Reralt didn’t want to leave. He rather liked the praise. He wanted to stay.
Fedeggs insisted not to.
Reralt didn’t like the road, too plain. He wanted forest paths, danger, and bridges.
Fedeggs insisted not to.
Reralt saw a suspicious figure up ahead—clearly in trouble—and wanted to help.
Fedeggs insisted not to.
Reralt wanted to see how far he could throw a stone into a bear cave.
Fedeggs insisted not to.
“Bit of a party pooper, isn’t he?” Reralt told The Void.
Fedeggs turned, with purpose in his stare. His voice was firm.
“Lord of Givia, you must return. As soon as possible.”
“Bit of a smug too,” Narro added.
“You want to see something funny?” Reralt said, still unable to wipe the charcoal from his oiled forehead, somehow it acted like paint. His eyes sparkled like a boy on a mischief tour.
He threw an apple—just high enough.
“Leviosa,” Reralt yelled.
Bill jumped. She always jumped for apples. A trick learned from Reralt.
It had cost him many apples.
Fedeggs was launched.
He returned to earth shortly after, in a way that broke his nose.
Reralt and Narro laughed. The Void seemed to join in.
“Dammit, Bill. For once,” Fedeggs grunted, climbing back onto his horse.
He rode ahead. To scout.
***
“Almost home,” Narro said, as the skyline of the city loomed in the distance.
The familiar sight of its towers, its mansions—later, the city wall—
stirred something in him he thought he had lost.
The never-ending fight for survival, for providing a safe and good home for Mary and Syril, had long left no room for feelings like belonging or purpose.
But now, after everything with Reralt, he felt as if he had gained something.
Something precious.
A sense of self.
He was Narro the bard.
Father of Syril.
Husband to Mary.
These things hadn’t changed.
But somehow, they no longer felt lost in the struggle.
“Reralt?”
Narro suddenly felt the other side of having a sense of self.
“Could you maybe… not tell Mary about the dragon? Or the shrooming? Or how I got dominated by a witch?”
Reralt looked at him as if Narro had just asked something unspeakably filthy.
“What?” he said, genuinely surprised. “Have you read my character description?”
“Mary will be so upset,” Narro tried, not giving up.
“Could you just say you always kept me safe?”
“Who, my dear Narro,” Reralt said, riding like a true lord,
“would ever believe that?”
Narro exhaled. He was in trouble.
The good kind of trouble—
where the people who care about you are angry
because they were afraid to lose you.
But still—
Fighting with Mary always came with a sense of danger
even the dragon hadn’t managed.
***
They rode into town to loud applause from citizens who somehow seemed richer than when they'd left.
Fedeggs stood to the side—tired, but satisfied.
Some of the older folks remembered the ballads and were singing them.
Most just shouted: “Dragon slayers! Heroes of the realm!”
A few held up signs that said HELLO KITTY,
complete with dark, childish drawings that vaguely resembled The Void.
The Void purred in agreement.
Her kind of people.
Now—
where was her tribute?
They brought her snacks: bits of tuna, ground meat.
She looked pleased.
She meowed at Narro, as if to say:
Take notes.
The procession of the three moved through the city.
Thick lines of people stood along the route—cheering, waving.
Fedeggs had made sure of that.
It had cost him less than usual;
most people had actually heard of Reralt—
the man who slayed a dragon, a troll, and a witch.
The handsome and witty bard beside him,
and the demon kitty black as the darkest night—
they all made for a better turnout than he'd expected.
Fedeggs was in a good mood.
This made his job so much easier.
***
The procession came to a halt at Narro’s house.
It was decorated with flowers.
A brand-new window stood proudly where the old one had once been…
savagely abused as a door by Reralt.
Narro took a deep breath, his heart racing.
He saw Mary in the window.
She didn’t look particularly festive.
Not especially grateful.
And certainly not in heroic awe.
“Oh,” Reralt said, spotting her.
“You go first.”
“Spoken like a true hero,” Narro muttered.
He dismounted and headed for the door.
Reralt, as a gesture of goodwill, calculated which area of the window he'd need to clear.
Narro gave him a pained smile.
“Thanks.”
“Try to land on your face,” Reralt advised.
“That’s terrible advice.” Narro nervously snapped back.
“That does way more damage.”
“Well, yes,” Reralt said, his smile far too wide,
“but you’re immediately knocked out.”
They both glanced sideways—
Bill was whimpering,
very amused.
Narro took the little present for Syril in his hand— a dragon tooth.
A token of good luck.
Then entered the house.
Mary stood there.
Arms folded across her body.
Eyes neutral—
slightly leaning toward brimstone.
Disappointment with a hint of anger.
“You got dominated by a witch?” she asked.
Narro looked down.
His foot made concentric half-circles on the floorboards.
Wow, he thought, it's really time she dusted here.
Now was probably not the time to bring that up.
“Only for half a minute. Tops.”
He smiled his most charming smile.
“Then got beaten up by a demon-flying-thing?”
Her eyes weren’t getting any kinder.
“Well, that was just a goose,” Narro said.
“Although... a big one.”
“Cluck’thullu” Reralt shouted from outside.
Narro pursed his lips.
“Thanks, Reralt,” he said, with maximum venom.
“You’re really helping.”
“You’re welcome! If you need clarification about the evil mage cult, let me know!”
Narro slammed a hand over his eyes.
“There was a cult?” Mary asked, surprised.
“Of evil mages?”
Narro nodded, defeated.
Mary paused.
Then asked, simply:
“You brought me anything?”
Panic.
Narro checked all his pockets—fiercely.
A bottle flew through the window.
Mary didn’t flinch.
Just frowned.
“The door was open.”
“He probably aimed for it,” Narro offered, shoulders hunched.
Mary picked up the flask.
It was silver, with a crescent moon engraved on it.
She opened it. Took a sip.
“Nice stuff inside, too.”
Narro’s mouth fell open.
She passed it to him.
He took one sniff— the moonshine.
Then handed it back, horrified.
Foul stuff.
“So… the dragon?” Mary offered, casually.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
“A weak little hatchling,” Narro said, smiling.
“Reralt took it with one swing.”
He knew exactly what that would trigger.
Reralt immediately jumped into what was left of the window frame.
“Huge beast,” he declared to Mary.
“Head the size of a house. Body like a generous small hill.”
He gestured with his arms. Then leaned in.
“It had Narro pinned down—crying for his life.”
He switched to a high, whiny falsetto:
“Help me, Reralt! Save me!”
Mary laughed.
Narro just stood there, did not say a word.
He would thank Reralt later.
***
Dinner was served. Mary had prepared the favorite dish of any small baby: porridge, sweetened with a touch of honey.
She, Narro, and Reralt feasted on a proper meal — meat, vegetables, and a generous array of offerings from grateful citizens.
Fedeggs declined to eat at the Lord’s table. “Not customary for the personnel,” he muttered, throwing a meaningful look at Narro.
Narro, without missing a beat, replied, “You weren’t invited anyway.”
Bill was. The Void was.
Fedeggs went to the tavern alone. He didn’t mind missing dinner with Reralt — those meals often ended in physical harm. For him.
Bill stayed. Fedeggs had grown used to Bill betraying him for apples.
The void stayed, not out of loyalty, the kitten just liked sleeping, she even had found a perfect little crib.
Reralt, meanwhile, had been assigned the mighty task of spoon-feeding Syril. She was thrilled. He, very nervous.
Narro, who had seen Reralt eat before, was intrigued. He watched like a man observing a new species.
The first spoonful: Syril didn’t open her mouth.
Reralt sniffed the porridge, took a bite himself, and declared, “Nothing wrong with it, little one,” as if testing for poison.
Syril grabbed a handful and hurled it at his face.
“Syril!” Mary gasped.
Reralt calmly scooped a handful and flung it right back.
Syril blinked. Looked left. Looked right. This… was not the usual response.
The porridge slid down from her forehead to her lips. She slurped it in, thoughtful.
Reralt turned to Mary, beaming with pride. “Found the way to feed the halfling,” he announced, and launched another spoonful.
Mary and Narro exchanged a look. Syril was clearly having the time of her life. So they decided to let her, them both.
Through the window Bill was silently content, eating apples and carrots. Getting brushed by the children that lived nearby.
***
“You didn’t correct him,” Narro said suddenly.
Mary looked startled. “What?”
“He called our child a halfling, and you didn’t correct him.”
Reralt, sensing danger like a seasoned rat, stuffed his mouth with everything left on his plate, grabbed a surprised Syril, and dived through the window with impressive agility.
Narro frowned, now suspicious. He turned back to Mary.
She looked like someone who had just remembered she left the oven on — a year ago. Her eyes flickered with panic.
“Mary?” Narro asked, still clueless. “What’s wrong?”
“Well,” she began carefully, choosing her words like a swordsman defusing a trap, “technically… she’s not fully human.”
Narro blinked. “But I’m fully human.”
Mary said nothing.
“So… you’re not?” He was getting there. Like molasses uphill.
A pause.
“Human?”
Mary met his gaze, guilty, silent, searching for the right phrasing.
Then gave up.
“No,” she said.
Narro sat in silence for a few breaths.
“So… what are you then?” he finally asked.
“A gorgon,” Mary said, resuming her meal. Her husband hadn’t bolted — odds were decent he’d stay.
“A what?”
“Medusa.”
“Ah,” Narro said, nodding like someone just told him the weather forecast. “Well. How about that.”
Another few heartbeats passed.
“Shouldn’t you have… shared that information sooner?”
Mary shrugged. “I was already pregnant. It would only have complicated things.”
Narro looked at the woman he loved.
She winked.
He shrugged. “Well, I hope you’ve got a decent dessert.”
Mary smirked. “Depends. How long do you think he’ll be gone?”
The void opened one eye, decided it was not worth her time and closed it again.
Bill, respectfully turned the other way.
***
Syril had never been this happy — perched on the neck of Uncle Reralt, who was the best.
They had already kicked a guard down some stairs for saying something rude about walking on the grass. Now, they were scouting how to break into the pie shop.
So Syril could get some pie.
Of course, the pastry shop was open. But Uncle Reralt didn’t like things to be easy. He liked them adventurous. He liked them entertaining.
“Goga!” Syril shouted, pointing proudly at her bracelet.
“Yes, little one,” Reralt said, beaming. “A very cute bracelet indeed. Uncle Reralt will get you a bigger one. One bigger than your arm.”
He was still standing in front of the pastry shop, hands on hips, trying to figure out a heroic way to steal a pie.
“Goga. Ah ah,” Syril tried again, tugging at her bracelet.
“Ah! A magic bracelet. Okay, little Babshee, I understand now.”
Reralt gently set her down in front of the pastry shop, undid her bracelet… and promptly covered his ears.
The shriek that followed was monstrous.
Glass shattered in every house on the block.
“Good job,” Reralt said proudly, picking her up again. Refastening the bracelet.
Like a human metal detector, he waved her over the display window. “Which one?”
Syril giggled so hard her nose scrunched.
Uncle Reralt was the best.
She picked her pie — by launching her face into it.
The baker stepped outside, eyes wide, taking in:
- the broken window
- the mischief-plastered face of Reralt
- and the eighty-three percent pie face of Syril.
“You could just ask for one, you know,” the baker said, frowning. “For the hero, it would’ve been my pleasure.”
“Where’s the adventure in that?” Reralt replied, looking at Syril.
She didn’t understand either.
Fedeggs came running from the tavern, tossing coins at the baker as he passed.
“Oh no!” Reralt shrieked. “The party pooper!”
He scooped up Syril and bolted.
“Yep,” Fedeggs sighed, watching them vanish. “It’s going to be another one of those days.”
He didn’t follow. That would only make things worse.
Better to pay off the damages, minimize casualties, and get ahead of them before the next “heroic adventure” began.
***
Reralt and Syril ducked into a nearby church, clutching the last of the pie like sacred contraband.
They hid behind a pillar, eating quietly.
Well… burping and giggling quietly.
A priest wandered over, his robes rustling with solemn grace.
He looked down at the mess of crumbs, crust, and crusted-in mischief.
Then bowed low.
“The hero of the realm,” he said.
“He means me” Reralt winked at Syril “for now” he added.
“It’s an honour, Sir Reralt. And who is this little gem?” The priest cooed, reaching down to squeeze Syril’s cheek.
Syril did not like that.
She paused. Blinked. Began preparing one of her legendary crying sprees.
Reralt saw the signs.
And punched the priest.
The man went down like a flightless bird. Awkward, squawking, very surprised.
Syril laughed.
Uncle Reralt is the best.
“Auw…” the priest groaned, staggering back to his feet. He looked less awestruck and more… just struck.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, now fully aware this visit would earn him at least a gold coin. He too had heard of the wonderful man who delivers gold to victims of Reralt. He would search him out immediately after.
“I don’t know,” Reralt replied, looking around. “What do you do here?”
He gestured vaguely at the walls.
The building was clearly a church — but without a functioning belief system, it felt kind of hollow.
“You got a basement full of monsters?”
“Uh… no. We host celebrations of life and death. Naming ceremonies, funerals, last will testaments and such.”
Reralt’s eyes lit up.
Syril clapped.
He had an idea.
She already loved it.
***
“I have to go,” Reralt said to Mary.
Narro was asleep.
He gently handed her Syril — pie in her hair, tired beyond meaning, half-asleep and blowing kisses in Reralt’s general direction. She waved at him like it was a royal farewell.
“What have you two been up to?” Mary asked, picking sugary peaches and pastry crust from Syril’s tangled curls.
“An introduction to adventuring with Uncle Reralt,” he said proudly. “Also… I’m her godfather now.”
He handed Mary a document.
She looked at it. Raised an eyebrow. Then looked back at him.
“You didn’t think to consult us first?”
“Didn’t cross my mind for a second,” Reralt replied, already waving to Syril and heading for the door.
“Wait—don’t you want to say goodbye to Narro?”
“Nah. He’d cry like a baby,” Reralt said, eyes already red and wet.
Mary smiled softly. “Of course he would.”
“I’ll tell him you said goodbye.”
“What about the kitten?” Mary pointed at the void cleaning herself with the precision only cats have.
Reralt picked her up, “You want to go with me?”
She pressed her head against his and purred.
Reralt bowed, as lords do.
Then left.
“Well” Mary told Syril. “Aren't you a child of surprise?”
***
A week later, Reralt was back at his castle, searching for arrows.
He spotted a duck in the courtyard and immediately decided it needed to be shot.
“I once shot an entire flock with one arrow,” he boasted. “Didn’t even look.”
He rummaged through a chest. Empty.
“Why are there never any frecking arrows in this castle?!”
“Sir,” the chamberlain said — his voice as dry and sharp as a snapped quill. “We need to talk about the message.”
“What message?” Reralt asked, halfway through breaking a chair to see if it could be thrown at the duck.
“The message good Fedeggs delivered to you. Have you read it, sir?”
“I don’t read messages,” Reralt replied, inspecting the chair leg like it might be aerodynamic. “Messages are read to me.”
Reralt took the whole chair outside and flung it at the duck.
He missed.
He hit Fedeggs.
From the stables, Bill whimpered.
The chamberlain, entirely unbothered, continued.
“It is time for the prophecy, sir.”
“No, I’m a doctor. Not a professor,” Reralt replied, puzzled.
Or was he a professor? Those things always confused him.
The chamberlain blinked. Then tried again.
“No, sir. The prophecy. The ancient foretelling that you are destined for greatness.”
“Destined,” Reralt repeated, eyes narrowing with interest.
That word usually worked pretty well on him.
“Does it say I kill a dragon? Cause I already did that.”
He started scanning the courtyard for something else to throw.
His gaze settled on the chamberlain.
He rides where wiser men take rest,
A shadow clad in tarnished grace.
No map, no crown, no fate foretold—
Just stubborn wind within his chest,
A name unknown to time or place,
And love too wide for hands to hold.
He dreams aloud in midday sun,
And speaks to beasts that do not hear.
His truths are bent, his tales untrue—
Yet every lie has half begun
As prayer to make the broken near,
And every jest lets sorrow through.
He stands where hope has lost its name,
And dares to grin at gods long dead.
No prophecy adorns his brow,
Yet fires leap to kiss his flame.
He leads where braver souls have fled,
And saves the world by saving now.
His sword is dull, his steps miscast,
He limps through myths no bard would choose.
Yet hearts unfold where'er he goes—
A clumsy saint, a spell half-past,
A fool too kind to ever lose,
Who claims the stars and calls them “those.”
He loves too much, too fast, too long,
And holds what wiser hands let go.
He binds his oaths in breath and skin—
A gesture, glance, a half-sung song.
He breaks, then mends, then breaks to grow,
And ends where truest tales begin.
So raise no stone, no bannered choir,
No polished tale in ink or gold.
But if you find the world grown thin,
And coldness coils where once was fire—
Then whisper soft what can't be told:
So brave. So stupid. Full of sin.
So vast of love, it let light in.