The six hours of sleep I got were less a restful slumber and more a strategic coma. I woke to the scent of woodsmoke and the unnerving feeling of being watched. My eyes cracked open to find Bartholomew perched on a mossy stone, his yellow eyes narrowed into slits, looking every bit the furry, judgmental gargoyle. Across the small clearing, Kaelen was already awake, armor gleaming in the soft morning light as he methodically sharpened the chips from his sword with a whetstone. The rhythmic shing-shing-shing was a surprisingly calming sound in a world that had, up until recently, been defined for me by the hum of a refrigerator and distant traffic.

  My back popped in three different places as I sat up, groaning.

  “Morning, sunshine,” I grumbled at the cat.

  “The sun has been risen for a full hour, mistress of procrastination,” he sniffed. “While you were lost in whatever mundane dreams occupy your kind, the forces of the Shadow Lord have not ceased their inexorable march.”

  “Yeah, well, this mistress of procrastination was running on three hours of sleep and a piece of glorified cardboard for dinner,” I retorted, getting to my feet and stretching. “And for the record, I was dreaming about a cheeseburger. It was glorious.”

  “A… cheese-burger?” Kaelen paused his sharpening, his brow furrowed in confusion.

  “A delicacy from my homeland,” I said, waving a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s circle back to the ‘what the hell do we do now’ conversation.”

  I grabbed the last waterskin, took a swig, and faced them. They were a study in contrasts: Kaelen, the embodiment of polished steel and stoic resolve; Bartholomew, a fluffy ball of existential dread and arcane power.

  “Okay, new pitch,” I started, adopting my best ‘I aced my public speaking class’ tone. “Kaelen, you want to get to the capital, find a commander, report your findings, and fight the good fight. Right?” He nodded, his expression serious. “Bartholomew, you want me to go to the Sunken Library of Aeridor to commune with the Echoes of the First Wardens or whatever.”

  “A gross oversimplification of a sacred and perilous undertaking, but fundamentally correct,” the cat intoned.

  “Great. And I want not to die. Specifically, I want to not die before I get past, say, level ten. As it stands, a moderately aggressive badger could probably take me out.” I looked between them. “My plan serves all our interests. We travel toward the capital, Aethelgard. Kaelen, that’s where the kingdom’s military command is headquartered, right? You can make your report there. And Bartholomew, the capital is a nexus of trade routes and information. If anyone knows the most reliable path to some forgotten sunken city, it’ll be some dusty academic or shady information broker there. In the meantime,” I said, poking myself in the chest, “the road between here and there is full of low-level mobs. Goblins, oversized wolves, maybe some cranky bandits. Perfect for grinding. I get stronger, you both get closer to your objectives. It’s a win-win-win.”

  Kaelen rested his sword on his lap, his gaze thoughtful.

  “The logic is sound. Aethelgard is a sensible destination. My mission can be resumed from there, and your… leveling is a tactical necessity.”I turned to Bartholomew, who was now meticulously cleaning a single whisker.

  “And you, oh furry oracle of doom?”He paused, lowering his paw with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.

  “Your path is a frivolous, meandering tributary when the river of fate rushes toward a cataclysmic waterfall. However,” he conceded, his tail twitching in irritation, “the lynchpin must not be shattered by a stray goblin arrow. It is an acceptable, if deeply inefficient, course of action. For now. Though I do still hold that the capital is the last place you should go.”

  I pumped a fist and ignored his last statement.

  “Excellent. The motion passes. Team Sarcasm, Stoicism, and Sass is officially on the road.”

  An hour later, I was regretting every decision I’d ever made. Kaelen’s horse, Argent, was a magnificent beast—a gray warhorse with a calm temperament and muscles like coiled steel cables. He was also approximately six feet tall at the shoulder, give or take half a foot, which, compared to my five-foot-three frame, was like climbing a wall.

  “Just… place your foot in the stirrup and swing your other leg over,” Kaelen instructed, his patience already wearing thin.

  “Easy for you to say,” I grunted, my foot slipping for the third time. “You were probably born in a saddle. I was born in a hospital with central air and a vending machine.”

  With an exasperated but not unkind sigh, Kaelen placed his large, gauntleted hands on my waist and lifted me as if I weighed nothing. I let out a surprised yelp as I was unceremoniously deposited onto the horse’s back, my sit bones slamming into the hard leather of the saddle behind him.

  “Ow. Okay. Seated.” I scrambled to sit upright, my hands instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders for balance. Ser Kaelen had removed the bulk of his armor, stowing it in saddle bags, and I was immediately aware of the solid wall of his back against my front, the warmth of him through his tunic and my thin shirt, and the faint, clean scent of leather and steel. I felt my cheeks flush. This was officially the closest I’d been to a man in six months, and my tour guide into this nightmare dimension was a chivalrous knight who probably thought holding hands was a marriage proposal. Great.

  Bartholomew leaped effortlessly onto the pommel of the saddle in front of Kaelen, curling into a smug, furry loaf.

  “A display of grace and agility that surely inspires confidence in the heart of our enemy,” he purred.

  “Shove it, cat,” I muttered, adjusting my grip to the back of the saddle.

  Argent began to walk, and a whole new world of awkward, jarring discomfort opened up to me. The rhythmic swaying was entirely alien, a motion my body had no muscle memory for. I felt like a sack of potatoes with anxiety.

  We rode in silence for a while, the only sounds the creak of leather and the soft thud of Argent’s hooves on the dirt path. The forest canopy dappled the light, painting shifting patterns on Kaelen’s silver pauldrons.

  “You truly have no horses in your world?” Kaelen asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his back into my chest.

  “Not really for getting around, unless you’re a cowboy or something, I guess,” I said, trying to find a rhythm to the horse’s gait. “They’re more for sport, or for rich people to own on big farms. We have… well, we have steel carriages.”He half-turned his head.

  “Carriages of steel? They must require a dozen oxen to pull.”

  I snorted. “They don’t need oxen. They move on their own.”

  That got his full attention. He twisted enough to look at me, his blue eyes wide with disbelief.

  “By what magic? Are they enchanted?”

  “Uh, sort of? It’s science, not magic.” This was going to be hard. “Okay, imagine a small, contained, continuous explosion happening over and over again inside a metal box. That power turns a series of rods and gears, which then spin the wheels.”Kaelen’s expression was a perfect blend of horror and fascination.

  “You travel in vehicles powered by controlled detonations?”

  “Pretty much. We call them cars. They’re loud, fast, and they run dead dinosaur juice that we pump out of the earth.”

  “Sorcery,” he breathed, turning back to face forward. “Dark and potent sorcery.”

  “It’s called an internal combustion engine, but sure, let’s go with sorcery.” I found myself smiling. “You can travel hundreds of miles in a single day. Pretty much all of them can go faster than a galloping horse for hours on end. And inside, you’re shielded from the wind and rain. You can even make the air hot or cold with the touch of a button. And play music.”

  I trailed off, a sudden, sharp pang of homesickness hitting me square in the chest. I thought of my beat-up Honda Civic, with its one fuzzy speaker and the persistent check engine light. I thought of driving down the highway at night, windows down, singing terribly along to the radio. It felt like a memory from another person’s life.

  “Fleeting contraptions for fleeting lives,” Bartholomew murmured from the front, his voice a soft, velvety buzz. “You cage yourselves in metal to race from one moment to the next, never truly living in the space between. Here,” he said, his head gesturing to the vast, ancient forest around us, “the space between is all that matters.”

  For once, the cat wasn’t just being a condescending ass. He was right. The air here was clean and sharp, smelling of pine and damp earth. There was no hum of electricity, no distant sirens. There was just the gentle rhythm of the horse, the rustle of leaves, and the weight of a knight in front of me, a cat of immense power at the pommel, and a long, dangerous road to Aethelgard ahead. It wasn’t home, but for now, it was the only quest I had.

  I let the silence hang in the air for a while, soaking in the truth of the cat’s words. It was peaceful. The rhythmic thump-clop of the horse’s hooves on the dirt path was a comforting metronome, a stark contrast to the chaotic soundtrack of my old life. The sun, a warm weight on my shoulders, filtered through the thick canopy of ancient trees, dappling the path ahead in shifting patterns of gold and green. For a few hours, it was easy to forget I was a misplaced millennial on a quest to save a world I’d only just learned existed. It was just a ride through the woods, and if I thought about it, I didn’t feel any more lost here than I had at home.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  As the day wore on, the dense forest began to thin, giving way to a more rugged, mountainous terrain. The trees became gnarled and sparse, clinging stubbornly to slopes of grey rock. The path narrowed, winding its way into the stony embrace of the mountainside. The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of stone and high, lonely places.

  Kaelen rode with an easy confidence, his back straight, his gaze constantly scanning the ridgelines above us. He was a silent companion, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was the quiet of a man entirely at home in the wild, a man who listened more than he spoke. Bartholomew, curled on the pommel of the saddle, appeared to be napping, though I suspected one of his emerald eyes was always cracked open, judging my posture.

  “So,” I said, mostly to hear a human voice. “Back home, we have these things called national parks. Huge swaths of land that the government protects so people can’t build on them. This feels like one of them. Just… bigger. And with a significantly higher chance of getting eaten.”

  Kaelen grunted, a sound that could have meant anything from ‘how fascinating’ to ‘please stop talking about your world of sorcerous explosions.’

  Bartholomew, however, deigned to open both eyes.

  “You require edicts from your chieftains to prevent you from despoiling your own lands? A species of singular shortsightedness.”

  “Yeah, well, we also invented Doritos and Mountain Dew, so it’s not all bad.”

  The path ahead tightened into a proper canyon, the rock walls rising on either side of us like weather-beaten grey teeth. It cast us into a deep, cool shadow, and the gentle sounds of the forest were replaced by an echoing quiet. Our horse’s hooves sounded unnervingly loud against the stone-littered ground. The horse itself seemed to feel it, its ears twitching nervously, its steps becoming more hesitant.

  “Easy, girl,” Kaelen murmured, his hand resting on the mare’s neck. “Just a bit further.”

  That’s when I heard it. A low, gravelly scrape from high up on the canyon wall to our right. I looked up just in time to see a shower of pebbles precede a boulder the size of a small car. It crashed onto the path a dozen feet in front of us with a deafening CRUMP, shaking the very ground we stood on. The horse shrieked and reared, but Kaelen’s calm hand and steady legs kept it from bolting. Our way forward was completely blocked.

  And our way back was, too.

  A hulking shape detached itself from the shadows behind us. It had to be at least nine feet tall, with skin the color of mossy granite and long, ropey arms that ended in thick, dirty claws. Its face was a brutish caricature of humanity—a flat, broad nose, a lipless mouth filled with yellow, tombstone-like teeth, and small, piggy eyes that burned with a dim, malevolent intelligence. The smell hit me next, a nauseating wave of damp cave, rotting meat, and unwashed everything.

  A troll. Of course, it was a troll. My life was officially a fantasy cliché B-side.

  “Kaelen!” I yelled, fumbling for the hilt of the short sword at my hip. The leather felt unfamiliar, the weight of the blade clumsy.

  He didn’t move. He simply turned his head slightly, his gaze not on the monster, but on me.

  “It has blocked our path, Paige Hawking.”

  “Yeah, I noticed! Maybe give it the old knight-in-shining-armor routine?”Bartholomew stretched languidly, a ripple of gray fur.

  “The path to Aethelgard is not paved for the delicate, Mistress Hawking. It demands a toll. This one is yours to pay. You wished for a grind, and here is your opportunity.”

  My blood ran cold, then hot with a surge of indignant fury.

  “Are you kidding me? This is a pop quiz? I’m the group project member who has to do all the work while you two grade me?”

  The troll let out a guttural roar, a sound like rocks grinding together, and took a lumbering step forward. It brandished a crude club that looked suspiciously like an uprooted tree.

  “Observe its movements,” Kaelen said, his voice as calm as a lecture hall professor. “It is strong, but its size makes it slow. It telegraphs its attacks. Use your speed. It is your greatest advantage.”

  They weren’t kidding. They were actually going to sit there and watch. Kaelen had one hand on his own magnificent, gryphon-hilted sword, a silent promise that he would step in if—or when—I was about to become a troll-smear on the canyon floor. But he wasn’t going to make the first move.

  Fine. Okay. Deep breaths, Paige. Compared to a bunch of drunk guys, this should be easy. Probably.

  My mind, a place usually filled with song lyrics and social media anxiety, suddenly sharpened. Analyze the enemy. Identify attack patterns. Exploit weaknesses. Simple…

  The troll charged. It was exactly as Kaelen had said: slow, clumsy, a freight train of muscle and stupidity. It swung its club in a wide, horizontal arc that could have pulverized a minivan. I did the only thing I could: I dropped and rolled, the wind of the club’s passage rustling my hair. I came up on one knee, sword held in a shaky, two-handed grip.

  Okay, he’s a tank. High damage, low agility.

  I scrambled back as it recovered, its little eyes trying to track me. I darted to its left, forcing it to turn its entire bulky body. While it was pivoting, I lunged forward and stabbed at its thigh.

  The blade scraped against its hide with a sound like metal on stone and bounced off. The impact vibrated all the way up my arms. Crap. High defense, too. Armor-like skin. This wasn’t going to be a simple hack-and-slash.

  It grunted, more annoyed than hurt, and backhanded at me. I ducked, the motion clumsy but effective, and its massive knuckles whistled past my ear. I needed a weak spot. Every boss has a weak spot.

  I kept moving, circling it, using the narrow canyon to my advantage. It couldn’t build up a proper charge. Its swings were hampered by the rock walls. I was a gnat, an annoying pest that it couldn’t quite swat.

  Then I saw it. As it raised its club for another overhead smash, the thick, corded muscle under its armpit pulled the mossy skin taut, revealing a patch that was paler, less calloused. A joint. A vulnerability.

  The club came down, and I threw myself sideways, landing hard on my shoulder. Rocks dug into my back, but I ignored the pain. The troll was overextended, its arm buried to the elbow in the crater it had just made in the path.

  This was it.

  Pushing myself up, I sprinted forward, heart hammering against my ribs. I didn’t aim for the kill; I aimed for the weakness. I ducked under its massive bicep and drove my shortsword with all my weight, all my fear, and all my anger, deep into that pale patch of flesh.

  There was no scrape this time. The blade sank in to the hilt with a sickening, wet tear.

  The troll screamed. It was a sound of pure agony, high-pitched and horrifying, a sound that didn’t seem possible from such a massive creature. It ripped its arm from the ground and threw me off. I landed ten feet away on a pile of splintered rock and was suddenly very thankful for my armor. The leather took part of the impact, saving me what I was sure would have been broken ribs. I looked back as I scrambled to my feet. Dark, viscous blood, thick as tar, poured from the wound.

  It dropped its club with a clatter and clutched its arm, stumbling backward. It looked at me, its piggy eyes now wide with pain and a flicker of something like fear. It took another step back before it stopped and roared at me. I twisted my feet into the dirt for better purchase and crouched slightly, ready to go again. A small, square target skimmed over the troll’s body, quickly settling on its eyes.

  [Deft Flurry]

  A thought activated the skill as I sprinted toward the monster. It bent at the knees and tried to backpedal as I ran at it, but it was too slow. I turned the sword in my hand without realizing it, choosing a reverse grip as I leaped up, planting a foot on the troll’s knee and jumping again. The point of my sword found its mark as I drove it into the troll’s eye.

  My full body weight was behind the blow, and Rusty sank to the hilt, pushing through tissue and bone as though nothing was there. The creature screamed again, and I struggled to hold on as it threw its head back.

  Again and again, I drove my blade into its eye socket, going a little deeper each time until the sword was swallowed into its skull, and my hands with it. That was when something changed. The Troll shuddered and began to teeter precariously. I ripped my sword free one last time, bloody to the elbows, and pushed off with my feet.

  I landed with a roll and watched as the beast wobbled one last time and fell over backward like a top-heavy bookshelf. A cloud of dust billowed out in every direction, briefly hiding the troll from sight.

  I stood there, chest heaving, sword and arms dripping with foul-smelling black blood, waiting for the dust to clear. My entire body trembled with adrenaline. I had done it. I had fought a goddamn troll and won.

  [You have killed a Mountain Troll] [Lvl 9][Rewards]

  [Troll Hide x1]

  [Troll Eye x1]

  [750 XP]

  The soft clop of hooves announced Kaelen’s approach. He dismounted, his blue eyes holding a new light of respect. Bartholomew hopped gracefully from the saddle.

  “Your form is atrocious,” the cat stated, licking a paw with meticulous care. “Your footwork is a travesty. And you nearly allowed it to crush you on no less than three occasions. However… the result is adequate.”

  From him, that was practically a knighthood.

  Kaelen clapped a heavy, gauntleted hand on my shoulder. “You have the instinct, Paige Hawking. You just needed to trust it.”

  I looked from his earnest face to Bartholomew’s smug one, then down at my bloody sword. A shaky, slightly hysterical laugh bubbled up out of my chest.

  “Okay,” I said, leaning on my knees to catch my breath. “So…how do I clean this off?”