“So if you’re one part ghoul, one part monk, dodge a lot, kissed by a magical fairy, slather yourself in reflective oil, and take a vow of poverty—then yes, you have an AC of 28,” Reralt said for the twentieth time. “Why is that so hard?”

  “I wasn’t asking,” Narro replied flatly.

  He was still burning to know about the ghoul part, though. He was convinced it had something to do with either runes or ruins.

  They rode through the forest.

  Reralt in front—because he knew the way.

  Although he very much didn’t.

  Narro in back—because he definitely didn’t.

  “So where are we going again?” Narro asked, mostly to avoid hearing the AC story for the twenty-first time.

  “To where we are needed,” Reralt said. “We’ll get there soon.”

  “Where are we needed?”

  “That is not for me to decide,” Reralt said with a smile. “Dismount. The forest is getting thick, and I think I hear a river.”

  “Reralt, we’ve been riding next to a river for half an hour.”

  “Yes,” Reralt nodded solemnly. “This is a different river. More dangerous.”

  Narro squinted at the same boring stream. “Sure. Of course it is.”

  Still, he dismounted. Cautious.

  He didn’t know what it was—just that Reralt was still alive.

  And he did this sort of thing all the time.

  They walked their horses deeper into the woods. Beside them, the river grew wilder—faster, louder—until the bank curved sharply and dropped into a canyon.

  Reralt swore. In his polite, noble way.

  “Freck.”

  “What’s wrong, Reralt?” Narro asked. He’d just spotted a bridge spanning the gap.

  “A bridge over the canyon,” Reralt muttered. He exhaled a long, theatrical breath. “Pfffff. I’m sure there’s a watcher.”

  “A watcher? As in… a riddle-giver?” Narro perked up. He’d heard stories. In those, the hero always guessed right at the last second. “Sounds fun.”

  Reralt rolled his eyes.

  ***

  “As I suspected,” Reralt said as they neared the bridge.

  A sign stood beside it, roughly hammered into the dirt. The letters were uneven. The paint was peeling.

  “‘Answer the riddle thee, cross the river bridge,’” Reralt read aloud.

  He squinted. “Well, that’s just lazy. Doesn’t even rhyme.”

  “I don’t get the sign at all,” Narro muttered. “Ninety-nine percent illiteracy in these times. Who’s it even for?”

  “Lazy narrating!” Reralt shouted—to nobody in particular.

  But it still hurt.

  The next five minutes are omitted because the little bastards wouldn’t stop arguing about a sign that probably shouldn’t exist.

  ***

  A bunny was crossing the bridge.

  “Whooo—step back, my bardic friend! Evil is upon us!”

  With a dramatic hair-flip and a fist raised to the heavens, Reralt struck a heroic pose.

  “It’s a fluffy white bunny,” Narro said flatly. “Not even big enough to eat.”

  He glanced at Reralt—then, with a hopeless gesture, took a large step back.

  The rabbit was close now.

  Its red eyes glowed.

  White foam bubbled from its mouth.

  Reralt sprinted forward and delivered a perfectly arched kick.

  The bunny soared, twisted midair, curved gracefully leftward—

  —and vanished over the bridge, disappearing into the wild, rushing river below.

  “There,” Reralt said triumphantly, brushing off his hands. “Every bridge. The stupid beast’s always there. Bit me twice last time.”

  Narro stared at the empty spot where the rabbit had vanished.

  Shrugged.

  And took the first step onto the bridge.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  ***

  Suddenly, smoke covered the bridge—rising from a single flume in the center and quickly expanding until the entire span was shrouded in thick, impenetrable fog.

  Thunder roared.

  A cough. Another. Someone sounded like they were suffocating.

  A man stumbled out of the smoke, waving it away.

  “Damned smoke. They should fix that.”

  He saw Narro, sighed deeply, and trudged a few steps toward him.

  “Hold!”

  “There he is,” Reralt said, already going for a chug of wine.

  Narro perked up—an actual Watcher! Just like in the stories.

  “What’s your rhyme, oh Watcher?” he asked eagerly, leaning in.

  “In rhyme?” the old man repeated, puzzled. “Wait—let me get the book.”

  He rummaged in his robe and pulled out a small booklet. Flipping through the pages, he muttered to himself.

  “Ah—good one. But a bit hard.”

  He glanced at Narro, who looked enthusiastic, and Reralt, who was now finishing the wine flask and burping.

  “Hmmm. Perhaps too hard?” The man scratched his beard, cleared his throat, and began:

  I am empty, yet I brim,

  With breathless strength and cloudy skin.

  I pull, but pushing’s not my style—

  I twist the skies and drift awhile.

  “Know this one,” Reralt said immediately, stretching.

  Narro shot him a look. “No. This one’s mine.”

  He sat cross-legged at the foot of the bridge.

  “You know it kills you if you get it wrong?” Reralt added helpfully.

  “Well, no—we stopped that,” the old man replied, lighting a pipe as he settled by the bridge.

  “No fun. We kill you if you give up now. Much more fun.”

  Narro remained unfazed. He was good at riddles.

  “The wind!” he exclaimed after several long minutes of thought.

  He looked smug. Proud. Triumphant.

  Reralt remained unimpressed.

  “No,” said the old man.

  “Well... yes,” Narro insisted, staring into his eyes.

  “You giving up?” the old man chuckled.

  “No,” Narro said firmly, and sat back down.

  “Why isn’t it the wind?” he asked.

  “We don’t do hints,” the old man replied, puffing smoke in perfect circles.

  “But—especially for you—it can only be one answer. If it could be wind, it could also be a cloud. Same logic. Same amount of wrong.”

  “Shall I tell you the answer?” Reralt offered.

  “No. I think I have it.”

  Narro sprang to his feet, then paused, eyeing Reralt.

  “If I say it right, you’re just going to claim you knew it all along, aren’t you?”

  “If you get the answer,” Reralt said, placing a hand over his chest, “I will write a ballad in your honor, even though I already know the answer. Which, of course, will be the same as yours. Assuming you get it. Which I doubt.”

  Every word after the sixth seemed to confuse even him.

  “Smoke!” Narro announced, laughing. “It fits the rhyme!”

  “Wrong again,” the old man said, tamping down the last ashes in his pipe.

  He looked noticeably less cheerful than before.

  “You’re not the type of travelers who keep trying for weeks, are you?”

  Narro turned to Reralt. “Do you really know?”

  “You won’t like it,” Reralt said with a wink.

  Narro mimed cutting his own throat with a finger.

  “Of course I’m not going to kill him,” Reralt said cheerfully. “It’s bad luck to kill a Watcher.”

  “That—and technically, we can’t die,” the old man added. “So it’s just wasted energy.”

  “Fine. Go,” Narro groaned.

  His curiosity had finally beaten out his pride.

  ***

  “The answer is here—in my hand,” Reralt declared with great drama.

  He raised his hand, walked over to the Watcher, and held it out.

  The Watcher looked puzzled. “Well yes… that will do,” he said—and vanished.

  “Wait—what was it?” Narro snapped.

  Reralt strolled across the bridge with his horse. “You’ll be angry,” he said, grinning.

  “Tell me,” Narro insisted, urging his horse forward.

  “The answer was… five gold pieces.”

  Reralt threw his arms up in a V for victory.

  “Huh? How does that fit the rhyme?” Narro was baffled.

  “It fit his palm,” Reralt said mockingly.

  “You want a life lesson, bard?” he added, voice smug with fake wisdom.

  “Of all the riddles in the world—ninety-five percent can be solved by just throwing money at it.”

  Narro said nothing.

  He just kicked a piece of bunny poo off the bridge.

  Reralt had paid.

  But he was one illusion poorer.

  “And the other five percent?” Narro muttered.

  “Oh,” Reralt nodded solemnly,

  “Those also work like that—

  but you have to throw a lot harder.

  And more to the face.”

  ***

  The Ballad of the Disappointing Watcher

  by Narro, who expected more

  Through fog and coughs the Watcher came,

  All smoke and flair and riddling fame.

  He promised death, then shrugged instead—

  No smiting, no thunder, no glorious dread.

  He posed a riddle, twist and spin,

  Of pull and drift, of storms within.

  I guessed ‘the wind’—a noble shot!

  But answers, it seems, are sometimes not.

  Five coins in palm—that was the key.

  Not thought, not wit, not prophecy.

  So here’s my song, let it be known—

  The Watcher’s test was pay-to-own.

  ***

  “A low pressure system? That’s not even a thing! I’ll get you for this!” Narro shouted at the sky.

  “I know you’re listening!”

  The narrator was, in fact, listening.

  And very proud of himself.

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  Next time on A Simple Hero:

  How forest paths are made.

  Also… did someone just steal the moon?