Morning sunlight crept through the dusty window of a cramped attic room, landing squarely on Finn Elden's face.
He groaned, rolled over, and pulled the blanket over his head.
"Five more minutes," he muttered.
Unfortunately, the universe wasn't feeling generous today. The baker downstairs — a stout dwarf named Brunna Ironloaf — slammed a pan so hard that even the attic floor trembled.
"Finn!" she shouted. "If you're still sleeping, I swear by the flour spirits, I'll feed you to the pigeons!"
Finn's head popped out from under the blanket like a startled mole. "Up! Awake! Bright as a phoenix!"
He jumped out of bed, nearly tripping on his own boots, and looked into the mirror — cracked, smudged, and slightly judgmental.
He straightened the curtain he wore like a cape.
His reflection stared back at him — messy blond hair, confident grin, eyes full of unwarranted determination.
"Finn Elden," he said dramatically, "future hero of Alderstone! The world shall sing of your name!"
The mirror did not object, which he took as encouragement.
Downstairs, the bakery was already alive — trays clattering, dwarven humming, the smell of fresh bread and mild despair.
Brunna glanced up from the counter, eyes narrowing. "You're late again."
"I was meditating!" Finn said, standing tall. "Preparing my spirit for today's training!"
"You were drooling," Brunna replied flatly. "Onto your pillow. Loudly."
"Spiritual drool," Finn corrected, completely serious. "It's a hero's thing."
She rolled her eyes and shoved a loaf at him. "Here. Bread. Don't pay me in 'future glory' again."
"Your faith will be rewarded," Finn said solemnly, taking the bread and biting into it. "When I become famous, I'll dedicate my first statue to you."
Make it taller than you, then," she grumbled.
An hour later, Finn strutted down the cobbled street toward the inn, cape fluttering, humming a self-made "hero theme."
Citizens stepped aside — not because he looked impressive, but because they'd learned to make space when Finn was "on a mission."
He pushed open the inn door with a dramatic flourish. "Fear not, townsfolk! The hero has arrived!"
The innkeeper, an elf polishing mugs, didn't even look up. "Please, Finn, not again. The cat's still scared from last time."
"I was testing my swordsmanship!"
"You were swinging a broom."
"A symbolic sword!" Finn countered. "Anyway, I'll have your finest stew! Heroes need nutrition!"
The elf sighed. "That'll be three coppers."
Finn dramatically slapped his last few coins on the counter like a man sealing a deal with destiny.
The steaming bowl arrived — golden broth, bits of meat, fragrant herbs.
He picked it up, inhaled deeply… and promptly tripped on his own cape.
The bowl flew. The soup soared majestically through the air — before landing squarely on Mayor Tunbald's boots.
A hush fell over the inn.
Finn blinked, horrified. The mayor blinked back, horrified and wet.
"I—uh—this is part of a… tactical demonstration," Finn said quickly. "Testing the soup's viscosity. For safety reasons."
The mayor stared at him for a long, dangerous moment. Then said, "If you're so eager to help the town, Hero Finn, perhaps you can escort the elven courier to the market."
Finn straightened instantly. "A mission? Absolutely! Leave it to me, good mayor!"
The mayor smirked, muttered something about "cheap labor," and walked off, soup dripping.
Ten minutes later, Finn stood outside the inn, meeting his "escort target" — an elven girl about his age, holding a small crate of herbs.
"I'm Lira, the apothecary's apprentice," she said politely. "You must be… my bodyguard?"
Finn puffed his chest. "Indeed! Finn Elden, hero-in-training. Slayer of… uh, minor inconveniences."
She smiled faintly. "Well, I suppose we're safe from those, then."
They began walking toward the market. Finn scanned every alley dramatically.
"Stay alert," he whispered. "Bandits lurk in unexpected places."
"We're five minutes from the bakery," Lira said dryly.
"That's what they want you to think."
At the market, a chicken broke free from a cage, flapping and screeching like it had seen the apocalypse.
Finn's instincts kicked in. "Lira, stand back! I'll handle this beast!"
"It's a chicken—"
Too late. Finn lunged, cape billowing, battle cry echoing through the stalls.
The chicken dodged. He slipped on cabbage. The chicken pecked. He yelped. The crowd gathered, cheering for the chicken.
After a few chaotic seconds, Finn emerged victorious — meaning the chicken got tired and wandered off.
He stood, panting, hair sticking out wildly. "See? No beast can withstand my— ow— valor."
Lira sighed, handing him a handkerchief. "Heroic. Truly. You've saved the town's vegetables."
Back in his attic, Finn sat by candlelight, writing in his "Hero's Journal" — a leather notebook labeled in big, proud letters: "Legendary Deeds of Finn Elden."
Day 1:
Defended the town against a fierce chicken.
Saved an elf from boredom.
The mayor respects me now (probably).
He paused, then added with satisfaction:
The path of a hero begins with small steps. And occasionally, spilled soup.
He closed the book, smiled, and blew out the candle.
Outside, the kingdom of Alderstone slept — blissfully unaware that its most confident disaster was only getting started.
The morning in Alderstone began with the usual chaos: the baker yelling about missing pastries, a dwarf hammering something far too early, and Finn Elden practicing sword swings with a mop.
"Swift… and precise!" he declared, slicing the air. The mop head flew off and smacked a passing cat.
The cat hissed. Finn froze.
"…Tactical error," he whispered, backing away slowly.
Just another heroic morning.
Down at the town square, a large wooden notice board displayed local requests: missing pets, weed pulling, and the occasional "find my lost socks" mission.
Finn stood there, scanning it with the seriousness of a commander choosing his next campaign.
"Hmm… 'Help needed: laundry delivery to Dragon Hill.'"
His eyes lit up. "Laundry. Dragon. Hill. Clearly, a dangerous covert operation disguised as menial work."
Brunna the baker appeared behind him, holding a basket of rolls. "Or it's just laundry, Finn."
He turned dramatically. "No, Brunna. You don't understand. This is how legends begin."
"Legends smell like burnt bread," she said, handing him a loaf. "Take this, at least you won't starve on your 'mission.'"
He saluted with the bread. "For the glory of Alderstone!"
The path to Dragon Hill wound through flower fields and small streams. Finn marched proudly, humming his "heroic" theme song between bites of bread.
At the top stood a large stone house with smoking chimneys — less "lair of destruction" and more "fancy noble's villa."
A brass plaque read: "Lady Emberlyn Dracora — Alchemist & Seamstress (Yes, that Emberlyn)."
He gulped. "Dracora? As in… dragon-dragon?"
Before he could reconsider, the door opened.
A tall woman stood there — long crimson hair, eyes like molten gold, elegant robes shimmering faintly with heat.
A faint whiff of smoke curled from her nostrils.
"You must be the delivery boy," she said, voice smooth but slightly intimidating.
Finn straightened instantly. "I am Finn Elden, hero of—uh—temporary freelance delivery operations!"
Lady Emberlyn arched an eyebrow. "Hero, is it? Very well, Hero Finn. Follow me."
Inside, the house sparkled with crystals, potions, and fabrics that shimmered like scales. Emberlyn led him to a room where a mountain of laundry awaited — dresses, robes, capes… and enough socks to clothe an army.
Finn stared. "By the gods… did you fight a textile war?"
"My wardrobe burned last week," she said casually. "A potion experiment went poorly. You will help wash these."
He blinked. "Wash? As in, manually?"
"Yes, hero. With water and soap. Or is that beyond your power?"
He puffed up. "Ha! A mere mortal task! I shall complete it with heroic efficiency!"
Ten minutes later, disaster had blossomed.
Bubbles filled the room, the floor was slick with soap, and Finn was desperately trying to wrangle a towel that refused to stop floating — a side effect of accidentally mixing enchanted water with the detergent.
"Stay down, you cursed fabric!" he shouted, swinging the mop like a knight against a spectral foe.
Lady Emberlyn entered, paused, and sighed. "I turn my back for five minutes…"
"It's under control!" Finn said, slipping and vanishing under a mountain of towels.
"Clearly," she said dryly, flicking her fingers. The magic bubble storm vanished instantly.
She helped him up, her golden eyes amused. "You've turned my laundry into a battlefield."
"I… prefer the term 'training ground,'" Finn replied weakly, covered in suds
Emberlyn chuckled, a faint puff of smoke curling from her lips. "You're either brave or hopeless. Possibly both."
"Thank you," he said proudly.
"That wasn't a compliment."
After hours of chaotic "helping," Emberlyn handed him a small pouch of coins.
"You survived. That's impressive enough."
He opened his mouth to boast, but she raised a hand.
"Come back tomorrow. My cauldron needs cleaning."
He saluted dramatically. "Consider it done! No stain too powerful for a hero!"
She smirked. "We'll see."
As he marched down the hill, soaked, sudsy, and oddly proud, he whispered to himself,
"Day two: defeated an army of possessed laundry. Gained the respect of a dragon. Probably."
Back in his attic, Finn wrote in his journal again:
Day 2:
Fought a mountain of cursed fabric.
Earned a dragon's admiration (pending confirmation).
Still smell like lavender and regret.
He leaned back, satisfied.
"Another step toward greatness," he said aloud.
Downstairs, Brunna yelled, "Finn! The cat wants revenge!"
"…Another battle awaits," he muttered, grabbing his mop-sword.