Damian was no stranger to walking, but that hadn’t prepared him for doing it day in and day out for over a week, especially through the wilderness. There was a maintained trail leading out of Bekham, but it went the opposite direction he needed to go, so he didn’t take it. Walking through the woods couldn’t be that different... right?

  His days always began the same: breakfast of oat mash with a pinch of salt and dried berries for flavor, breaking down camp, and then the inevitable slow trudge. On the third day, he came across his first road, but it ran perpendicular to the direction his skill was pulling him. After a short rest spent weighing his options, he decided to continue through the wilderness.

  Three days later, he was already regretting his decision. It wasn’t like he was going to starve, his family had given him enough food to last months if he was careful, but his feet hurt, the terrain was rough, and griffins kept circling overhead. Each time, he hid until they passed, certain they’d make Damian their lunch if they saw him. The griffins didn’t worry him much; he’d grown up around them. What worried him was the thought of running into something he didn’t recognize. Something that would eat him for his lack of knowledge.

  On the seventh day, when he came across his second road, Damian had a much easier time deciding what to do: he followed it. It didn’t run exactly in the direction he needed to go, but he preferred the easier walk and open sightlines to more bushwhacking through the woods. A few hours later, he was rewarded when he saw a cart ambling down the road toward him. Wrong direction for a ride, but good enough for information.

  “Hello!” Damian called out, giving a wave he couldn’t quite match with a smile. His words felt thick and heavy. They were the first he’d spoken, aside from a few choice curses, in the last week.

  The cart was modest, low and built for utility, pulled by a single mare and driven by a man in a fur cap and heavy cloak to ward off the early winter chill. His skin was wrinkled, his fingers gnarled, yet he held the reins with the practiced ease of experience. When he looked at Damian, his eyes crinkled with a kind smile.

  “’Lo there, young man. Fine day for rolling on down the road, isn’t it?” The man’s voice was deep, with the slight rasp of lungs past their prime.

  It was a more talkative response than Damian had expected. Father Garm had made it seem like everyone outside the village lived in a cutthroat survival world. “Er... yes. It is. Can you tell me what’s next on the road?”

  The man chuckled. “Walking without knowing where yer going? Dangerous practice, that.”

  Damian stood there, chewing on his words, unsure what to say. He agreed—but was he supposed to admit that? Explain his situation? What was the proper response?

  “Er... well, back thataways is Skogheim—a little farming village.” The man jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Where’ya looking to go, young man?”

  “Southeast,” Damian answered as honestly as he could. “Not sure where exactly, but southeast.”

  “Ah,” the man acknowledged, though Damian could tell he was growing wary. That was fair, considering how little he’d offered.

  Seeing he was overstaying his welcome, Damian tried to muster a smile and managed something barely better than a grimace. “Thanks for the information. It’ll be nice to sleep in a bed for a change.”

  “You’re welcome,” the man said with a grunt. He flicked the reins, and the horse started moving again. But as he passed, he called over his shoulder, “Marduk’s Word protect you!”

  Damian stood watching the man pass for a few moments before turning back toward his path. The name Marduk kicked something loose in his memory. In Bekham, the villagers had paid homage mostly to Nephret—goddess of stars, fate, and those on the far edges of the world—but some chose to worship Cirael or Lumora, gods of the sun and moon. Those three weren’t the only deities, though. Marduk was one of the others, but Damian couldn’t remember what he was god of.

  A sudden wave of sadness bubbled up as Damian recalled Mother Gertrude teaching the hearth about the world’s many peoples and cultures. It had been a few years ago, he and Finn had just turned thirteen. Damian hadn’t been listening well, too busy scowling up at Finn, who sat nearly a head taller. He’d never been among the largest in the hearth, but that summer everyone had shot up like weeds while Damian stayed just as short as ever.

  “Can you imagine that?” Finn said, though Damian had completely missed whatever Mother Gertrude had been talking about. “This Marduk sounds like a boring god.”

  He couldn’t remember what Marduk represented in his godly domain, only that Finn had thought it was boring. Not very helpful.

  Damian pushed the memory down, tightening the strap on his bag of holding until it bit into his shoulder.

  It wasn’t until nearly sunset that Skogheim came into view, and Damian’s entire understanding of the world was blown apart. The village itself stretched his imagination. His parents had always said Bekham was more of a hamlet, and that a real village would have no fewer than five thousand people. That had always sounded absurd to Damian, too big a number to even picture.

  He didn’t know how many people lived in Skogheim, but he’d believe five thousand in a heartbeat.

  The village sat in a gentle river valley, surrounded by farmland stretching for leagues up and down the riverside. Though a wall of sturdy wooden trunks encircled it, Damian’s elevated vantage let him see the houses and buildings packed tightly inside. Lodges stacked on lodges, windows layered one atop another. The [Seer’s] lodge had a bit of attic space where the roof sloped, but even from here he could see houses three times taller than anything he’d ever known.

  He wasn’t great with numbers, but Mother Revna had taught him to count in tens. Carefully, he counted out ten houses, then kept going along the row until he reached twenty-two and gave up. There were a lot of houses. If this was a proper village, then Bekham definitely didn’t qualify.

  Once in the valley, Damian passed more and more people. Carts rattled by, some stopping at lodges—or were they cottages?—scattered across the farmland. They were likely hauling the last of the harvest to sell in the village. Money was still a strange concept to him, but that didn’t make him stupid. His parents had explained often how things worked beyond Bekham.

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  The village gate was closed, though a smaller picket door was set into it, with two guards posted outside. By the time Damian arrived, the sun had dipped beneath the western hills enclosing the valley. As he approached, one of the guards lowered his spear toward him.

  “Halt,” the guard commanded, and Damian stopped a dozen paces from the gate. “No passage shall be granted after sunset, by the Word’s writ.”

  “Oh,” Damian said, dumbfounded. Without thinking, he blurted his next thought. “But where am I supposed to sleep?”

  The guards exchanged a glance, and the one who hadn’t spoken before replied, “Maybe that’s something you should’ve thought about before sunset and hastened your journey.”

  “That’s...” Damian trailed off, frowning. “But I didn’t...”

  He didn’t know. How was he supposed to? Maybe it was just common sense that the gates closed at dark. Clearly, his parents hadn’t taught him everything, or maybe he’d just missed that lesson.

  Either way, there was no point arguing and getting himself in trouble. “Right. Sorry. I’ll just—”

  “Miller! Gamberson!” a voice rang out from atop the wall. “The Word also decrees that leniency may be granted to those who have not heard the Word. Furthermore, messengers and travelers of import may be permitted after dark, if they submit to questioning.”

  Both guards curled inward slightly, wincing with their posture if not with their faces. “But sir—”

  “Young man!” the voice called over the guard. “Will you submit to questioning? And is your journey of personal import?”

  “Er... yes,” Damian called back. “And, uh, yes.”

  “Good lad!” the voice shouted back. Even craning his neck, Damian couldn’t see the source from this angle. “Gamberson, ask the questions.”

  The man on the left—presumably Gamberson—heaved a sigh and tilted his spear upright as he approached Damian. He stopped a few paces away. “As per the Word, I am obligated to make you aware that I am questioning you under the influence of a common magical item known as a truth stone. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Damian said, having no idea what a truth stone was. He assumed it made sure he told the truth.

  “Bloody great,” Gamberson muttered. “[The Truth Please]. State your full name and reason for seeking entrance to Skogheim.”

  “Damian,” Damian said quickly. “And I’m just looking for an... inn.”

  Father Garm had told him to look for an inn.

  The guard frowned. “Your full name, please?”

  “It’s just Damian,” Damian repeated, shifting uncomfortably. Some of Bekham’s visitors had introduced themselves with two names, but he’d never understood why.

  Gamberson shot Miller an odd look, then turned back to Damian. “Alright, kid—where’re you from?”

  Damian’s expression soured. He dropped his gaze and mumbled, “Bekham.”

  “Damian Bekham then,” Gamberson said and sighed. “Do you swear to bring no harm—physical, financial, or otherwise—to the people of Skogheim for the duration of your stay?”

  “Y-yes?” Damian stammered. Was it really that easy? Was that how a truth stone worked?

  The guard sighed again, this time with his whole posture. “Alright, kid, you’re good. Lucky the captain was doing his rounds; I’d have made you sleep in a barn.”

  For a moment, Damian nearly thanked the guard out of instinct—then paused, realizing the man wasn’t remotely on his side. As he’d said, he was going to make him sleep in a barn. They stared at each other for an awkward few beats before the guard raised his eyebrows. Damian cleared his throat and brushed past him. Best not to look a gift grove in the flowers.

  Through the picket door, Damian found the road inside paved with perfectly fitted cobblestones. It was so flat it caught him off guard, and he blinked, wondering if it had been made with magic. Before he could recover, a familiar voice called out.

  “Lad, let me bend your ear a moment.”

  Damian spotted the source of the voice—a large man descending the stairs along the wooden wall. In the low light he couldn’t make out much, but he could tell the man wore full plate armor. That couldn’t be comfortable to wear casually, but maybe he had a skill for it.

  “Er, yessir,” Damian said, not wanting to make a bad first impression.

  When Damian approached, the man stuck out a gloved hand, and Damian took it. His grip was so strong it hurt, but Damian held firm with only a small wince. Then the man introduced himself: “[Watch Captain] Heidolf, at your service. You strike me as a young lad who hasn’t been around civilization much. Bekham rings a bell. Tiny speck of dust on the map north of here, no?”

  Now that he was closer, Damian could make out more details. The man had a thick beard and mustache framing a round face beneath his helmet. He wore armor over leggings, a tabard cinched at the waist by a belt lined with pouches and a sword. If not for his noticeable gut, he would’ve cut quite a figure—though Mother Revna had often warned Damian never to trust appearances. Levels made monsters out of men.

  Damian’s face twitched. “It was.”

  The man’s face darkened. He cleared his throat before continuing. “My condolences. Monster attack? Little far from help, I’m afraid.”

  Damian nodded scantly. It wasn’t entirely a lie, and it was best to let the man draw his own conclusions rather than explain. He seemed to be waiting for Damian to speak, but Damian had nothing to say, so he just stared at the man’s belt buckle.

  “Well, word of advice, these lands follow the Word of Marduk,” the [Watch Captain] said, reaching into a leather pouch on his belt. He pulled out a small book, paused, and frowned at Damian. “Can you read, lad?”

  Damian looked up, half expecting he’d just been insulted, but the question seemed earnest. He technically knew how to read, he just wasn’t very good at it. His parents had thought it important that all their children learn to read and write, but there’d been little chance to practice beyond lessons for their own sake. Damian settled on a shrug.

  Heidolf offered him the small book. “Well, if’n you can’t, you should learn. Followers of Marduk take his Word real serious. Break a law and the punishment can get... severe. Just keep your ears open and give the important ones a look over, yeah?”

  Hesitantly, Damian took the book. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Best inn’s thataways,” Heidolf said, nodding down the main road that led away from the gate. “Scuffed Tankard—looks a little rough outside, but they’ll cut you a cheap room on account of your age.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Damian said, a little more confident this time. Despite what Father Garm had said, this gentleman seemed like good folk.

  Pocketing the book, Damian adjusted the strap on his pack and started down the road. Before he’d gone more than a few steps, the [Watch Captain] called after him: “[Chin Up Lad]! Welcome to Skogheim.”

  Damian felt the skill wash over him, a small burst of energy filling him from toes to crown. He walked easier toward the inn, feeling the weariness of travel lift slightly from his shoulders. By the time he arrived, his feet barely hurt.

  “What an odd skill for a [Watch Captain],” Damian muttered as he pushed through the inn’s door. Still, it was nice.

  The woman behind the bar smiled at him, and when he tried to smile back this time it actually reached his lips. She asked five coppers for the night, and though Damian had no real sense of money’s worth, he gladly handed it over. Another three coppers bought him a bowl of hearty soup and a small loaf of hard bread. It beat travel rations.

  Though the bed was made of straw and cloth instead of the furs he was used to, it was surprisingly comfortable once he laid his bedroll over it. After double-checking the lock on his door, he rolled under the thick blanket provided. No sooner had his eyes closed than he fell asleep.

  But before he passed completely into unconsciousness, the voice of the Great Game visited him.

  >Class [The Chosen One’s Squire] Level 6 Obtained!

  >Skill [Natural Charm] Obtained!

  >Do you accept?

  Damian thought it an odd skill for a squire, but he knew if he turned it down, he wouldn’t get the levels. Higher levels meant better skills, and he’d need powerful ones if he wanted any chance of fighting a goddess. What level did you even have to be to fight a god? The highest he’d ever heard of were [Warlords] from legend who’d reached the eighties.

  Though Damian wasn’t an expert in the intricacies of the system, two levels for a week of walking felt like a lot. Then again, he didn’t have much to compare to. Even if he had, this was an odd class anyway. Finn had gotten ten levels right out of the gate.

  His mood soured as he thought of Finn.

  The Great Game interrupted his thoughts.

  >Do you accept?

  Damian accepted with a thought.