

  ***

  Reralt re-entered the camp, triumphantly holding his leather pants aloft like a slain beast.

  “Reralt, please,” Narro groaned, shielding his eyes with one hand.

  “You’ve no idea how difficult these are to get back on,” Reralt muttered. “That’s tomorrow’s first heroic battle!”

  Wrapped in a blanket and apparently content with that choice, he settled near the fire like a hero at peace.

  Narro glanced toward the ruins.

  A terrible idea bloomed.

  He grinned.

  “Wait... Reralt, did you hear that?” he whispered, eyes wide, hand clapped over his mouth. “It’s coming from the runes. The runes are talking.”

  Reralt sat bolt upright. His sword shot from its sheath, which in turn flew a dozen meters into the dark. Panic bloomed in his eyes.

  “Wights. Or worse—Friedelcrums! The kind that whisper your sins while nibbling your toes!”

  Still clutching his sword and wearing absolutely nothing but alarm, Reralt bolted from camp—down the hill and away from the ruins.

  “Reralt! RERALT! I was joking!” Narro called after him, wheezing with laughter.

  He tried to peer into the dark after him.

  He didn’t see the boot until it introduced itself to his face.

  Too late to duck.

  Thunk.

  ***

  Later that night, Narro woke up.

  His leg still ached. His face had joined in—throbbing with a dull, rhythmic hum.

  “Uncalled for, Reralt,” he muttered, gently caressing the bruise on his cheek.

  “What was?” Reralt asked, casually polishing his boots with oil.

  The man seemed to own a whole bucket of oil.

  No food. No extra pants. No camping gear.

  Narro had asked once.

  “Priorities,” Reralt had said.

  “Heroism is twenty percent courage, ninety percent looks.”

  Narro looked at the man dabbing his boots like he was performing a sacred rite.

  “Kicking me in the head was?” Narro asked, his voice edged with something dark.

  “Well... perhaps the runes did it,” Reralt said, grinning through his teeth, shifting to polish the handle of his sword.

  “Should you really be oiling that?” Narro frowned, eyeing the slick sheen building on the grip.

  “Did you go to hero school?” Reralt replied without looking up.

  He smeared on another thick layer of glistening oil.

  “No, Doctor Reralt. I did not.”

  Narro glanced toward the ruins.

  Huh, he thought.

  There are runes in there.

  He wisely said nothing.

  Tomorrow, Narro thought, I’ll head to the city. Part ways. This is lucrative... but not worth it. Probably not worth it.

  Tomorrow, Reralt thought, me and my friend will sing my ballad in the tavern. And write many new ones.

  They looked at each other.

  And smiled.

  ***

  Reralt leaned back and stared at the stars.

  “They’ll sing of us, you know,” he said, his sword wedged under his head like the world’s worst pillow.

  “Of the day we stood against cursed symbols and lived.”

  Narro didn’t answer. He was chewing leftover duck and eyeing the ruined archway—

  —which definitely had carvings.

  He made a mental note: never, ever mention them.

  “I think you should title it The Rune Rebellion,” Reralt mused. “Or maybe The Naked Knight and the Boot of Fate.”

  Narro turned away, facing the cold side of the fire.

  “Sleep, Reralt.”

  “But if you had to pick,” Reralt whispered, “which title do you think best captures my essence?”

  Silence.

  “Ballad of the Runed Hill has a ring to it…” Narro muttered. Just to shut him up.

  “Yes, my friend... that is glorious,” Reralt said, already drifting off.

  ***

  He feared the signs in stone and dust,

  Where ancient powers might combust.

  He ran from whispers none could hear—

  And left his pants and pride back here.

  A bard looked on with bruised regard,

  And learned what makes a hero hard:

  Not skill, nor sword, nor twist of fate—

  Just money, oil, and stubborn gait.

  Scribbled Note, likely by Narro:

  If no further dragons, runes, or trousers interfere, the next chapter of our questionable journey should arrive next week.

  Stars help me, I'm still here.

  Next… Will our target practice and hero reach the city?