The morning came wrapped in a chilly, foggy dew that clung to the meadows like a mist spirit—welcoming the dawn only by slowly retreating.

  Our two brave adventurers—well, one brave adventurer and one battered, bruised mailman—were riding toward Reachtown, a mid-sized city where Narro needed to deliver the lute.

  “Why must we go to the city? No monsters or glory ever lurk within city walls. No good ones, anyway,” Reralt said—for the fifteenth time in the last hour.

  “Drop it, Reralt. I need to deliver the package. Then I go home.”

  Narro urged his horse onward. Just one short hour to go—if luck held. One more hour, and things might finally return to something approaching normal.

  “Ha!” Reralt laughed—the kind of laugh that came with a puffed chest and no joy. “As if anyone could refuse to ride on adventure with Reralt.”

  He stood on his saddle, one foot near the horse’s head, flexing his muscles in a ridiculous display of bravado.

  The horse just trotted on. He’d seen worse. Much worse.

  Reralt began to sing—loudly—a new ballad about how he clobbered a groom to death, for reasons that remained unclear.

  “Come on, Narro, you know the song. You wrote it.”

  Narro looked up at the sky and wished he were already home. Then, with a sigh, he grabbed the lute.

  Reralt had unpacked it the day before—in the least professional manner imaginable—and Narro had little choice but to play along.

  He strummed the only three notes he knew. They were not good.

  The rhythm was worse.

  The melody resembled a wounded goose.

  Luckily, Reralt’s heroic baritone didn’t need accompaniment. In fact, Narro doubted anyone could even hear the lute.

  By the time they passed through Reachtown’s gate, the city already felt too large.

  Narro hunched low in the saddle, trying not to make eye contact with anyone—for fear that someone might recognize him.

  Meanwhile, Reralt dismounted with theatrical flourish and began shaking hands and signing scraps of parchment held out by startled passersby.

  ***

  Narro dropped Reralt off at a tavern while he took care of business in the city. It seemed like the best fit: Reralt, sipping tea and devouring an oversized breakfast, probably recounting his heroics to every poor soul within earshot. It would keep him busy all morning.

  That was Narro’s first mistake—Reralt never drank tea.

  His second mistake was assuming people wouldn't ignore him.

  People who ignored Reralt annoyed Reralt.

  And when Reralt got annoyed and drunk, he always found something “heroic” to do.

  Narro’s third mistake was overestimating the sturdiness of the tavern.

  He should have seen it coming.

  Even if he’d only known the man for one full day.

  He had briefly worried about the flammability of the tavern—but brushed it aside.

  “Surely he wouldn’t,” Narro told himself.

  ***

  Reralt had been in the tavern for ages.

  He muttered to himself, “Stupid tavern. Stupid city. Nothing to do.”

  He’d started out cheerful enough, proudly explaining how he’d slain a demon the day before.

  The serving wench nodded—politely—for about fifteen seconds, then muttered something about needing to check the kitchen and disappeared.

  “Peasants!” Reralt bellowed every three or four minutes.

  But no one came to bask in his glory or hear his tales.

  Even the serving wench wasn’t coming back—he saw her peeking from the kitchen and only emerging to bring him wine when asked.

  Reralt looked around.

  He was the only one left.

  Breakfast had long passed. Most people had gone to work—or to sleep—or whatever it was peasants did after eating.

  He eyed his empty flagon of wine.

  He really should’ve eaten more before he started drinking.

  But the staff here were so slow—he’d finished his first flagon before the food even arrived, his second while eating, and this third one… was dessert.

  He began wandering through the tavern—a squat, ugly wooden building with two uneven rows of tables.

  They kept shifting. Constantly.

  Every time he tried to walk straight, another table bumped into him.

  Or was it a chair? Or the floor?

  The tavern, he decided, must have been built on the back of some great, invisible horse—because it refused to stay still.

  “Stop moving,” Reralt growled, pointing accusingly at the furniture. “You’re ruining my heroic gait.”

  He was now in the middle of the room, clutching a chair with his right hand and the wall with his left, inching toward the toilet like a man crossing a rope bridge in a storm.

  The serving wench had returned and was eyeing him with caution.

  Reralt waved cheerfully—nearly toppled—then flailed to keep his balance in the cursed horseback tavern.

  “Did I ever tell you,” he began, slurring with confidence, “about the time I shot a monstrous duck? One shot. Didn’t even look.”

  He didn’t wait for a response.

  “And then the duck fell down—boom!—the whole land shook and trembled, for mighty Reralt had slain the worst menace the realm had ever seen.”

  Then he fell over.

  The serving wench sighed. “Perhaps, sir, it’s time to get some fresh air.”

  She helped him up and, almost imperceptibly, began guiding him toward the door.

  “He haf to pie,” the cook muttered to the wench, his speech slurred by a lifelong war with the letter s.

  “Of course I pay your glorious wine and food,” Reralt declared, puffing up. “And one flagon of wine for later also.”

  He fumbled with his coin purse, dropped it, and stared at it like it had betrayed him.

  The wench sighed, retrieved it from the floor, and held him steady with one hand while counting coins with the other.

  “Thaf wood be free fiddy,” the cook announced.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Reralt froze.

  “Who is this Fiddy? A maiden?”

  He pushed the wench aside, newly invigorated by the promise of a noble cause.

  “Of course I will free Fiddy!” he roared, rising to full, swaying height.

  “Hold on, noble Fiddy—Reralt comes!”

  He yanked his sword from his back—sheath and all—and swung it sideways.

  It hit the serving wench square in the face.

  She collapsed in a heap, wearing a stunned expression that questioned every life choice she'd made up to that point.

  Reralt stormed toward the door.

  Missed it by a generous margin.

  And barrelled straight through the wall to the left of it.

  A spray of splinters followed him into the street, wood pulp in his hair, and broken planks bouncing off his beautifully oiled arms.

  “FIDDY!” he bellowed.

  “Reralt’s coming to rescue you!”

  And with that, Reralt’s forty-five minutes in the tavern became legendary.

  Many songs would be sung about it.

  Most of them in warning.

  ***

  Reralt thundered through the city in a drunken rage, on a sacred quest to rescue his maiden.

  Every passerby he grabbed by both shoulders and shook.

  “Have you seen Fiddy? Where is she held?”

  Children laughed at him.

  He assumed they had recognized their superhero.

  So he always paused to flex—just to make sure they would never forget this moment, which would no doubt shape their tiny, impressionable minds.

  Then he saw it.

  A great building, circled with barbed wire.

  A towering structure, with metal grates in front of every window.

  Surely, he thought, this was where evil would hide a maiden fair.

  He rolled his shoulders.

  Did a small heroic jig to get the blood flowing in his legs.

  Then—

  He charged.

  ***

  Reralt, sword (sheath included) raised high above his head in a striking pose, screamed a battle chant as he charged the police station.

  Inside, several officers—mid-tea—looked up in confusion as a large, silver-haired man with suspiciously shiny biceps staggered toward the building in a crooked, drunken sprint.

  Reralt aimed for the door.

  Then realized—mid-charge—it was gone. It had shifted a few meters to the right.

  He halted and performed two awkward sidesteps, realigning himself with great urgency.

  The door kept shifting.

  It blurred. It trembled.

  “Magic!” Reralt roared.

  Of course—this made perfect sense now.

  Magic. A captured maiden. An evil warlock’s tower.

  “Worthy of song,” he muttered, steadying himself.

  He stood in front of the door. A bit too long.

  Inside, the officers debated whether this was a real threat...

  Or the lunatic who had destroyed a tavern fifteen minutes earlier.

  “Where’s Fiddy?” Reralt demanded, one hand gripping the doorframe, the other dragging his sword behind him—it was very heavy.

  “Strong magics,” he thought.

  One of the more alert officers stepped forward and waved him in.

  “I’ll show you,” he said, walking ahead slowly and glancing back every few steps.

  Three more officers followed from a safe distance.

  “Ha!” Reralt barked triumphantly. “Only eight of you! Perfect for a morning warm-u—uuuhhh…”

  He retched onto the floor.

  “A nausea spell,” he gasped, trying not to collapse into his own vomit. “This sorcerer is… very high level…”

  A metallic cling behind him drew his attention.

  He turned.

  The cell door had closed.

  Reralt looked around, took in the stone walls, the barred window, the bucket in the corner...

  And smiled.

  “Ah,” he said. “Finally. I’ve found the toilet.”

  A warning most musical, for those who drink before noon.

  Oh heed this tale, ye warriors proud,

  Who drink too deep, too fast, too loud.

  Let morning pass, let heads stay clear—

  Lest madness claim your questing year.

  He woke with strength, with sword and grin,

  And wine before the eggs came in.

  He saw no threat, he saw no plot—

  Just drank and claimed the lot was rot.

  Freeee Fiddy! they cry, from stool or cell—

  He saved no maid, but he fought like hell!

  So raise your mugs, but drink with sense...

  Or next you’ll fight a picket fence.

  A wench he floored (by accident… “barely”),

  A tavern smashed (though quite unfairly).

  He heard the words: “three-fifty, please”—

  And swore a vow to set Fiddy free.

  “Where is she held?” he cried in town,

  And grabbed the mayor upside down.

  He flexed for kids, mistook a goat,

  Then challenged half the guard to vote.

  Freeee Fiddy! they cry, from stool or cell—

  He saved no maid, but he fought like hell!

  So raise your mugs, but drink with sense...

  Or next you’ll fight a picket fence.

  He charged a jail in noble zeal,

  Then vomited mid-heroic squeal.

  He shouted spells, he saw a tower,

  Mistook a lock for wizard power.

  He banged the gate and made a speech,

  Declared the hinges out of reach.

  The guards just watched with mild concern—

  He missed the door and hit a fern.

  Freeee Fiddy! they cry, from stool or cell—

  He saved no maid, but he fought like hell!

  So raise your mugs, but drink with sense...

  Or next you’ll fight a picket fence.

  Declared the floor was cursed and slick—

  Then passed out near the chamber pot quick.

  They locked him up to end the scene—

  He called the bucket “Fiddy, my queen!”

  He smiled and sighed, his quest complete,

  A legend made of wine and feet.

  So drink with care, ye would-be knight—

  For honor dies at morning’s light.

  Freeee Fiddy! they cry, from stool or cell—

  He saved no maid, but he fought like hell!

  So raise your mugs, but drink with sense...

  Or next you’ll fight a picket fence.

  If you're still here after the duck story, the geriatricide, and the whole “Free Fiddy” incident… well, I’m sorry. On behalf of the sane population, I truly am.

  And if you see Reralt—don’t make eye contact. Just… trust me.

  very, very tired.

  Next: A haunting wail. A dark prophecy. And Reralt… smitten?