With his bags of seeds, Malachar prepared to leave the cozy town of Goldengrove. He let out a sigh of relief. The sincere smiles and genuine happiness were starting to wear on him. He walked down the cobblestone road and frowned at a crowd of people blocking the way between two buildings. And, to his surprise, they weren't bearing torches and pitchforks. They were faced away from him, each one shouting out instructions on what to do.

  “What you gotta do is go underneath,” a scruffy old man said. “You gotta wiggle the axle or else you'll never get that wheel out.”

  “Simon, how would that not crush anyone underneath?” a middle-aged woman said. She wore an apron coated in flour and though it was barely past noon, she already looked exhausted.

  “Just tryin to help, Betty,” Simon said. Betty rolled her eyes.

  Gently pushing his way through the crowd, Malachar saw that a heavy cart laden with large bags had gotten its wheel stuck in the mud. Some of his sacks had fallen out of the cart and spilled their contents on the ground. One grizzled goat took advantage of the situation and had begun to devour the scattered grain. The driver, his face red and sweaty, tried to lift the wheel, but of course, he couldn't. Still, the frustrated man kept trying.

  Malachar just wanted to keep walking, but the cart was completely blocking his way. He decided to use his magic discreetly, making it seem like the driver had summoned incredible strength to solve his problem. He muttered the words of power, made the arcane hand gestures under his cloak, and waited for the driver to miraculously lift the heavy wagon all by himself.

  But the cart started to smolder. Thin trails of smoke began to waft in the air, and Malachar immediately stopped his spellcasting. He felt mortified. What was going on with his magic? Or rather, what was the cart made out of? But, to his relief, no one had noticed. Not a single townsperson suspected he had almost set the cart on fire.

  He felt a tug on his cloak. “Hey, mister!”

  Looking down, he saw a small child. A little girl, perhaps seven or eight years of age, was staring up at him, blinking owlishly. He tried to ignore her but she persisted.

  “Are you gonna play Grokrimmar in the play this year?” she asked.

  Malachar gave up. “What is that?” he asked.

  “Grokrimmar!” the girl beamed. “He's the big evil giant! We have the play every year at the festival. It's my favorite part of the festival. Except for the food. I love fried hog ears. But you'd be a great Grokrimmar. You're real big and you look evil enough.”

  “Bethany Rose! You're being rude!” the girl's mother said. She turned to Malachar with a mortified smile. “I'm so sorry. She just says whatever she's thinking. No hesitation.”

  Malachar nodded. “No offense is taken. I know what I look like.”

  She gave a forced chuckle. “Still, it's very frustrating.”

  “I can imagine,” he said.

  Malachar needed to get out of this town as quickly as possible but it was too late for that. All the townspeople who had gathered around the cart were now staring at the dark lord. Some gawked at him in wonder, some sneered at him with suspicion, but all of them were looking right at him. Perhaps it wouldn't be too late to just lay waste to them, hack and slash his way out of the town. He could do it. He had his flaming greatsword. Wait, no, he didn't. He had transformed it into a shovel. It would do the job well enough, he decided.

  “Hello,” Malachar finally said.

  The old man named Simon hobbled out in front of the dark lord and poked him in the chest with his cane. “Are you just going to stand around all day, young man? Or are you gonna help?”

  Malachar set his jaw against the burning humiliation of being addressed in such a manner and being unable to do anything about it. Instead of striking the geezer down, he marched over to the cart, squatted down, and lifted with all his considerable might. They would see. They would see how “helpful” he could be. And then they would pay.

  “No, sweetie, you've got to rock the wheel loose,” one helpful woman called from the crowd.

  “And you gotta lift with your legs, not your back!” Simon the oldster yelled.

  The dark lord continued struggling and straining despite their unsolicited advice. The cart wheel was stuck so deep in the mud that it seemed like it must have always been there. The crowd watched him try. The goat kept eating the spilled grain.

  Malachar was just about to supplement his efforts with a spell when he was suddenly surrounded by townspeople. The red-faced cart driver gripped the bottom of the cart followed by Betty the baker. A couple of stout young men joined the endeavor and the dark lord felt the cart begin to lift.

  “You all are a bunch of knuckleheads, you know that?” Simon said. “Why don't you unload the cart? That'll make it easier to lift.”

  The workers all heaved a collective sigh and muttered some curses under their breaths. But, just like Simon said, they began unpacking the cart.

  “Here, take this. Be really careful with that. That's very fancy flour,” Betty said, handing Malachar a heavy, dusty bag. He took the bag and set it on the ground only to be handed another sack.

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  “Ooh, this is buckwheat! I can't wait to have pancakes,” the man said. “Set it with the flour, yeah?”

  Malachar placed it with the very fancy flour and continued to help unload the cart with the rest of the townsfolk. They worked in pleasant silence until...

  “Garrett told me you started a farm in the Ashlands,” one man said. “Good for you. What are you growing?”

  The old man was already talking about him? Malachar shook his head. “I am attempting subsistence agriculture. I will grow whatever will live there.”

  “Best of luck!” a broad-shouldered woman said. “I'd recommend growing barley. Ain't nothing that can kill barley.”

  “Ooh, and mint!” one spindly young man said. “Mint will grow even where you didn't plant it. It's unstoppable.”

  “Just be careful of the ash storms,” one leather-skinned man said. “They'll drink your crops dry and leave em withered if you don't keep it off your soil. But get a good rake and you'll be fine.”

  “You better get a dog or two to keep the monsters away,” a plump, bespectacled man said. “My dog is about to have her litter. She's one of those big, tough breeds. You know. Trudge dogs.”

  “Your dog is a coward, Charlie, and you know it,” a redhaired man said and they began arguing.

  “You should come to our weekly seed swap!” a round-faced woman said. “What was your name?”

  Being completely defenseless against the barrage of helpfulness, Malachar had to think a moment until he remembered his new name.

  “I am Eli,” he finally said. He was met with so many greetings and salutations, he couldn't hope to remember anyone's names.

  By the time the sun began to set, the cart was finally lifted out of the deep, muddy rut. Sweaty and tired, all the townspeople looked at their work with pride. Malachar allowed himself to enjoy the moment, small as it was. Then someone clapped him on the back.

  “I can't believe how strong you are! You almost got that cart by yourself!” Marcus, the town's blacksmith, said. “A big fella like you could do very well at the anvil. You're a downright workhorse. How about you stop farming in that hellhole? I'm looking for an apprentice.”

  “You agreed to take on Jeremy as an apprentice!” Sally the weaver cried.

  “Yeah, but I need someone who can wake up before the crack of noon,” Marcus said.

  Malachar stepped away from the two squabbling people. “I must farm. Thank you for the offer, though.”

  Sally smirked at Marcus. “You see? He's not interested.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I had to try,” the burly blacksmith said. “I'm getting a drink after all that. Care for an ale before you go?”

  “No, thank you,” Malachar said.

  Before the dark lord could deflect any more hospitality, Sally turned to Malachar and handed him a small packet.

  “It's not much,” she said. “But these always come up. Even when they shouldn't.”

  Malachar examined the brightly colored packet. “What is this?”

  “Seeds!” Sally said. “I'm the florist, so it's my job to know about best planting practices. And what thrives and what doesn't.”

  “Thank you,” Malachar said for the umpteenth time that day. “But I must go.”

  The little girl who had been glued to Sally's side looked up at Malachar. “Be safe! And thank you again, Mister Eli!”

  He nodded at her and began his journey out of Goldengrove. But, to his chagrin, nearly half the town followed him out. They chatted and laughed with each other, but all had eyes on the new neighbor.

  Except for the goat. He was still searching for more grain. But as Malachar the Ash King began his journey home, he felt a glimmer of something warm. Something he hadn't felt in a long, long time. And he was almost out of town when he finally figured out what he was feeling.

  Hope. He was feeling hope. And he didn't trust it.

  “There ain't no way we're lettin you walk home after dark,” a strong voice called out. An older woman wearing suspenders and a dusty hat stepped in front of Malachar.

  “Why not?” Malachar asked.

  “You said you were starting a farm in the Ashlands! So you should already know about the wolves. And the bog lights. And besides, no one walks that road after sunset. You're just going to have to stay the night here,” the woman said.

  Malachar reeled. No one had argued for his safety before. “Who are you to tell me what to do?” he growled.

  Somehow, the woman wasn't cowed by his imposing stature. “I'm Mattie and I'm the mayor, that's who!”

  “Thank you, but I must return to my farm,” he began to say but he was cut short.

  “He can stay at my place!” Simon called out. “I've got a spare bed.”

  “No, he can stay at my place!” Betty said. “I know George is making beef stew tonight. That'll fill you right up no matter how much of a big boy you are.”

  “He should stay at my place,” Sally said, popping up from the crowd. “I've got a small cot I can place by the fire.”

  The entire town began to argue about who was going to provide a place for the Ash King, slayer of thousands, conqueror of lands long forgotten, lord of the apocalypse, to stay for the night.

  Finally, Mattie called out. “Enough! He can stay at the tavern so that we can all treat him without getting into fistfights. Is everyone good with that?”

  That settled everyone down. And somehow, without any threats of violence, Malachar found himself being led to the town's tavern to be treated to a fine meal whether he liked it or not.

  The food was plain but there was a lot of it. Beef stew, crusty bread, and good brown ale. Not a bit of it was poisoned. Malachar tucked in while old ladies insisted he take more. Someone brought a pie. Who has a spare pie to just give away? Malachar wondered. Was it Betty the baker? Whirling with all the aggressive hospitality, he had no choice but to be fed.

  The townspeople took turns asking him questions about where he came from, what he was growing, and whether he needed anything. When enough time passed, the hubbub died down and Malachar was shown to the loft in which he would be sleeping. It was small, too small for him, really, but it was comfortable and warm. With a full belly, he listened to the town fall asleep. There was no chanting. No prophecies. No ritual sacrifices. And no chosen ones.

  I could just leave, he thought. I've done worse things to towns.

  But somehow, he never did.