The three of them moved through the forest, loudly singing—or meowing—their traveling song. Narro had to admit, he kind of enjoyed this one. Reralt especially liked the verse that paired his name with “hero” and “slayer of witches.”

  So far, Reralt’s excellent philosophy of “just go where you need to be” had served them surprisingly well. They had, after all, survived the witch incident—well, Narro had been the one dominated. And technically, Reralt had saved him.

  Yes, the same man who had been beaten up by an eight-year-old, confused “rune” with “ruin,” and somehow still managed to appear half competent—a fact that continued to surprise Narro. Reralt, for his part, didn’t see any issue at all.

  That made Narro a little less worried. In his own strange way, Reralt was keeping him safe.

  The method—knocking Narro out cold and probably accidentally killing the witch (though he would never admit it)—was something Narro decided not to think too hard about.

  The forest began to thin. Ahead, perched on a small hill, stood a crumbling monastery—overgrown, clearly abandoned, and not exactly inviting. A murder of black birds circled its towers like they were guarding something unpleasant.

  Narro, thinking preemptively, decided to label it a “ruin” in his mind. That way, they could just avoid the creepy-looking place altogether.

  Unfortunately, Reralt was down to his last few gold pieces. If they didn’t find something soon, their relaxed days would be over—and Narro would rue the day Reralt had to actually work for his food or bed. That would be disastrous.

  “Perhaps we can loot—I mean, look—in the abandoned building,” Narro suggested casually.

  Reralt eyed the structure, weighing whether it met his entirely undefined standards for being a ruin.

  “It still has a roof,” he muttered. “At least half the windows are intact.”

  The Void, curled up in the mane of Reralt’s horse, lifted her head as if to join the conversation. She looked at Narro. Then at Reralt. Then began licking her paw and rubbing it over her head.

  “Hmm. That’s a good sign,” Reralt nodded.

  “The cat is just cleaning herself,” Narro pointed out.

  “Exactly. She’s relaxed. Not stressed. As if there’s no evil nearby.”

  With that, Reralt nudged his horse forward and headed up the hill toward the monastery.

  The Void blinked, confused by the sudden movement of her bed, and meowed her disapproval.

  Narro’s belly offered its own opinion—mostly that this looked like a promising place to find food.

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  So he followed, eyeing the monastery as it loomed larger.

  Not quite a ruin yet—but definitely on its way.

  ***

  They entered through an open, ornate door carved with long-forgotten gods.

  Narro couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

  There were simply too many heads.

  And too many tails.

  Some wings, too.

  In the large cloister garden, a massive banner stretched from one side of the monastery to the other.

  Its fabric, once white, had faded to a sickly yellow with age.

  Scrawled across it in bold red letters:

  BLOOD DRIVE — SAFETY DONATE YOUR FOR NOW!

  The banner looked ancient.

  The ink, however?

  Suspiciously fresh.

  Reralt looked up, grinning.

  “Ha! We can do some heroics. Getting Reralt’s blood? Glorious!”

  Narro, still staring at the sign, saw only one thing:

  Vampires. All over it.

  And apparently with severe brain damage.

  “Don’t go in, Reralt. I think it’s written in blood,” Narro muttered, already tired of hearing himself be the voice of reason.

  He sighed. “What kind of creature uses blood as ink? What kind of evil wants blood?”

  He said it loud enough to be obvious. Hoped, perhaps, that Reralt would catch on.

  He knew better. But at least Reralt couldn’t claim he hadn’t been warned.

  “Nurses?” Reralt looked genuinely puzzled. “My nurses were never evil. I always got a caramel apple after.”

  He rubbed his hands together and strolled toward the door—then stopped, looked back, confused.

  After a moment, he walked back to fetch his sword.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  “Happy-er,” Narro sighed, dismounting.

  He followed Reralt in, tucking some garlic and a sharpened stick into his belt—just in case.

  The Void slinked off in the opposite direction, clearly in hunting mode.

  “Get us a rabbit!” Reralt called after her.

  She paused, tilted her head—as if considering a snarky reply—then vanished into the garden.

  ***

  Inside, it was an ominous kind of dark.

  Just enough light filtered through the high windows to reveal thick gusts of dust sweeping across the vast hall.

  “Hellooo!” Reralt shouted. “Apples?”

  The echo came back:

  “Pless.”

  “What a polite monastery,” Reralt nodded.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Narro shook his head. He was already regretting not joining The Void on her rabbit hunt.

  It would’ve been better for his nerves—and his rapidly eroding sanity.

  Then a voice—old, shriveled, dry as parchment—drifted from the shadows:

  “Visitors, we have...

  Nice, it is.”

  From the dark emerged a small, hooded creature, leaning on a crooked cane.

  Its head was too big for its body, its skin a shade of green that could only be described as 'unfit for consumption.'

  “Welcome, you are,” it rasped.

  Narro leaned over and poked Reralt.

  “It must have serious brain damage. Talks like his words got jumbled on the way out.”

  He added, “Not your standard vampire, that’s for sure.”

  “A what—vampire?” Reralt squinted. “He’s walking straight into the sunlight.”

  Narro hesitated. “Yeah... well. Depends who you ask. Half the books contradict the other half.”

  “A vampire, not I am,” the robed creature said solemnly.

  Narro frowned and pulled out a notebook, rearranging the words with arrows.

  “He says he’s not a vampire,” he muttered.

  Reralt raised an eyebrow. “Yes. I heard. I was there.”

  “Outside take I will you. See better, I will,” the creature offered, turning back toward the cloister garden.

  “I think he’s having a stroke,” Narro whispered.

  “No, he said he wants us to go outside so he can see better,” Reralt replied, beaming.

  “Are you having a stroke?”

  Narro opened his mouth, closed it again, and followed them out with a defeated sigh.

  ***

  Outside, things had gone from stupid to a whole family of stupid.

  “So let me get this straight,” Narro said. “You take two drops of our blood, and in return, we get food?”

  He still couldn’t believe it.

  The strange green man might not have been a vampire.

  Sure, he’d reacted when Narro threw garlic at him—but it had been more a look of mild confusion than anything sinister.

  Well within normal limits.

  “And why do you need those drops?” Reralt asked, narrowing his eyes.

  He’d heard of blood pacts. He wasn’t falling for that again.

  “Search, I must, for midichlorians,” the monk said solemnly. “Need I have… warriors strong are in the Force.”

  He paused. Looked around.

  “That,” he added awkwardly, as if hoping no one had noticed.

  Narro gave up.

  He turned to Reralt—who, somehow, seemed to understand this gibberish perfectly.

  “Needs heroes,” Reralt explained, applying his usual minimum effort.

  “For what?” Narro asked, eyeing the sudden feast the monk had pulled from a nearby shed.

  There were pies. He was listening now.

  “Emperor… defeat need we. Evil, he is. Suffering, he does.”

  A pause.

  “Causes, mean I. He does not… he—does.”

  Narro blinked.

  Reralt looked like he understood every word.

  Which meant he had probably lost it, too.

  “Evil emperor,” Reralt nodded, confidently filling in the gaps.

  “Tell us more about this evil, good frogman,” he added, puffing up his chest. This was his zone.

  “Gained vote of the assembly, he did,” the monk said.

  Narro held out a hand, gesturing for him to slow down.

  “Okay, got it. Go on.”

  “War it was, then. Killed the Orde, he did.”

  The monk looked at Narro, waiting.

  “Hold on.” Narro scribbled rapidly, rearranging the words into something resembling logic.

  “So… the emperor was elected by the assembly? As in, through proper democratic process?”

  He turned to Reralt.

  “Half those words confuse me,” Reralt replied.

  ***

  Meow!

  Everyone looked down.

  The tiny kitten sat beside a rabbit easily ten times her size, licking her paw like it was just another Tuesday.

  “Strong Force it with her is,” the monk nodded solemnly.

  “…The,” he added, belatedly.

  Narro stepped forward protectively, positioning himself between the Void and the frogman.

  He was not about to let her get roped into someone’s poorly explained rebellion against a legally elected official.

  “So if he was voted in democratically,” Narro asked, “shouldn’t your party file objections or… something?”

  “Have a party, we have not. Political, we are not,” the man replied, blinking in confusion.

  A wrinkled green finger rubbed his temple.

  “So you didn’t even try?” Narro was appalled.

  These weren’t freedom fighters. They were just bored anarchists with delusions of grandeur.

  “Killed children, they have,” the monk insisted, growing defensive.

  “One of us, he was… technically.”

  “Good story, you have not,” Narro said, unimpressed.

  Reralt had tuned out somewhere around the second sentence.

  He had just found a caramelised apple. It required his full attention. Two bites, minimum.

  “Hey!” the green man snapped. “Food for donors, it is!”

  A silent “the” hovered unsaid—his entire face conveyed it.

  But it was over. The thread had snapped.

  His grand, heroic quest unraveled—not through violence, but through the slow, suffocating logic of two people who simply refused to see meaning where there wasn’t any.

  “Tried you the goose have?” he offered weakly, lifting a plate in defeat.

  “More Force in that one than in this whole realm.”

  Narro stared at him.

  “Ah yes, I mean…” The monk cleared his throat.

  “Well. Forget it.”

  He took a wing from the goose, sat down on the steps, and muttered something under his breath—

  curses in a language from a galaxy far, far away.

  ***

  The Ballad of the Brabbled Rebellion

  (Sung somewhere far, far away)

  They marched through the woods, saw a rebel so green,

  His grammar a puzzle, his logic unseen.

  “Vote he did gain, assembly did cheer!”

  “War it became”—but the story’s unclear.

  Two travelers questioned with growing disdain:

  “Did you protest?” “No party remain.”

  “You started a war—no pamphlets, no speech?”

  “A frog with no plan, just dreams out of reach.”

  The kitten, she meowed—by rabbit laid low.

  The green man looked down; his speech lost its flow.

  “Strong is she… I mean is—yes… oh dear…”

  His syntax collapsed beneath logic and fear.

  He took a goose wing and sat without pride,

  His great rebel tale now chicken-fried.

  No hero struck down his radical dream—

  He simply lost track of his sentence’s theme.

  Reralt hit the marketplace hard.

  Coerce the peasants?

  Or just burn all the other books?

  And may your ducks fly low, and your trolls forget how to type.