“Narro, Narro.”

  In the middle of the night, Reralt was shaking him. “Wake up.”

  “For the last time, Reralt,” Narro grumbled, “the tooth fairy only takes teeth that already fell out.” He rolled deeper into his blanket.

  “Narro, wake up. A quest awaits us.” Reralt’s voice trembled. “One of mythical proportions.”

  His voice dripped with giddy anticipation.

  “Bollocks,” Narro muttered, sitting up.

  The fire they’d made that evening was down to its last embers, casting a soft, hypnotic red glow that danced weakly beneath the vast, silent night sky.

  “Okay, what’s this quest—and why can’t it wait until morning?”

  Narro stretched and glanced up at the moon to guess the time.

  He blinked. Looked again.

  No moon. Probably behind a cloud… or—

  “It’s gone,” Reralt said, voice low and ominous. “Someone stole the moon.”

  “Reralt, think about it for a moment.”

  “Think?” Reralt looked genuinely insulted. “If heroes thought—do you know how much heroism would actually get done?”

  Narro opened his mouth, still shaking off the last wisps of sleep.

  “NONE,” Reralt declared triumphantly, arms raised like he’d just disproven reality itself.

  It was the kind of logic no one could properly argue with—especially not at three in the morning. Narro just wanted to sleep.

  “Isn’t this a solo quest?” he asked hopefully, already knowing the answer.

  Reralt yanked the blanket off him and threw it into the fire.

  Narro scrambled after it, snatching it out just before it caught flame.

  “Guess we’re going moon hunting,” he muttered, and started gearing up.

  ***

  “So where do we start?”

  Narro chewed on some bread and cheese. He didn’t want to, but Reralt had insisted he’d need the energy to fight the moon thieves.

  Reralt marched in a perfectly straight line through shrubbery and forest. If a small tree or bush blocked his path, he yanked it out and hurled it aside like nature had personally offended him.

  “Is this how forest paths originate?” Narro muttered under his breath. “Madman on a dream quest?”

  Reralt looked back, frowning with his magnificent left eyebrow—his best one.

  “Of course it is,” he said, then rampaged deeper into the woods.

  Narro followed. He kicked a few small plants out of the way. Helping.

  “Shhh,” Reralt hissed, glancing back with genuine irritation.

  Narro shook his head. How long would this go on? Would he tire after an hour—or was this the new goal for the entire year?

  Knowing Reralt, he’d eventually stumble upon something completely unrelated and declare it an enemy.

  The wind howled a particular kind of howl that night, as if searching for something.

  And then—Reralt stumbled on something.

  ***

  He beckoned Narro to come closer and stayed very, very quiet.

  Narro crept forward as stealthily as he could, expecting—at best—another bunny, or perhaps a goat that Reralt would insist had eaten the moon.

  Then he gasped.

  In a clearing on the forest floor, five men in dark robes crouched around an ornate drawing in the mud—a five-pointed star.

  A black rooster lay dead at the center.

  And above it, hovering silently, faintly glowing… floated the moon.

  The men were chanting softly, a short mantra:

  Let the moon be always full,

  Let the sky forget its pull.

  Let no shadow dare to pass,

  Let the night be bright as glass.

  Reralt was staring at Narro expectantly.

  One hand made the universal “Come on, say it” gesture.

  “So… you were right?” Narro said, his mouth refusing to fully close.

  Reralt was already unsheathing his sword—very slowly, very dramatically.

  Silently, so as not to rune the surprise.

  “Wait, Reralt.”

  Narro gently tugged the silver-haired flesh golem’s arm—immediately regretting it as his hand turned oily, glibbery, and disturbingly reflective.

  “They want to make the moon always full,” he whispered. “Isn’t that… a good thing?”

  “They stole the moon. That’s just bad mannership,” Reralt said, frowning. He actually seemed to be considering Narro’s words.

  Then: “If they can do that, they can also do the other way around?”

  “Probably.”

  Narro already saw where this was going.

  A chance of evil—no matter how small—was more than enough for Reralt.

  Narro made a solemn promise to himself never to tell Reralt he once stole an apple as a boy.

  The chances of being turned into yakitori were simply too high.

  ***

  Reralt took two steps back, did a few squats, then dropped for some push-ups.

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

  Heroics without a warm-up, he always said, led to what he called courage cramps.

  Narro got ready. He picked up his knife… and his lute.

  Then stared at them, as if forced to choose between violence and harmony.

  Reralt pointed at the lute.

  Then mimed clubbing someone with it.

  “Battle-lute,” he whispered, grinning—

  and then, with a mighty leap,

  he burst from the bushes.

  One sweeping strike felled the first cultist.

  The others froze.

  Their chant died on their tongues,

  and the moon began to drift slowly upward.

  One of the cultists wore a slightly different-colored robe.

  That one began chanting—a different chant altogether.

  Reralt, mid-swing and trying to get his sword to that perfect shade of red, suddenly froze.

  “Hey, let go of my sword, evildoer!” he bellowed, thoroughly offended.

  He pulled at the sword—but it wouldn’t budge.

  It hung there, midair, as if frozen in time.

  Then it swung at Reralt.

  Without missing a beat, Reralt grabbed one of the cultists within arm’s reach and shoved him into the path.

  The sword struck the cultist square on the head.

  He crumpled instantly, robes collapsing like they’d never been filled with a person at all.

  Narro, watching the chaotic mess unfold, narrowed his eyes.

  He sprinted forward and slammed his lute into the chanting cultist’s back.

  The man hadn’t seen it coming—

  and, judging by the outraged expression on his face as he hit the ground, he definitely didn’t agree with it.

  Narro looked down at the man he’d just flattened.

  “I was enjoying Reralt getting attacked by his own sword,” he muttered.

  “But I’m never making it back to the city without him.”

  The sword, meanwhile, hadn’t stopped.

  It floated midair, weaving with eerie precision—then swung again.

  Reralt ducked. Barely.

  “No, Hacky—what are you doing?” he shouted, genuinely hurt. “I thought we were friends!”

  “Hacky?” Narro exclaimed. “Isn’t that more of an axe name?”

  Reralt ducked under another wild swing, then headbutted a cultist with flair.

  “Yes—in her previous life, she was an axe,” he explained, as if that settled everything.

  “Of course,” Narro said, whacking the dark-robed cultist on the head again.

  “How did I miss that?”

  The last cultist standing looked at them with a mix of horror, disgust, and the kind of bewilderment that could only be summarized as: Heh?

  “Please don’t kill me,” he said, sinking to his knees. “I have a three-year-old daughter at home.”

  Hacky clattered to the ground the moment the dark-robed cultist departed the world of the awake.

  Reralt picked her up, scolded her sternly for betrayal, then turned to face the last man standing.

  A middle-aged man, balding at the crown, eyes wide with fear.

  “Oh, how sweet,” Reralt said, stepping closer—clearly not letting sentimentality stop the show.

  “What’s her name?” he asked, raising the sword toward the man’s neck.

  “Reralt, wait,” Narro cut in, stepping forward.

  “Let the man talk. Maybe we’ll actually learn something. Like why they enchanted the moon and all that?”

  “Learning is overrated,” Reralt muttered.

  But he lowered Hacky—just slightly—and looked at Narro expectantly.

  “What’s her name?” Narro asked gently, trying to pull the man’s focus away from the very sharp, very red Ms. Hacky.

  “Luce’an,” the man said—instantly regretting it.

  Narro frowned. “That’s… unusual. Isn’t that the name of the goddess of night and murder?”

  “Well, yes, but that’s tradition. Every boy becomes a cultist, every girl is given to the night goddess.”

  “Preposterous!” Reralt shouted, eyes flaring. “What if a boy wants to be a night goddess?”

  Narro, once again, found himself losing a conversation to sheer madness.

  “Tradition matters,” the cultist said, folding his arms as if he were in a theological debate rather than grasping for his last breath of life.

  “And if they don’t want to follow tradition?” Reralt asked, suddenly and dangerously invested in emancipating the cult.

  This could only go poorly—for the cult.

  “Being different in a cult?” The man looked at Reralt like he’d just asked how to inhale.

  Narro suspected this wasn’t the first time someone had needed to explain basic concepts to him.

  “Well, then they’re killed, of course. A cult’s not exactly known for embracing diversity. You know… being a cult and all.”

  Reralt raised Hacky high and roared,

  “For every boy who wants to be the goddess!”—and brought the blade down on the man.

  Then again:

  “For every girl who wants to be a cultist—cultiste—cultistwoman!”

  With that final blow, the man’s life ended in a spray of misplaced progressivism.

  ***

  Reralt and Narro were hiking back to the camp they’d left—walking in a very straight line.

  Narro wasn’t speaking, still digesting the heavy scene that had just unfolded.

  “You didn’t puke, faint, or run away like a coward,” Reralt said respectfully, giving him a series of shoulder taps—the kind you give a child who’s done something right.

  “Yes,” Narro replied, still unsure of himself. “I guess I’m getting used to it. Although… I don’t think I’ll sleep very well tonight.”

  “Don’t worry. That’s why they invented wine,” Reralt said.

  “Reralt, you drank all the wine already.”

  “I don’t see your point,” Reralt shrugged. “There’s always drink somewhere.”

  With that, he tossed Narro a small flask—still damp with blood and marked with cultist-like symbols.

  “You should name your battle-lute now that it’s tasted blood,” Reralt suggested.

  To baptize an instrument of joy and poetry as a weapon just didn’t sit right with Narro.

  “How about naming it after my wife and child?” he said. “Mary Syril?”

  The lute seemed to agree—graceful like Mary, and every now and then, it laughed like Syril.

  “That doesn’t sound like a fear-inducing name,” Reralt said, unimpressed.

  “No,” Narro nodded. “It sounds like a promise to get home again. I’m keeping that name.”

  With that, he took a big swig from the flask—

  —and retched immediately.

  “What is this stuff?” Narro gasped.

  “Ha. Rookie.” Reralt took a long chug from the bottle and grinned.

  “If I had to guess,” he said, laughing, “moonshine.”

  (Why Cults Should Be Co-Ed)

  They stole the moon with chicken blood,

  A crooked star, five chanting creeps.

  Old rites and rhyme had soured his mood—

  Their sacred robes wore wine-stained sweeps.

  So we clubbered them so good.

  Yes, clubbered them so good.

  The moon came down, the fools stood proud,

  Then Hacky sang—a song too loud.

  Yes, she sings so loud,

  Sharp words she’ll sprout.

  Next time the moon slips out of place,

  He’ll sniff it out with some wild ploy.

  It might just help you save some face

  If you make the cult both girl and boy.

  And always duck when Hacky should.

  Yes, always duck when Hacky should.

  The moon came down, the fools stood proud,

  Then Hacky sang—a song too loud.

  Yes, she sings so loud,

  Sharp words she’ll sprout.

  And an especially big thanks to all the commenters and raters.

  More. More of my sanity.

  Next: Wait—a three-chapter story?

  Wow.

  And it has ******. Amazing!!