Garret stood on his porch for a long minute, squinting at the dirt path Pip had just bounced down. The jug in his hand was already feeling suspiciously light. That weak homemade stuff barely counted as a warm-up.
"Alright," he muttered, scratching at the scar on his jaw. "First order of business in fantasy land: find something that actually gets you buzzed. Everything else can wait."
He started walking toward the village without bothering to lock the door. Not like there was anything worth stealing anyway. The air smelled like cut hay and woodsmoke, and his new boots kicked up little clouds of dust with every step. The body moved easy enough — long legs, decent balance — but his brain kept expecting the old gut to throw him off stride.
Halfway down the path, he heard quick footsteps behind him.
"Mister Garret! Wait up!"
He didn't slow down. "Kid, I told you to scram."
Pip caught up anyway, wooden sword thumping against her leg. She was grinning like he'd just promised her a dragon ride. "You're going into the village, right? I'll walk with you! That way you can tell me stories about your old fights while we go. Like that time you fought the big boar thing last spring? Mama said you just poked it with a pitchfork until it ran away."
Garret snorted. "Didn't poke it. Threw an empty jug at its head and yelled loud enough to scare it off. Not exactly heroic."
"Still counts!" Pip skipped a step to stay beside him. "You survived. That's what matters. Most people who go out there don't come back the same. Or at all. So you must know all kinds of tricks. Teach me one. Just one. Please?"
He side-eyed her. Bright eyes, messy hair, zero sense of personal space. "Look, Pip. I'm not your mentor, your master, or whatever fairy-tale nonsense you've got rattling around in that head. I'm a farmer. I grow things. Sometimes I drink. That's it."
"But you're really good at the drinking part," she said cheerfully. "Old Henk says you stole his title fair and square."
Garret almost smiled despite himself. "Henk can have it back if he wants. I'd rather have his liver."
They reached the edge of Cragmore proper. It wasn't much of a village — more like a stubborn clump of buildings that had decided to stick together against the wilderness. Wooden houses with thatched roofs, a muddy main street, a couple of stalls selling bread and tools. People nodded at him as he passed. A few even smiled, like they actually liked the surly-looking bastard who lived on the edge of town.
Weird.
Pip kept talking the whole way. "So where are we going first? The market? Bram's tavern? Oh! You should get some better ale. The stuff you make tastes like wet socks."
"Exactly why I'm heading to Bram's," Garret grumbled. "And it's not 'we.' You've got legs. Go do kid stuff. Chase chickens or whatever."
"I'm sixteen," she protested. "Not a kid. And chasing chickens is boring. Training is way better. Watch this!"
She darted ahead, swung her wooden sword in a clumsy arc at an imaginary enemy, and nearly tripped over her own feet.
Garret caught her elbow before she face-planted. "Easy. You're gonna take somebody's eye out. Or your own."
"See? That's exactly the kind of advice I need!" Pip beamed up at him. "You're already teaching me. What's next? How do I hold the sword so it doesn't feel heavy?"
"You hold it like you're not trying to impress anybody," he said, letting go of her arm. "Most fights end before they start if you look like you might actually swing back. But again — not my job to train you."
They reached Bram's tavern. The sign was a faded painting of a foaming mug. Laughter and the clink of tankards spilled out the open door. Garret's shoulders relaxed a fraction just at the smell of spilled beer and roasted meat.
He stepped inside. The place was half-full even though it was still early afternoon. A big bald man behind the bar looked up and broke into a wide grin.
"Well, if it ain't my favorite customer," Bram boomed, voice like rolling gravel. "Garret Mole, in the flesh. You look like you rolled out of a ditch this morning. Rough night?"
"Rough life," Garret replied, sliding onto a stool. "The usual. Whatever you've got that doesn't taste like regret."
Bram chuckled and poured a tall mug of something darker. "This batch came in from the dwarven traders last week. Stronger than your home brew. Try not to fall off the stool."
Pip climbed onto the stool next to Garret like she belonged there. "Can I have some water? With a little honey if you've got it, Mister Bram."
Bram raised an eyebrow at Garret. "Babysitting today?"
"Not by choice," Garret muttered, taking a long pull from the mug. The ale hit warm and malty, with a kick that actually meant business. He let out a satisfied sigh. "That's more like it."
Pip leaned in, elbows on the bar. "So Mister Garret, tell me about the time you fought those goblins. Were there lots of them? Did you use Aether? Mama says some farmers can do little tricks with it even if they're not proper warriors."
Garret wiped foam from his lip. "There were three. Skinny little shits. I threw rocks until one ran off, then the other two decided I wasn't worth the trouble. No glowing lights, no heroic speeches. Just rocks and swearing."
Pip looked disappointed for half a second, then perked right back up. "But you still won! That's amazing. You make it sound so simple. I bet if I practiced every day I could—"
"Kid," Garret cut in, "the secret to surviving out here isn't swinging harder. It's knowing when to walk away. Or run. Preferably run."
Bram leaned over the bar, polishing a tankard. "He's got a point, Pippa. Most heroes I knew ended up in early graves. This one here just wants to drink in peace and somehow still ends up with stories."
Garret pointed at Bram with his mug. "Exactly. Peace. That's the goal."
A couple of locals at the next table laughed. One of them — a grizzled man with a missing tooth — called over, "Garret! You hear about the rumors from the capital? Some kid out east got chosen by the gods or whatever. Golden sword, big destiny. Sounds like trouble's coming our way again."
Garret took another drink, keeping his face blank. "Sounds like somebody else's problem."
Pip's eyes went wide. "A chosen hero? Like in the old stories? Mister Garret, do you think he'll come through Cragmore? Maybe we could—"
"No," Garret said flatly. "We couldn't. And we won't."
Bram shook his head, amused. "You're a strange one, Mole. Most men your age would be itching to grab a blade and run off after glory. You just sit here getting older and drunker."
"Works for me," Garret said. He glanced sideways at Pip, who was still vibrating with excitement. "Look, kid. Go practice on your own for a bit. Swing at trees or something. I'll be here until this mug's empty. Maybe longer."
Pip hopped off the stool, but not before giving him a determined look. "Fine. But tomorrow you're showing me at least one move. Even if it's just how to throw a rock right. Deal?"
Garret sighed, already waving for a refill. "We'll see."
As she dashed out the door, wooden sword swinging, Bram topped off Garret's mug with a knowing grin.
"That girl's got hero written all over her," the tavern keeper said quietly. "Reminds me of you when you first showed up. All stubborn energy."
Garret stared into his ale. "Yeah, well. Hope she grows out of it faster than I did."
Outside, another distant howl echoed from the borderlands. Garret pretended he didn't hear it.
Not today. Not his circus.
Not his monkeys.
End of Chapter 2