Hey peeps!

I wrote another short story, this time it’s one that takes place in my Nexus Games universe (my litRPG books, haha).

This one is “what if a normal medieval peasant summoned a litRPG MC to help him with some bandits”? It’s basically a humorous, but also a little dark, type of story.

And if you want to listen to the audio (done by the AMAZING Steve Campbell) you can find it on my Patreon just 1$! (I post chapters, short stories, and audio short stories all the time, in case you love bonus content).

And now onto the story!

The Best Kind of Help

            The warning bells had rung late—again—and by the time the watchman screamed “They’re here!” the brigands were already riding through the gates.

            Aaron darted between a pigsty and a collapsed fence, the hems of his trousers heavy with mud, breath coming fast and sharp. Smoke rose from the thatched rooftops like cruel fingers grasping at the sky. The sound of hooves shattered what little remained of the morning’s peace.

            Aaron clutched his kitchen knife tighter. Useless, really. But it was better than empty hands.

            “Laurali!” he shouted, the name raw in his throat. “Where are you, Laurali?”

            The town burned around him, smoke thick and bitter, clogging his nose, stinging his eyes. A barn blazed on the far side of the square. One of the hay carts had tipped, its wheel still spinning, bodies tangled in the mess. Men screamed, women wailed, and the brigands howled through it all, laughing as they rode down anyone who ran too slow.

            This wasn’t the first raid.

            The brigands came every new moon now, like wolves. Sometimes they wanted coin. Sometimes girls. Sometimes both. And if the reeve paid quickly enough, they left the houses standing. If not, well… The brigands burned things. Anything they could touch with torches.

            The smithy hadn’t been rebuilt since spring.

            The brigands were known as the Crimson Thieves because of their brutality and fondness for the color red.

            “Laurali!” Aaron called again, stumbling into the churned mud of the commons. His little sister had been with the other children near the well—gathering wildflowers and playing games, too young to understand how close cruelty crept.

            Then Aaron spotted her.

            Across the square, standing frozen beneath the old bell tower. Laurali’s flaxen hair caught the firelight like a beacon, her arms wrapped around a stray chicken, as if that could protect her. She was only seven. So small. Laurali had to be more than fifty feet away. So far! Too far.

            And then they saw her, too.

            A rider turned, tugging his reins. He wore black leathers and a red scarf over his face, a curved axe glinting at his hip. The man barked something Aaron couldn’t hear, and another Crimson rider wheeled his horse toward Laurali, moving fast.

            “No—no!” Aaron screamed, shoving past fleeing townspeople, slipping in the mud as he ran.

            The brigand leaned down, caught Laurali by the waist with one arm, and hauled her up like a sack of grain. She dropped the chicken. It fluttered, squawked, then vanished under another set of hooves.

            “Laurali!” Aaron’s scream broke something in his throat. He ran harder, knife outstretched, useless. The horse was already turning. He saw his sister’s face, wide-eyed, silent, reaching.

            “Brother!” Laurali called back.

            Then the brigand took off down the main road, his horse’s hooves clacking on the cobblestone. A whistle sounded, and all the Crimson Thieves withdrew from the tiny town of Cramstorm. They chortled, whooped, and sang as they rode out the front gates, throwing their torches at the cowering townspeople as they fled.

            Aaron attempted to run after them, but without a horse, it was impossible. By the time he reached the gates, his lungs were on fire and the riders were gone, having already vanished over the hill.

            Aaron collapsed to his knees in the ruins of their town, the fire behind him still burning, his sister’s name echoing into the sky.

            It was difficult to breathe, and his vision tunneled.

            “They’re gone,” the watchman on the town gate called out. He rang the safety bell several times. “They’re all gone! Quickly, get the water.”

            Townspeople rushed to snuff out the flames. But Aaron didn’t even attempt to stand. His gaze remained on the distant hills, his heart pounding hard against his chest.

            Aaron remained on his knees long after the safety bell stopped ringing. Around him, the town stirred—what was left of it. Buckets passed from hand to hand. Soot-streaked faces wept or stood dumb, hollow-eyed. A mother shrieked when she found her son, motionless beneath a collapsed beam. The butcher tried to herd panicked pigs back into their pen, muttering curses to mask his sobs.

            But Aaron didn’t move.

            His kitchen knife still trembled in his grip. It had never been enough. It would never be enough.

            Laurali.

            His little sister, the one who still slept with a stuffed goose, the one who left ribbons in the hedgerows for all the people the town had already lost. Taken. Hauled away like meat in a cart.

            Aaron could still see her—tiny legs dangling, face pressed against the brigand’s chest, her eyes locked onto Aaron’s as if that look could hold them together.

            The embers behind him hissed, but his fury burned hotter.

            If Aaron chased the brigands down to their hideout, they would kill him. He knew that. The Crimson Thieves had raided ten times before, and every time they took someone, that someone never came back whole.

            Or at all.

            They were sadistic.

            Despair clawed at Aaron’s thoughts, tightening his throat, but he choked it down, jaw clenched until his teeth ached. Sadness wouldn’t bring Laurali back. But something else might.

            They had taken everything from him… his family, his peace, his home. They had made him feel powerless. Now, Aaron wanted them to feel it. Not fear. Not loss. Ruin.

            He stared at the knife. His fingers loosened, and it clattered to the dirt. No. Not steel. Not flesh against flesh. That wasn’t enough.

            He needed vengeance. He needed something that would tear them apart.

            Magic. Sorcery. Devastation.

            If the world had a force dark and terrible enough to burn the Crimson Thieves from the face of the earth, he would find it. He would pay whatever price it asked.

            “Aaron?”

            The voice pulled him back, soft and uncertain.

            He turned.

            Govin stood a few paces behind Aaron, one hand clutched to his chest, the other holding the hem of his ink-stained robes away from the muddy ground. His round face, usually flushed from laughter or overeating, was pale with fear. Govin’s small eyes darted between Aaron and the distant hill, as if he still expected the riders to come galloping back.

            Govin wasn’t a warrior. Never had been. He was a church scribe—overfed, underprepared, and gentle in a world that had little use for gentleness. His belt strained against his stomach, and a broken quill poked from his robe pocket like a feather lost in a storm. But Govin had been Aaron’s friend since childhood. They’d played hide-and-seek among the tombstones, stolen pastries from the baker’s window, argued about the stories in the Old Books over late summer apples.

            And now Govin looked at Aaron like he was something he didn’t recognize.

            “Aaron,” he said again, breathless, “you’re bleeding.”

            Aaron blinked and then glanced down. A shallow cut traced across his forearm, barely stinging through the fury in his veins. “It’s nothing.”

            “You were chasing them,” Govin said, voice shaking. “You… you ran after them. You could’ve been killed!”

            “I should’ve been faster,” Aaron muttered.

            Govin stepped closer, more carefully than most people would approach a wounded animal. “You can’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have stopped them.”

            Aaron turned on him then, his eyes sharp as broken glass. “But I will.”

            Govin flinched, but didn’t back away. “Aaron… I know you’re hurting. I do. But—”

            Aaron rubbed his arms. “I know a way. My grandpa told me about the magic he had. He told me only to use it if something terrible happened… Because I could only use it once.”

            Govin swallowed, hard. “Those are just stories… Really old ones, too. You know magic isn’t real, Aaron.”

            He stared past Govin, toward the smoke still curling from his home. “It’s real. My grandpa wouldn’t lie to me. I just… have to go get it.”

            “Where is it?”

            “In Grandpa’s tomb.”

            Govin stared at Aaron for a long time, then lowered his gaze. “Then let me come with you.”

            That made Aaron pause. “You? You’ll… come with me?”

            “I don’t have a sword,” Govin admitted. “And I get winded running to the chapel. But I know the old books. And the tombs. If you’re really going down this road… I won’t let you go alone.”

            For a moment, the only sound was the wind dragging ash across the cobblestones. The smell of ash and burned flesh hung heavy on the air.

            Then Aaron nodded, once.

            “Get your satchel,” he said. “We’re not leaving Grandpa’s tomb until I have his magic.”

***

            Aaron’s grandfather’s tomb was the deepest.

            The tombs were older than the village itself—half-forgotten by most, except the priests and a few stubborn families who still remembered whose bones they tended. Aaron waited at the entrance, the sun high in the sky, but mostly blotted out by dark smoke that refused to dissipate.

            Finally, Govin arrived. He came running down the path, his robes flapping behind him like the wings of some awkward, heavy bird. Govin had a satchel slung across one shoulder, his breathing already heavy. He clutched an old iron lantern in both hands.

            “For light,” Govin said, lifting the lantern.

            “Thank you,” Aaron forced himself to say.

            Then they opened the door to the tombs. A tight stone stairwell spiraled into the earth, choked with dust and the stale, cold breath of something long buried.

            The world grew darker as they left the smoldering remains behind.  

            Govin lit the lantern. The flame guttered, shivering against the damp air. Aaron hurried forward. He plunged into the tomb, the knife still at his hip, useless but comforting, Govin scrambling after him.

            Each step downward felt heavier. They reached the bottom after what felt like an eternity.

            The tomb wasn’t large: a single, domed chamber cut from the bedrock. The walls were etched with wise words from the deceased. A couple hundred people were here, their bones sitting on stone shelves. Aaron’s grandfather was at the far end.

            Aaron approached, heart hammering.

            Something pulsed here. A pressure against the skin, against the soul.

            “This is starting to feel wrong,” Govin whispered, voice trembling. “Maybe we’re disturbing the dead, Aaron.”

            Aaron didn’t disagree. But he stepped forward anyway. He went straight to the shelf of his grandfather, but the shadows were thicker here. Govin held the lantern high, the light flickering across the hollow face of a warrior, half-shrouded in funeral cloth.

            Laid across his chest was a silver bell.

            Well, an odd bell. It was spherical and marked with lettering Aaron didn’t recognize.

            “D-Did you find the magic?” Govin asked.

            He had refused to walk over. He stood by the stairway entrance, his lantern held above his head.

            “I think so,” Aaron whispered, his voice echoing through the chamber of death.

            His grandfather had nothing else of interest, and the bell—despite being locked away in a dust-filled tomb, was as pristine as the day it was made. That wasn’t normal.

            With a trembling hand, Aaron reached for the object.

            “For Laurali,” he said.

            When Aaron grabbed the bell, a chill crept into his bones. Then he felt a heartbeat from the silver, his mind overcome with information as though imparted to him through a dream.

Legendary Magical Item [One-Time Use]—Silver Summoning Chime

            The user thinks of the name of an individual and then rings the Chime, summoning the person to the user’s dimension. The user may then demand the summoned person’s help with one task. The summoned individual will answer the commands of the user, following instructions to the best of their ability, and will remain in the new dimension until the task is completed. If the user attacks the summoned or commands the summoned to harm themselves, the power of the Chime fades.

The following sentient races may not be summoned:

– Primordial dragons

– Oom

– Starkin

The following individuals may not be summoned:

– Anyone dwelling in Zenith

– Those participating in the Nexus Games

– Those locked in a Grand Duel

– Those currently serving another user of a Summoning Chime

– Alternate-dimension selves of the Chime’s owner

            That was… too much.

            Aaron panicked. He stumbled back from his grandfather’s shelf, heart hammering, sweat dappling his forehead. The silver bell slipped from his hand and struck the tomb’s stone floor—and made no sound, as though it had no clapper at all.

            “Are you okay?” Govin asked, his voice strained. “Aaron? Are you alright?”

            “I’m… I’m fine.”

            “What happened?”

            “Nothing. I just spooked myself.”

            Aaron bent down and picked up the bell. To his shock, the strange writing that had once covered its surface was gone—replaced by a single name. His name. Etched plain as day, in a language he could understand.

            Magic.

            Delight flooded him, burning away the lingering fear. A bell that could summon anyone? That was no mere relic. It was a boon. Maybe even the greatest boon he could have hoped for.

            Aaron’s mind raced first to the Crimson Thieves. He could summon their leader—force him to stop all his thieving ways…

            Or maybe he could summon Laurali. Maybe he could bring her back. Safe.

            But…

            Aaron turned the cold bell over in his hand, staring at it, mesmerized by the way the lantern light flickered off its flawless surface.

            “Well?” Govin asked. He took a hesitant step closer. “Do you have something or not?”

            Aaron turned and held up the bell for his friend to see. “This is it. This is the magic I was looking for. It can summon anyone to me. And… they have to obey my commands.”

            Govin didn’t share his excitement. Instead, he frowned, his brow furrowed. “Ah. Well. Let’s leave then, shall we? Before we’re caught down here?”

            “Wait. Just give me a moment.”

            Aaron turned back to his grandfather’s resting place. Questions gnawed at him. Why would his grandfather have such a thing? How had he come by it?

            He leaned closer and read the words carved into the stone around the body’s final bed. The inscription was simple, and read:

To fated encounters.

When the stars align, Strath Cortan Bexar will once again walk among us.

A man who cannot die.

            What a strange thing to write. Most of the other resting places had useful pieces of advice about life, love, or family. Aaron’s grandfather had obviously gone with some sort of obtuse riddle.

            Or maybe… this was his way of leaving a name.

            Aaron glanced between the silver bell and the name etched in stone. It was an odd name—something Aaron had never heard of before. And his grandfather had added “a man who cannot die.” Was he trying to say Strath was powerful? The bell had told him that it could only be used once, and the person could come from… another dimension… whatever that truly meant.

            Perhaps it meant another time or place?

            What if Strath could help with the brigands?

            “Aaron?” Govin asked, his tone now whiny. “We need to leave. C’mon. We can’t stay here forever.”

            “Give me a moment,” Aaron said, trying not to raise his voice. He held the bell close to his chest, his thoughts muddled by indecision.

            What if Strath wasn’t the correct choice? Aaron could only use the bell once.

            But then his thought coalesced into determination. His grandfather had been a great warrior and man. If he had left this bell, and this name, it was for a purpose. This had to be the correct combination for the magic to truly help.

            Aaron thought of the name, and then shook the bell.

            Despite the fact that it had no clapper, the Silver Summoning Chime rang out with a resonating ding that shook Aaron to his core. Then the bell disappeared. It shattered and puffed away as brilliant dust that sparkled in the darkness of the tomb. Somehow, deep in Aaron’s soul, he knew the bell had worked.

            A presence filled the tomb.

            Govin stumbled back with a yelp, clutching the lantern tighter, its flame flickering wildly. The carvings on the walls seemed to pulse with life, shadows shifting and twisting into strange new shapes.

            Then, with a low thrum like a struck tuning fork, a figure stepped out from the darkness.

            Strath Cortan Bexar.

            He did not look like anything Aaron had expected, nor anything that should have belonged to their world at all.

            Strath was tall, with a lean, hard frame built for movement and violence. His attire was strange… too strange for Aaron to properly name. At first glance, Aaron might have called it supple hide, dyed black, but even that didn’t seem right.

            In fact, Strath wore a fitted black leather jacket reinforced with burnished brass plates worked into the shoulders and cuffs. Two belts crisscrossed over his waist, each carrying a plasma pistol. Strath’s sneakers were pristine, marked with the insignia of a house. Torn jeans exposed one knee, and beneath the jacket, a black shirt clung to his torso, emblazoned with the name of Strath’s favorite band—8-Bit Abs—written in a language no one in this dimension could read.

            It was all too foreign to Aaron. Bizarre. Alien. He couldn’t identify a single thing on Strath—except for maybe the man’s fingerless black gloves.

            And yet, the rest of Strath looked unmistakably human.

            Strath’s hair was a wild tousle of raven-black, and a jagged scar traced the sharp line of one cheekbone, giving him the look of a man carved out of defiance and too many survived battles. His amber eyes glowed faintly in the tomb’s dim light—not just reflecting it, but burning with it—and within that glow was a madness too deep to be anything but real.

            Strath’s gaze flicked from Aaron, to Govin, then to the tomb walls, taking everything in with predatory speed. His mouth curled into a smile—wide, deranged, and dangerous.

            And when he smiled, Aaron realized with a cold jolt that all of Strath’s teeth beyond his canines were sharp, serrated like a shark’s.

            Aaron, in his mud-smeared tunic and torn boots, suddenly felt small.

            Govin made a strangled sound beside him. “Uh… Aaron… he’s—he’s—”

            “Well, well, well,” Strath said as he strode forward, his attention now squarely on Aaron, his tone thoroughly thick with amusement. “What do we have here?” He grabbed Aaron’s sleeve and rubbed the fabric between two fingers. “Heh. You’re jokin’ me. You gotta be. You’re the one who summoned me here?”

            Aaron jerked away. “Yes. I did.”

            Strath motioned from Aaron’s head down to his toes. “What is this? Are you in a Ren Faire? Or is this your actual sad sack clothing?”

            “Th-This is what I actually wear.”

            Strath laughed. Not just once or twice, but full-on delight. He shook his head as he stared at Aaron’s muddy tunic. “Some sort of linen and hemp peasant’s outfit? Unreal. But hilarious. Tell me, do people around here often die of dysentery? Or do you sacrifice goats to a local volcano to control the weather? What kind of society are we talkin’ about here?”

            Aaron and Govin exchanged bewildered glances.

            What was Strath talking about? He seemed delighted, though neither Aaron or Govin knew why.

            When their confused silence went longer than a few moments, Strath waved a hand.

            “Never mind—clearly, you can’t handle those kinds of questions.” His wicked grin was unsettling. “What’s your name, Chime Ringer? Is it something sick and oldie, like Bartholomew?”

            “It’s Aaron.”

            “Hmm. Boring. But at least easy to say. And what about your chubby friend, there?” Strath gestured with a jut of his thumb.

            “That’s Govin.”

            Again, this elicited a laugh from Strath. “Goblin? Is that what you just said? More like Gobblin’ deez nutz, am I right?” He elbowed Aaron, still howling with laughter, delighted in the same way an insane person was delighted by the moon.

            Aaron began to question his grandfather’s wisdom. This lunatic couldn’t handle a pack of brigands. Could he? Was he really a man who couldn’t die?

            Govin slowly inched toward the staircase. “I, uh, d-don’t know how you got here, sir, but we need to leave.”

            “Sir,” Strath repeated, wheezing out another laugh. “Ah, I love this fat bastard already.” He rubbed the corner of one eye. “Okay, enough bullshit, you simpleton peasant fucks. Why did you summon me? Silver Summon Chimes mean you can ask me to do one task, so let’s get this clown show over with.”

            Well, now was the moment of truth. Was Strath worth the magic of the bell?

            Aaron stepped forward. “I want you to kill the brigands who torment my town. Everyone knows them as the Crimson Thieves, and they’ve—”

            “Brigands?” Strath choked out, letting loose another laugh that echoed through the tomb. “Did you just say brigands? You summoned me—an M-Rank mage—to handle a group of land bandits? Is that seriously what you just said?”

            Aaron hesitated. Was Strath implying the task was too much for him? Or that it was too easy? He couldn’t tell.

            “They also kidnapped my little sister,” Aaron lamely added, simply continuing his explanation rather than answering Strath’s question.

            “That’s it?” Strath lifted an eyebrow—still amused, but now baffled.

            “I believe so?” Aaron replied.

            “Do the land bandits have any mages among them?”

            “Uh… No. There’s no such thing as mages. Not that I’ve ever heard of. Until now, that is.”

            Strath chortled. “Oh, how delicious.”

            “Y-You can handle this task, then?” Aaron asked. “Easily?”

            Without warning, Strath grabbed Aaron by the shoulder and pulled him close, slinging an arm around him as though they were old brothers—or lovers—and leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper.

            “Have you ever seen an anthill, Aaron? Thousands of little ants scurrying around inside?”

            It was such a bizarre question, so completely out of nowhere, that Aaron nearly forgot how to breathe. He swallowed hard, utterly confused, but forced himself to answer.

            “I’ve seen anthills,” he said, also whispering.

            “Good, good. Now pretend a river floods the forest where those ants live. Covers the whole area under eighteen feet of water. Drowns every living thing—ants, trees, birds—for miles around. Instantly. Without mercy.”

            Aaron didn’t know how to reply.

            “I’m the river,” Strath whispered. “You summoned a fuckin’ river to handle your ant problem. Do you understand that? Was that simple enough for you? Or do you need me to dress it up with biblical references?”

            “I understood,” Aaron quietly said.

            Strath released the other man, his wicked smile never faltering. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now, kindly take me to your ants.”

***

            The sun was still high when Aaron, Govin, and Strath reached the edge of town. Cramstorm was already rebuilding, but it was slow and painful. The townsfolk had long lost their fighting spirit and enthusiasm.

            Embers still fluttered on the wind.

            Aaron stopped before entering town. He straightened his tunic and tried to maintain a demeanor of authority. Strath had to answer his commands, after all.

            “The Crimson Thieves camped beyond the hills,” Aaron said. “Near the ruins of Old Fen. They’ve been raiding us for almost a year.”

            Strath rolled his neck until it cracked loudly, then flexed his gloved fingers, sparks of blue energy dancing between the joints of his knuckles. Aaron and Govin both tensed.

            “Ruins, bandits, and a tragic backstory,” Strath said, tapping a finger against his chin. “Man, you peasants really do live in the cliché age, huh? You sure you don’t have a princess that needs rescuing?”

            “Nothing like that,” Aaron muttered.

            Strath laughed and then strode forward as if he owned the world—and perhaps, in his mind, he did.

            Aaron and Govin hesitated. Strath glanced back over his shoulder, amber eyes gleaming.

            “Well?” Strath called, voice mocking but sharp. “You coming, or are you going to stand there trembling in your sackcloth underwear?”

            Aaron scrambled to follow, nearly tripping over Govin, who was muttering every prayer he knew under his breath.

            The three of them crossed into Cramstorm, the broken town yawning before them like a wounded animal.

            Townsfolk who had been hammering new beams into half-burned homes stopped mid-swing. A woman gathering firewood dropped her bundle. Somewhere, a child cried and was swiftly yanked back into a house by unseen hands.

            They stared at Strath. Not at Aaron. Not at Govin.

            At him.

            And who could blame them?

            Strath looked like a being ripped out of some madman’s nightmare—his jacket glinting with strange metals, the holsters at his sides strange and otherworldly, his very presence buzzing against the air like a coming storm. Even the way he walked, loose and predatory, set every survival instinct screaming.

            Govin sidled up beside Aaron, voice tight. “They think you’ve brought a demon.”

            “Maybe I have,” Aaron replied.

            “I can hear you,” Strath said over his shoulder. “And I don’t care what you call me. Demon. Hero. Apocalypse in a can. You idiots can pick later.”

            Their conversation was cut short when shouts started sounding from the town gate.

            Aaron turned toward them, heart lurching. He jogged down Main Street until he could see who had arrived. Strath and Govin arrived a few moments later, neither of them too hurried.

            Three riders had approached. Not a full force, just scouts, or messengers. Crimson scarves marked their throats, bright as fresh blood. Their armor was a patchwork of stolen pieces, their swords battered, their horses lean and mean. They stood boldly at the town’s edge, where the broken gates barely hung from their hinges.

            The lead rider—a man with a black, bristling beard and a nose that had been broken too many times—cupped a hand to his mouth.

            “You miserable worms, listen up!” he bellowed. “We’re no longer feelin’ generous. You don’t want to die? Fill three carts with food and ale, leave it by sunset!”

            His men laughed, the sound ugly and raw. The lead rider grinned, showing a mouth full of yellow teeth.

            Govin tugged Aaron’s sleeve. “We should get the elders. The reeve. Maybe we can buy time.”

            Strath stepped forward instead.

            No warning. No fanfare.

            Just a single man walking with terrifying certainty toward the mounted brigands, like he was approaching a bad joke he planned to correct personally. The townsfolk froze. Some gasped. A few whispered hurried prayers.

            “Hey!” the lead brigand barked, annoyed. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

            Strath didn’t answer. He simply stopped a few paces short of the riders, sneakers kicking up ash and dust. He examined the three riders, quickly looking them up and down.

            “You’re jokin’ me,” he finally said with a laugh. “This is it? Three clowns wearing matching scarves?” Strath cocked his head at Aaron, one eyebrow lifting. “These are the ants?”

            Aaron hesitantly nodded. What was wrong with Strath? Didn’t he see they were all armed with swords?

            Strath returned his attention to the leader of the trio. “You all look cute in matching outfits, though. You have pillow fights back in your lair? Play pretend? Do each other’s hair?”

            The lead brigand stiffened in his saddle, his broken nose twisting into something uglier.

            “You got a death wish, boy?” he growled, hand falling to the battered hilt at his hip.

            Laughing, Strath spread his arms wide, as if presenting himself for judgment. The black leather of his jacket creaked, brass gleaming like a challenge under the sun. “I’m ready. Excited, even. Nothing gets me hard faster than idiots with one brain cell rushing to their death.”

            The brigands shifted uneasily, muttering to each other. Swords scraped from scabbards, a few crossbows jerked upright. But the leader held up a hand, glaring down at Strath.

            “No,” he said, his voice thick with anger. “This one’s mine.”

            Strath snorted back a laugh. “He just said, this one is mine.” He chortled to himself, smiling wide. “I can’t believe it. I’ve always wanted someone to say that about me.”

            The brigand kicked free of his stirrups and slid down from his horse, boots crunching into the ash-covered dirt. He drew his sword—a long, ugly thing, notched and rusted at the edge, but still plenty deadly in a strong arm.

            “You think you’re funny,” the brigand said with a sneer, stalking toward Strath.

            Still laughing like a madman, Strath gave a one-shouldered shrug, casual as someone discussing the weather. The townsfolk watched in horrified silence. Aaron felt Govin gripping his arm, white-knuckled. No one dared move. No one dared breathe.

            The brigand roared and charged.

            Strath moved faster than Aaron could properly follow. He grabbed the sword—by the blade—and then ripped it out of the brigand’s hand. With a casual toss, the blade hit the ground. The brigand stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him. The man almost ran into Strath, but Strath sidestepped out of the way, effortless.

            The brigand barely managed to stay upright.

            “Oh no,” Strath sardonically said. “I disarmed you.”

            The brigand whirled around, his face red. He bellowed with rage, swinging wild with a tightly balled fist, reckless, desperate.

            Strath caught the man’s arm before he finished the blow. Then he wrenched the man’s back until it snapped with the sound like dry wood cracking. The brigand’s eyes bulged wide in panic.

            Then Strath ripped the arm sideways with such speed and brutality, the limb was torn from the man’s body right at the shoulder. Blood gushed across the road, the bright white of the man’s upper arm bone clearly visible. The brigand screamed, but Aaron barely heard a thing. All he could do was stare in horror at the scene before him.

            He had never seen someone’s arm ripped clean from their body.

            “Look,” Strath said, chuckling, “now I literally disarmed you.” He tossed the limb to the side, the fingers twitching. “How embarrassing.”

            The brigand continued screaming. He dropped to his knees and grabbed at his wound, trying to stop the flow of blood that squirted past his fingers. Strath crouched down beside him, voice dropping low and almost kindly.

            “Maybe you give up on life now,” Strath whispered. “Do you have a little dagger? Maybe stab yourself good. Bleed out even faster. It’ll probably be nicer than what I’ll do to you if you’re still alive once I’m done with your buddies.”

            The man’s screams shriveled into broken sobs as he lay down on the road, writhing.

            Strath’s amusement left him. For the first time, he seemed genuinely irritated. He stood, his expression aggressive neutral, and then turned to face the other two.

            “Does wearing matching scarves mean nothing to you?” Strath sarcastically asked. “One of your fellow brain-damaged buddies is suffering. Aren’t you going to come get him? Or avenge him? Or anything?”

            The two brigands hesitated, their faces pale under their scarves. Their hands gripped their weapons tighter, but they didn’t charge, not yet. They looked at each other, trying to summon the kind of courage that dies quick.

            Strath took a single step forward, and the ground seemed to shiver.

            “I’m getting bored,” Strath said, a threat in his voice. “C’mon. If two of you attack at the same time, you’ll have a way better chance.”

            The second brigand—the younger one with a patchy beard and nervous eyes—finally snapped. With a strangled roar, he kicked his heels into his horse and charged, swinging his sword overhead in a reckless arc.

            Strath didn’t even draw a weapon. He waited, loose and easy, until the horse was practically on top of him, and then he moved.

            He sidestepped again, impossibly fast, but this time he lifted his hand and the air became thick with static and power. Everything went silent, right before a roar of gale winds shot through Main Street. All the remaining embers in town were snuffed, and Aaron was thrown to the ground alongside Govin.

            It was like watching a storm forced into a single breath of space, swirling around the brigand and his horse.

            No, the wind didn’t just swirl—it screamed, folding inward around the brigand in a whirling, razor-edged vortex. The very air thickened, sharpened into unseen blades. Dust and ash exploded upward, swallowed whole into the rising cyclone. Overhead, the clouds convulsed, spiraling into a monstrous eye.

            The world turned gray. There was so much howling.

            Then, just as suddenly, Strath dropped his hand, and everything stopped.

            The silence was obscene. Deafening. Dust floated down like dirty snow. Ash clung to the broken cobblestones. The clouds above still spun sluggishly, as though struggling to remember which way the sky was supposed to move.

            At the center of it all, the brigand and his horse collapsed.

            Shredded.

            What hit the ground weren’t bodies anymore. They were just gore. The storm had carved them to ribbons, skin and muscle peeled back in long, wet strips, bone splintered and glistening under the open sky. They fell into a scarlet heap that barely resembled anything human—or animal.

            It was like the razor wind had diced them into cubes after flaying them alive.

            Blood burst across the street in a thick, wet slap, splashing up Strath’s sneakers and the edges of his jeans. The cobblestones drank it greedily, soaking the road in a wide, dark stain.

            Strath wrinkled his nose and stepped back, casting a disgusted glance down at his feet.

            “Ugh,” he said with a huff. “Now I have bandit all over me.”

            The shock that followed was complete. The dust settled in slow spirals. The townsfolk gaped from their doorways, frozen mid-task, hands still clutching hammers, baskets, crying children. Their faces were ghost-white, mouths open, no sound coming out.

            No one moved.

            Not even to breathe.

            Govin was still sprawled on the ground, staring at the blood pooling on the cobblestones with glassy, unblinking eyes. Aaron pushed himself upright, his heart slamming in his chest so hard he could barely hear over it. His mouth was dry. His hands shook.

            That had been magic. Real magic. Not tricks or whispered legends.

            Power—so much that everyone was struggling to comprehend it.

            And Strath stood there, casual and irritable, as if someone had just spilled cheap ale on his boots at a tavern. He wiped one sneaker against the ground, grimacing.

            “And it’s not like anyone in this armpit of a town would know how to clean this,” he muttered. “Which is just fantastic.”

            The last brigand—the smart one—finally found his senses. His horse danced and snorted beneath him, but he wrestled it into a turn so sharp it nearly threw him. He didn’t look back. He didn’t shout a threat. He didn’t even curse.

            He just ran. Full gallop, out the ruined gates, vanishing down the road like death itself was chasing him, and maybe it was.

            The town finally found the courage to react. A woman screamed. The baker dropped his hammer with a clang and bolted. Children were snatched up and dragged into homes. Doors slammed. Shutters banged closed. Dogs barked in blind, terrified confusion. Within moments, Cramstorm looked less like a community and more like a ghost town—deserted and silent, save for the wind still whining weakly across the ruins.

            Strath watched them scatter, tilting his head like he was studying particularly stupid birds. Then, he returned his attention to the writhing brigand on the street. With callous indifference, he stepped on the man’s head and then pressed down with his sneaker, crushing the man’s skull as easy as someone crushing an egg.

            Brain matter got on his sneaker.

            That seemed to irritate him more than the blood, but he quickly sighed and all his anger left him. Strath turned back to Aaron and Govin, his grin lazy, almost fond.

            “If you tell the townsfolk we’re friends, I’m sure every man and woman will be throwing themselves at your feet,” Strath playfully said. “Although, given how small this place is, I don’t know if having your pick of your favorite cousin is really much of a prize…”

            Aaron didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat had closed up. His stomach churned. Part of him wanted to run too. Every instinct he had screamed that Strath Cortan Bexar wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t even human.

            Strath wiped a fleck of blood from his jawline with one thumb and sighed theatrically.

            “Well, are we ready to tackle that anthill? Because I’d like to finish this before I get hungry. Something tells me I’ll be eating rat meat if I dine here.”

            When Aaron didn’t answer, Strath walked over. He placed a gloved hand on Aaron’s shoulder. His touch felt like lightning—barely restrained energy, coiled and waiting.

            Aaron shuddered and then nodded. “Y-Yes. The brigands make their lair over the hills, remember? Near the ruins?”

            “Right,” Strath drawled. “Sorry. I’m trying my damnedest not to remember anything about this place. It’s just… so dull.”

            But then Aaron was filled with some courage, some curiosity. How was Strath so powerful? Was it just magic? Was it something more? What had he done to slice up a man and a horse into a thousand tiny pieces?

            “Uh, can I ask you a question?” Aaron asked.

            Strath stayed close, amusement returning to his expression. He lifted an eyebrow. “You’re asking my permission?” He smiled. “That’s a little submissive, don’t ya think? Grow a backbone. You’re the peasant who summoned me, remember? You’re in charge. Go ahead and act like it. Channel all your daddy energy.”

            Govin finally managed to pick himself off the street. His robes were now stained with ink and blood, his eyes so wide they might fall from their sockets.

            Aaron ignored his friend and asked, “How did… you do all that? How did you know you could handle the brigands? How did, the w-winds, do all that?”

            “I’m a mage,” Strath answered matter-of-factly. “I have access to magics that can reshape not only my body, but the world around me. And you—and everyone here—aren’t mages. You’re sad sacks. So, I have an unfair advantage. Which I love, by the way, it’s the best way to live life. I highly recommend it.”

            He gripped Aaron’s shoulder tighter.

            “Here. Let me show you what you look like… in terms of numbers.”

            Just like when Aaron touched the silver bell in the tomb, information flooded his mind. It came to him like a half-formed dream, somehow clear, but ethereal. It was information—about himself.

Name: Aaron Grimwald

Race: Human

Magics: —

Rank: —

Health: 7/7

Strength—3

Dexterity—2

Fortitude—1 [Malnourished]

Charisma—3 [Friendly]

Manipulation—1

Intelligence—2

Perception—2

Wisdom—1

Willpower—5 [Obstinate]

            “Numbers?” Aaron repeated.

            “You know how to read numbers, right?” Strath asked.

            “Yes.”

            With a wide smile, Strath replied, “Good. Because I don’t have time to teach you basic shit. Now, look at my numbers.”

            Strath took Aaron’s hand and placed it on his shoulder. The leather jacket felt warm to the touch. Almost alive, like the bell had been. More information filled Aaron’s mind.

Name: Strath Cortan Bexar, Right Hand of Bitso, Hider of Keys

Race: Human

Magics: Storm, Body, Travel

Rank: M, S, A

Armor Rating: 10 + 5 Shielding [Reinforced Skin]

Health: 40/40 [Extra Organs]

Stats:

Strength—18 [Iron Grip]

Dexterity—22 [Swift, Lightning Reflexes]

Fortitude—15 [Tireless, Iron Hide, Iron Stomach]

Charisma—2 [Grating]

Manipulation—12 [Menacing]

Intelligence—4

Perception—16 [Hawk-Eyed]

Wisdom—3

Willpower—5 + 5 [Deranged]

Abilities:

Hidden

            “You see the difference, right?” Strath asked. “And let’s just pretend that every number I have higher than you, it’s like being five times better in that category. Does that make sense? Or too complex for you?”

            Aaron shook his head. “N-No. It makes sense. You’re saying you’re better than me. And the brigands. You’re more powerful than everyone. Because your magic allows you to be.”

            “Right. Yes. Exactly.” Strath playfully slapped his shoulder. “I’m so proud of you. A peasant with three brain cells. You’re going places.”

            “But how did you get magic?” Aaron asked.

            Govin stepped forward, his face beaded with sweat. “A-Aaron. Please. I don’t think you should ask that.” He lowered his voice as he added, “We shouldn’t wrap ourselves up in the dealings of this devil.”

            Strath laughed at that comment. Full-on laughter—nothing seemed funnier to him. But Aaron wasn’t afraid. He wanted to know more than anything.

            “How did you get your magic?” he asked again.

            In an instant, Strath stopped laughing. He stepped close to Aaron, leaned in, and spoke so close, his teeth were practically scraping the edge of Aaron’s ear.

            “I eat people’s souls,” Strath stated.

            Then he stepped away and smiled—like he hadn’t said one of the most horrifying things ever uttered by another human being.

            “But I’m sad to say, you can’t become a mage in this dimension. There’s no magic here—and souls here are things that flutter away instead of hardening into arcana. A shame, really. You’re doomed to stay deadbeats for the rest of your extremely short lives.”

            “I think we should finish the brigands and be rid of this… person,” Govin said, scooting closer to Aaron. “Please. My sleep will be filled with nightmares from this short visit already.”

            Aaron nodded once. “Yes. Strath—let’s hurry. I’m worried about my sister.” He pointed to the distant hills. “The ruins should be over there. If we walk at a brisk pace, we might make it before sundown.”

            With yet another laugh, Strath grabbed Aaron’s shoulder, and then Govin’s shoulder. “Walking is for chumps.”

            The world buckled.

            The ground didn’t simply vanish; it folded inward, like a cloth being yanked from under a table of glass. The air twisted, turning solid and soft at once, and the sky spun into a whirl of bruised colors. Aaron’s stomach dropped out of him. Govin yelped like a kicked dog.

            There was a pop of air.

            Pop.

            Aaron’s feet slammed down onto uneven rock with a grunt, the breath punched out of his lungs. He barely kept his footing. Beside him, Govin flopped onto the ground like a sack of potatoes, groaning pitifully.

            Aaron staggered, dizzy, vision swimming—and froze. They stood near the top of the hills now, high above Cramstorm.

            On the other side of the hill, the ruins of Old Fen sprawled out before them like the bones of a dead giant. Broken towers stabbed at the sky. Crumbled walls tangled with thorn and root. A few black banners, tattered and sagging, clung to what little remained of their moldering flagpoles.

            Far below, campfires glowed bright, even in the middle of the day. The brigands’ camp. The Crimson Thieves had made a nest here—a cancer rooted in the broken heart of the past.

            “What?” Was all Aaron could ask. “What happened?”

            Govin whimpered as he got to his feet, his frown deepening. “H-How did we get here? Where are we?”

            Strath stood nearby, utterly unaffected by their new surroundings. He dusted off his jacket, adjusted his belts, and grinned down at the camp with something between admiration and bloodlust.

            “We teleported,” he said. “And wasn’t it so much easier than walking? I mean, I know I need to get my 10,000 steps in at some point, but I definitely don’t want to do it walking along some rickety cobblestone road, that’s for sure.”

            Govin looked like he might vomit. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die before I see tomorrow.”

            Strath clapped him on the back hard enough to make him wobble. “Nah, Goblin. You’re fine. Maybe a little internal bleeding. Builds character.” He leaned in closer. “But be careful. If you buddy Aaron tells me to kill you too, then…” Strath made a comical cutting motion across his neck, and then a little noise like he died.

            “A-Aaron would never!”

             Strath barked out a laugh and shoved Govin to the side. He laughed so frequently, and at his own comments and gestures, Aaron couldn’t help but think the man was both the theater and the audience—constantly making his own amusement.

            “You will do whatever I tell you?” Aaron asked. “Even if it doesn’t have anything to do with the brigands?”

            Strath lifted an eyebrow. “Well, the power of Chime makes it so I’ll do most things, because they could be tangentially related.” He shrugged, his sharp-tooth grin growing wider. “Why? You have something interesting for me finally?”

            “What do you mean by interesting?”

            “I mean… You want the king to suffer because he allowed the brigands to amass here in the first place? You want the town to forever regret not protecting your sister? You want your parents’ legs broken for not taking you to a safer village? You want Goblin dead because his incessant commentary grates at your final bit of patience? You desire the attention of someone in town? You want me on my knees? You want to bring drought and famine to the kingdom as a way of punishing literally everyone who might’ve slightly wronged you?”

            Govin slowly shook his head, his eyes glassy with water. “Those are all sins against the church.”

            With a long, dramatic sigh, Strath leaned his head back. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he stared up into the sky. “Those are all sins against the church,” he mockingly repeated. Then he snorted back a laugh as he shot a glare at Govin. “That’s the point, fuck face. All of those would’ve been interesting. Instead, I’m stuck killing run-of-the-mill bandits. Literally the most boring task I’ve ever undertaken, and I don’t even get any arcana out of it. Worst. Escort mission. Ever.”

            Govin shrank back, practically folding into himself. Before Aaron could even think of a reply, a commotion rattled down the broken path ahead.

            The brigand who had fled from Strath back in town, the one who had bolted like the devil was snapping at his heels, came tearing over the ridge at a dead sprint, dust and pebbles flying up behind his horse’s hooves. His face was a mask of pure panic, wild-eyed and foam-lipped.

            The brigand caught sight of them—Aaron, Govin, and Strath standing casually in the middle of the path—and he yanked the reins of his steed, the horse almost throwing him from his saddle.

            “You!” the man shrieked, pointing a trembling hand at Strath. “No! You were—you were behind me! How d-did you—?”

            Strath tilted his head, giving the man a lazy once-over. He didn’t even bother straightening from his relaxed slouch. Then he drew one of his pistols, and without so much as aiming, fired.

            The shot cracked like thunder. A flash of blue light lanced through the air—and the brigand’s head snapped back as if yanked by invisible strings. He toppled backward like a puppet with its strings cut, landing in a heap of limbs and dust next to his horse.

            He steed whinnied and then turned, started by the sound and the thud of his rider. The beast turned and galloped away.

            The brigand…

            He was dead. Instant. Casual. Effortless.

            He had a hole in his skull the size of a potato.

            Strath twirled the pistol once around his finger and holstered it with a theatrical spin, as if he’d just finished some cheap carnival trick. “Phew,” he mockingly said. “Close one. Good thing I’m such a responsible gun owner.”

            No one said anything.

            Strath sighed, more genuine than he had before. With a kick, he tossed the brigand onto his belly. “Ugh. Everyone here is so fragile. It really takes the fun out it.”

            Govin made a high, wheezing noise and stumbled back two steps, clutching his satchel like it might shield him from stray bullets. “You k-kill for the fun of it?”

            “All the time,” Strath said, laughing the whole way through the sentence. “I’m a regular murder-hobo back home. It’s killed or be killed on my home world. Anything for that sweet, sweet arcana.”

            Aaron just stared. He wasn’t even sure he could feel shock anymore. Strath had burned through it. He had incinerated all normal reactions in the first ten minutes of knowing him.

            Aaron clenched his fists, willing himself to stay focused. There wasn’t time for this. Laurali was still out there, trapped with monsters worse than even Strath—and every moment wasted was a moment closer to losing her forever.

            “Strath,” Aaron said, trying his best to be commanding. “I want you to finish the brigands. As fast as possible.”

            Strath perked up like a dog hearing the dinner bell. “Oho? Really? All right, this could be fun.”

            He clapped his gloved hands together once, a sound like a whip crack, and without another word, he grabbed Aaron by the shoulder, then snagged Govin by the scruff of his robe like he was picking up a squealing piglet.

            Then it felt like the world had been pulled out from underfoot yet again.

            One blink, they were standing in the dust of the hills. The next blink—they were standing in the middle of the brigand camp.

            Tents flapped around them. Horses whinnied in alarm. Cookfires hissed as their flames caught the sudden pop of Strath’s arrival. Brigands froze mid-drink, mid-bite, mid-sentence, all turning to stare at the random intruders.

            A tin cup clattered to the ground somewhere.

            For one long, taut heartbeat, no one moved.

            Aaron barely registered anything beyond the smell of charred meat and sweat—and the thirty brigands all gaping at them like he, Govin, and Strath had just teleported straight out of a fever dream.

            Strath released Aaron and Govin, stretching his arms overhead with a loud pop of his joints. “Good afternoon, ladies, gentlemen, and everything in between. I’ll be your host for the next few minutes, at least until you’re all violently torn apart.”

            Govin, white as a corpse, let out a tiny, despairing noise. His knees buckled and he collapsed into the dirt.

            The nearest brigand—a wiry man with an eyepatch—pointed at them. “Intruders! Sound the bells! Kill them!”

            The camp exploded into chaos.

            Brigands scrambled for weapons. Horses screamed. Some men began loading their crossbows, and others shouted things about demons and foul trickery.

            Strath didn’t flinch.

            While the camp panicked, while crossbows were drawn and blades flashed in the firelight, Strath just tilted his head back and closed his eyes, like a man taking in the sun before a good day’s work.

            Then he whispered something under his breath. The sky answered.

            It started with a single crack. A gust of wind howled down from the heavens, tearing through the camp and flattening tents in an instant. Firepits scattered embers into the sky. Horses bucked and tore free of their reins.

            The clouds above, already swirling from Strath’s earlier arrival, blackened at the edges. They twisted and churned like a living thing, devouring the sunset’s last light, turning the whole world sickly gray.

            Aaron could only stare upward, heart hammering, as the first bolt of lightning tore the sky apart.

            It struck with a sound so loud it punched through Aaron’s ribs like a battering ram. A brilliant spear of white-hot fire slammed into the center of the camp, shattering the earth, throwing up a spray of dirt, blood, and splintered wood.

            Several brigands simply ceased to exist—scattered like ash on the wind.

            The survivors screamed, scattering, running blindly into the dark, but the storm had already tasted blood. And it was hungry.

            Another bolt split the air, then another, hammering down in a relentless rhythm. Everywhere Aaron looked, another body fell.

            Brigands trying to flee were snatched out of life mid-sprint, their weapons dropping from charred fingers. Horses shrieked and bolted. Men threw themselves to the ground in prayer, in terror, in vain.

            There was no pattern to it. No mercy. The storm struck wherever it pleased.

            Wherever Strath pleased.

            Aaron turned, expecting to find Strath casting with some grand gesture, some mighty show of force. Instead, Strath was just smiling. Calm. Content. Hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket like he was watching an entertaining show.

            Lightning reflected in his glowing amber eyes, making him look inhuman.

            Govin, still flat on his belly, sobbed openly now, his voice lost in the roaring winds and the screams.

            “Stop!” someone in the camp shrieked. “Please, gods, stop!”

            But the gods weren’t listening. Only Strath was, and he clearly didn’t believe in mercy.

            Another flash. Another crash of thunder that rattled the very hills. More bodies fell. Tents burned and collapsed. The smell of ozone and scorched flesh filled the air, thick and choking. Aaron could only stand there, his fists clenched at his sides, as the camp of the Crimson Thieves—the monsters who had stolen his sister, burned his home, murdered his people—was reduced to a smoldering graveyard in mere minutes.

            When it was over, when the last bolt crackled down and the last scream faded into the wind, Strath finally moved. He exhaled long and slow, as if savoring the moment. Then he turned to Aaron, that sharp, wolfish grin still curling his mouth.

            “That fast enough for you?” he asked, casually stepping over the smoking corpse of a man who hadn’t even had time to draw his sword.

            Aaron swallowed hard, throat dry as dust. He nodded once. “It was, but… my sister. Where’s my sister?”

            “Right, right,” Strath said, glancing around at the wreckage. “She’s over there.” He pointed to a tent that was on its side, the flaps unharmed by the lightning. “Still alive, which is basically a miracle,” he said, chortling the whole time.

            Aaron didn’t wait. He sprinted across the scorched camp, boots slipping on blood-slick stones. His heart thundered harder than the storm had, roaring in his ears. He tore aside the collapsed tent flaps, hands shaking, breath ragged.

            There, curled up against a broken crate, was Laurali. Her were wrists bound, her face pale and streaked with dirt and blood, but she was still breathing, just as Strath had said.

            “Laurali!” Aaron fell to his knees beside her, fumbling with the ropes. “I’m here—I’m here, it’s okay—”

            Her eyelids fluttered open. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

            He worked blindly, untying the bindings loose with trembling fingers. His stomach twisted when he saw the bruises along her arms, the shallow gash across her temple, the sickly way she breathed. It was ragged, uneven.

            She was alive, but only barely.

            “Aaron,” Govin croaked from somewhere behind him, voice hollow. “She needs a priest.”

            Aaron shook his head, panic crawling up his spine. There were no priests left who could help. No healers. No one with magic.

            Except…

            Strath strolled up behind him, the smoking ruins of the camp reflected in the smooth brass plates on his jacket. He glanced down at Laurali, hands still in his pockets, like he was inspecting a broken clock.

            “Yikes,” he said. “I hope she was unconscious for whatever they did to her, am I right?” He elbowed Govin, who somehow grew paler.

            Aaron stood up, planting himself between Laurali and Strath instinctively. “Can you help my sister? Please.”

            Strath tilted his head, considering him. “Ya know, technically I already did as you asked. The Crimson Thieves are no more. Your sister is safe. Well, she’s safe in theory. I don’t really have to follow any more instructions.”

            “I…” Aaron stiffened. “You can help her, can’t you? You’re just… toying with me.”

            Strath shrugged, but then his smile grew into something wicked. “Maybe.”

            “Please! I’m begging you. You have to help her.” Aaron grabbed his jacket. “This is why I wanted the brigands dead in the first place! Th-This is tangentially related!”

            Strath said nothing. He didn’t even move.

            “Please! Please.”

            “Well,” Strath drawled, “since you begged so thoroughly, and adorably, I suppose I’ll help. But you have to do me a favor in return.”

            Aaron almost sagged with relief. “Anything. I’ll do it.”

            “You have to hide this key.”

            A key?

            At first, Aaron thought he had heard wrong. But then Strath pulled a strange stick of metal from his jacket and handed it over. It didn’t look like any key Aaron was familiar with. The object was so… rectangular.

            “Don’t let anyone find it,” Strath playfully said. “Even if they come asking for a key. Got it?”

            Again, Aaron nodded once. “Y-Yes. Now please—Laurali doesn’t have much longer.”

             Without ceremony, Strath knelt beside Laurali. One gloved hand hovered over her chest. His fingers twitched once, and a ripple of something—a pressure, a vibration in the very air—spread outward.

            The cuts and bruises on Laurali’s skin shimmered, and then began to knit themselves closed. The gash on her forehead sealed shut, leaving only a faint, silvery scar. The shallow, painful rise and fall of her chest evened out. Color returned to her cheeks. Her small body shuddered once and then she took a full, deep breath.

            Aaron stared, wide-eyed, as the impossible unfolded in front of him. In less than ten seconds, it was done.

            Strath stood, dusting off his knees. “There. Good as new. Except for maybe an endless stream of nightmares.” He shrugged. “But I’m not a mind mage, or a therapist, so I can’t help her with any of that.”

            Laurali’s eyes fluttered open—clear, alert—and locked onto Aaron’s. Recognition lit her face, and she smiled.

 “Brother…”

            Aaron gathered her into his arms, holding her tight, too overwhelmed to speak. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he didn’t care.

            Strath turned away, hands tucked back in his pockets, whistling a low, lazy tune. “One babysitting job complete. Five stars, I’d say. Remember to recommend me to your friends.”

            “Wait!” Aaron called out.

            “Hmm?”

            “I want to be a mage.” Aaron hardened his tone. “I don’t care what I have to do. Another dimension, arcana, whatever it takes. I want this kind of power, too.”

            Strath tilted his head, the ghost of a smirk on his face. “Magic isn’t given out like candy. It’s earned. It’s bled for.”

            “I don’t care.”

            “Well… all right. Tell you what—if you keep the key hidden for at least ten years, I’ll come back and spirit you away from this hellhole. You can be a mage on my dimension. Sound fun?”

            Aaron nodded several times. Ten years? That would be easy. He would make certain no one found this bizarre key. Ever.

            Then Strath waved. “Bye, chumps.”

            And then he faded away, just as quickly as he had arrived. The power of the Silver Summoning Chime vanished from the world.