Greg trudged through the snow-encrusted earth beneath his feet, each step a reminder that Westeros was a far cry from his cozy suburb back in Brockton Bay. A canopy of leaves above his head diffused the dimming early afternoon light as it poked through the trees, casting weird shadows that danced across the forest floor.

  Ash darted around back and forth in front of him, the cub doing his best to chase down a blue butterfly that managed to persistently stay just outside of the little guy's reach. Greg couldn't help but smile at the sight. It was like watching a furry, four-legged pinball bounce around, all energy and no aim.

  His new bag sat firmly on his back, lighter and more balanced than the old rough-hewn canvas thing he had received from Frostfall—which he left abandoned by that fucking river—and with far more space inside it. The memory of that river made Greg's skin crawl. Note to self: No more skinny dipping in monster-infested waters.

  But yeah… the bag… Way more than there should have been, really. It was like Mary Poppins' carpet bag had a baby with a hiking backpack, and that baby was on steroids.

  On top of that, it was also packed full of supplies, like a lot of food, what Greg was pretty sure had to be climbing gear—because apparently, I'm gonna scale Mount Doom or something—some extra copies of the clothes he had landed in Westeros with—thank God Almighty for that—and a bunch of other random miscellaneous stuff that was probably gonna come in handy. It was like someone had raided an REI store and shoved everything into his magical backpack.

  Honestly, the food and the clothes were all he really thought was important. The rest could've been unicorn dust for all he cared right now. His stomach growled, reminding him that near-death experiences really worked up an appetite.

  Granted, the food was pretty much more of the same stuff he already had but the quality seemed so much better, like… actually something he thought he could have gotten from a supermarket. The dried meat felt and tasted more like beef jerky, not the leather-flavored shoe soles he'd been chewing on for weeks. The cheese wasn't near rock-hard, and the dried fruit actually tasted good, not like sweetened cardboard. On top of that, salted bacon and sausage was in there with everything else, too. Hello, cholesterol, my old friend. I've come to clog my arteries again.

  Ash had already enjoyed a bunch of it, the little fuzzy lardball.

  Greg watched as the cub gave up on the butterfly chase, flopping down in the snow with a soft whump to sniff at a nearby bush, probably hoping for more snacks. "You're gonna get fat, you know," he muttered, his voice a mix of amusement and exasperation.

  Shaking his head, Greg picked up the pace slightly as he moved through the forest, making sure to keep Ash in his line of sight. The cub had a tendency to wander off if Greg wasn't paying attention, and the last thing he needed was to lose his only friend in this messed-up world to a wandering werewolf or something.

  …actually, does this world have the same moon phases or whatever. He frowned for a moment, shaking his head again. Question for later.

  But thinking about the bag again, he wasn't exactly sure why his powers seemed to be so random, with the stuff and magic it gave him. Half the time, he didn't seem to actually get anything and then the other half, it was weird nun magic and a mana pool. I mean, I'm not complaining or anything, he thought with a mental shrug. I just wish there was more rhyme to the reason, you know…

  He narrowed his eyes a half-second later. Or is that reason to the rhyme? Whatever. English had never been his strong suit, and being in a medieval fantasy land wasn't exactly helping his vocabulary.

  Like some of the stuff he got wasn't even all that useful. Like those fucking bracelets. His thoughts circled back to them like a dog chasing its tail.

  Those fucking bracelets…

  That same night he had been betrayed by Merek and the others, he had gotten a bunch of stuff, like the brand new clothes on his back, for one. The magic green tunic and fancy gauntlets and boots were a far cry from his usual T-shirt and jeans combo, but at least they were clean. And warm. And didn't smell like three months of sweat and fear.

  He had also gotten a pair of thick golden bracelets that were perfectly sized to him. He knew instinctively that they could give him legitimate super strength, which of course, was cool as fuck. Like, not Alexandria levels of Awesome, but more of like a Glory Girl, Jr.

  Or at least, that's what he thought at first.

  Thing was, though, that super strength only counted when it came to lifting stuff.

  Or pushing stuff, too.

  Which really didn't come in handy as much as you would think. It was like being given a superpower specifically for moving furniture. Great if you're helping your mom rearrange the living room, not so great when you're trying to survive in a world full of bandits, monsters, and whatever the hell that river thing was.

  Greg's frown deepened as he kicked a rock out of his path, the thing hurtling off into a tree trunk and sending bark flying from the impact. Like, at all. It's the superhero equivalent of being really good at opening pickle jars.

  Seriously, unless he was supposed to be doing judo on the people and animals trying to kill him, he didn't really see any use for it. Judo or bearhugging them to death, I guess, he thought with a tilt of his head. The mental image of him trying to suplex a giant bear almost made him laugh.

  Almost.

  On top of that, using it apparently drained him like he just ran up three flights of stairs.

  Something he found out after he had tried to pull a Goku and push a giant boulder out of the way just to see if he could. All he got for his trouble was sore muscles and the realization that being super strong was a lot less fun when it left you feeling like you'd just finished a marathon.

  Even worse, the thick bright gold made a lot of random guys think they could try and steal from him, which was also annoying as all hell, because he already looked young and pretty rich from the standards of the North peasants. It was like wearing a sign that said "Rob me, I'm loaded!" and these people couldn't even read!

  It also didn't help that with all the money he had on him from bandit loot and that one rescue job he'd taken on, he actually was pretty rich by their standards.

  He shook his head, the thought making him snort. Suffering from success.

  With all that to deal with, Greg had just kept the bracelets in his canvas bag—and now his magic backpack—deciding that he'd use it when he needed it. And I haven't needed it yet.

  Still, it wasn't like the bag was the most important gift his most recent level up had dropped in his lap. Hell, if he was being real, it wasn't even the second most impressive.

  No, that would have to be-"Aard!"

  He thrust out his left arm fast, all his fingers extended outward, like he was trying to high-five the air. A wave of translucent force shot out from his palm, making the air in front of him vibrate like someone had cranked up an invisible subwoofer. The force struck the trunk of a fallen tree, and Greg watched as the mossy, half-rotten log groaned and shifted an inch or two. Its weaker branches snapped off with a satisfying crack, like breaking a bunch of oversized twigs.

  "Not bad," he muttered to himself, watching bits of bark and moss float down like nature's confetti.

  Still, it lacked punch. Like throwing a pool noodle instead of a baseball bat.

  Even if he didn't have eyes, he could feel that. The magic was there, but it was like trying to write with your off-hand with a pair of mittens on - clumsy, weak, not quite hitting the mark.

  Aard was just one of a bunch of spells he had gotten earlier in the day, one of five that had popped into his head like someone had downloaded them straight into his brain. He knew how they worked, and kind of what they were, each one a basic spell that he could cast with just one hand. Like magic shorthand, point and shoot edition.

  It's like they were made for him, if he was being real. No thinking or experimenting, just easy to use with a sword in his other hand.

  They weren't exactly full-on spells either, he knew that instinctively, more like magical quick-draws, but they got the job done. He didn't even need to draw on his mana pool or the little dots that hovered around it like stars in a weird mental sky; a gesture and a word and it automatically drew on it, just a tiny little bit.

  Like most of the magic he knew, no one had told him.

  It was just there.

  Sitting in his head like it had always belonged, like remembering the lyrics to a song he'd never actually heard.

  They were called Signs, he knew that too.

  Simple gestures, each tied to a word that felt like it had weight in his head, like they could be spoken aloud and actually mean something. Not just random sounds, but words with power behind them. Aard, that was the one for force, raw and invisible, a blast that could shove anything away, make the air crack and heave. Even just by thinking the word, he could imagine the position of his fingers, the burst of energy flowing out like a punch from nothing. It basically made him a Jedi.

  On impulse, he turned his hand over, palm out this time, and focused on the next one. The motion felt natural, like throwing a ball or giving a high-five. "Igni!"

  A brief flicker of heat rose under his skin, warming his palm like he'd just grabbed a hot cup of coffee. His fingers twitched, the motion loose and simple—just a flare for fun, like flicking a lighter. A small jet of fire erupted from his hand, barely larger than a campfire flame. More like a thick sparkler than flamethrower, Greg thought with a slight frown.

  He remembered the game, the game called the Hexer, which he hadn't liked as much as the old movie made when he was like five called The Witcher. The game was fun, but he liked more power fantasy hype when it came to his vidya. Weird how that's real, though.

  He stared at the flame in his hands as it flickered, unstable as a cheap lighter, before igniting the dry leaves at his feet. The flame sputtered before catching fully, and he grinned as the fire crackled to life, the smell of burning leaves filling the air.

  Igni was the second Sign, the one that burned. A flick of the wrist and fire would pour out, flame bright enough to catch anything it touched. He could almost see it curling at his fingertips, eager to consume, like a hungry puppy begging to be fed.

  If it wasn't clear, his control wasn't great yet. "Like trying to paint with a super soaker…" He frowned slightly, blinking. Wait, that actually sounds kinda fun.

  The Igni fizzled out sooner than he liked, dying with a sad little sputter that reminded Greg of a wet firework. He quickly stamped out the burning patch of leaves before it spread, as Ash came running back to his side, probably wondering why his human friend was trying to set the forest on fire. He twisted his fingers in a sharper motion and threw out another burst of Igni, this one fizzling in the air like a dud firecracker, not quite catching anything. His palms stung from the brief heat, but it wasn't really painful. More like holding your hand too close to a hot stove for a second.

  Greg rolled his shoulders and felt the hum of magic energy thrumming just under his skin, eager to be let out. Like a sugar rush, but with more potential for property damage. He clenched his fist and focused on the Aard sign again, this time picturing a stronger, more focused burst of energy—tight, deliberate, forceful.

  His hand shot forward, the gesture sharper this time, like he was trying to punch through the air itself. The telekinetic wave had more of a bite, enough that Greg could actually hear it whistle. The log shifted further, scraping along the dirt a few feet with a sound like dragging furniture across a floor, though it wasn't going to explode into splinters anytime soon.

  Greg grinned again, the teenager slowly flexing his fingers. "Working on it."

  There were three more Signs he had gotten, of course.

  Three more that he needed to practice with because they didn't exactly fit his fighting style. Not yet, at least. Greg knew he'd get to them eventually, he was sure of that. Maybe after I stop setting things on fire by accident.

  Now, though…

  "A bit more practice," he muttered, and walked deeper into the trees, flicking small waves of Aard at branches and stumps, watching them shake and shudder like they were caught in a personal earthquake. He kept flaring Igni just enough to start fires that he'd quickly snuff out with lazy splashes of water, the smell of smoke and burnt wood filling his nose.

  Practicing magic was just… fun.

  The way the energy flowed through him, how each gesture felt more natural than the last, it was as exciting as the first day as when he was throwing around sword beams like an idiot.

  Suddenly, the blond boy froze. His gaze snapped up, body tensing like a wire pulled tight. What was...

  Something tickled at the edge of his hearing, barely there but impossible to ignore.

  His gaze snapped up. What was…

  "Help! Somebody, please!" The voice cut through the forest air like a knife, hoarse and broken, tinged with the kind of desperation that only comes when you're sure you're about to die. It was distant, but he heard it — distant but distinct, every tremor of fear crystal clear.

  Without wasting a moment, he surged forward, the underbrush crunching under his boots like nature's bubble wrap. In a fluid motion, he scooped up Ash, tucking the bewildered bear cub securely under his arm. Sorry buddy, no time for democracy. The forest became a blur as he increased his pace, ducking under low-hanging branches that tried to grab at his clothes and leaping over tangled roots that seemed determined to trip him up.

  Ahead, a thick creek glistened in the fading light, its waters trickling over tall stones jutting out from the water. Greg's eyes measured the distance in a heartbeat — about thirty feet, give or take a faceplant — and with a slight grunt of effort, he threw himself forward, leaping across the creek. He landed far past the edge on the other side with a soft thud, barely breaking stride as he continued his rush toward the source of the cries.

  The groans of pain grew louder, more urgent, guiding Greg through the thickening woods.

  Ash clung to him, wide-eyed and ears pinned back against the wind as Greg pumped his legs. His boot-clad feet skid into the clearing, finally releasing a breath as his eyes landed on the sight of a man slumped atop a large boulder. Arms wrapped tight around his stomach like he was trying to keep his insides from becoming outsides, blood seeped through his fingers, staining his tunic and trailing down the side of the rock like spilled paint.

  His face was pale as printer paper, lips trembling as he let out a weak, desperate scream—more a rasp than a shout, like his voice was fading with his strength. His eyes, wide and glassy with pain, locked onto Greg with the kind of terror that reached bone-deep.

  Greg's eyes widened further, Ash stiffening against him like a furry board, as his gaze dropped beneath the boulder to spot a massive beast pacing back and forth beneath it. A dark hide, nearly black, matted with mud and streaked with old scars like a living road map of violence. Tusks—jagged and yellowed—jutted out from its snout like cruel, curved blades, each one nearly as long as his entire freaking arm. "Hakuna Matata?"

  The blond teenager found himself staring at a giant boar, huge, barrel-chested and low to the ground, built like a tank made of muscle and anger. Its legs were thick and corded with muscle, like small tree trunks attached to a body made of nightmares. Every time it snorted, visible mist rose from its flaring red nostrils, making it look like some demon pig from hell.

  The boar slammed its head into the boulder, shaking the man perched on top, who let out another pitiful moan that sounded like a deflating balloon. It raked the ground with its hooves, tearing up chunks of dirt and grass like nature's own bulldozer, and then backed away a few feet, as if considering another charge. Its small, black eyes gleamed with fury—no, more than fury. The actual monster from this morning was almost aware, cunning in its many milky-white human-looking eyes, vicious but knowing as it tried to eat Greg alive, but this one was raw animal rage.

  There was an untamed madness in them, a kind of rage that came from a real beast. Like someone had taken regular pig anger and cranked it up to eleven. The massive pig's breath was labored, coming in heavy, steaming bursts, as if the act of trying to kill wasn't tiring it, but driving it to further frenzy — like murder was its caffeine.

  Okay… Greg took an instinctive step back, well aware that Ash was still in his arms, only for a loud crack to sound off as his foot landed firmly on a dry twig.

  His eye twitched as the boar froze. Because, why the fuck not, right?

  Before Greg could even blink, the boar's huge head snapped toward him, nostrils flaring as its eyes landed on fresh prey. Great job, me. Ten out of ten stealth.

  With only a loud-bodied snort and squeal as warning — like a steam engine having a temper tantrum — it surged forward, a solid wall of muscle and tusk barreling toward him, faster than anything that size had a right to be.

  Blue eyes widened as the earth trembled beneath its weight, each hoofbeat heavy and loud as the thing charged down the both of them like a living battering ram. Cheese and Rice!

  With a burst of speed, he dove to his left, his body leaving the ground as he rolled to cover, Ash firm and safe in his arms like a furry football. Please don't puke, please don't puke. He wasn't sure if he was begging himself or Ash—the boar's stench that strong—but the sentiment was the same. Behind him and to the side, the boar's charge carried it forward, the creature too committed to its path to adjust quickly as leaves and mud kicked up behind it like nature's own dirt bike.

  Landing a safe distance away, Greg quickly set Ash down behind a thick tree root, giving the whimpering bear cub a whispered, and urgent, "Stay. Here." He doubted it was necessary, considering the little guy had a pretty good head for danger, honestly, but still.

  He whirled back to face the boar, boots squelching in mud as he spun, the beast itself already wheeling around for another charge and t-Too close!

  Before he could reach for his sword in his bag—why the fuck did I put it inside the magic backpack—the boar was already on him and, running on nothing but sheer instinct as his heart tried to escape through his throat, his arms shot out in front of him. Gloved hands gripped and tightened on a pair of massive and sharp yellowed tusks and Greg's eyes widened as a curse slipped out of his throat. "Jesus f-!"

  The momentum was incredible, like trying to stop a runaway truck with his bare hands. The raw force of the boar nearly overwhelmed him, almost as bad as the smelly hot breath and nauseating spittle that sprayed his face. Oh, grossss. Gross gross gross. Greg's feet slid back in the mud, his boots carving deep grooves as he struggled to hold the creature at bay. His muscles screamed with the effort — like the worst arm day ever — veins bulging as he fought to keep those deadly tusks from turning him into a Greg-kebab.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Oh, yeah, and he almost forgot to mention one little thing...

  The most important little power-up he had gotten from his most recent of level-ups was this right here, showing its worth. Sitting by the riverside this morning after almost becoming river monster chow, he had felt his entire body remodel itself; muscles, bones, organs too probably, making him not just tougher, but faster, stronger, everything even down to his senses and reflexes were all so much better, it was a joke.

  Compared to the boost he got from the ring on his finger — magic jewelry, you've saved my life so much — there was no comparison. Being real, he doubted the golden ring was even doing much of anything right now, but it wasn't like he felt like taking it off to test that. Not exactly interested in testing it at all, honestly.

  The boar snorted and squealed, its breath hot and reeking of wild rot, like something had crawled into its mouth and died. Twice. It pushed harder, muscles rippling under its scarred hide, and he felt his grip slipping despite himself. Mud sucked at his boots as he tried to find better footing, the earth itself seeming to work against him. "This little piggy..."

  With a grunt of effort that sounded more like a squeaky toy than a battle cry, he shifted his weight and twisted hard. "Went to the market!"

  His muscles strained as he pulled on the tusks, redirecting the boar's momentum to the side just enough to throw it off balance. Physics class finally paying off. The animal's legs scrambled in the mud as it stumbled and fell, hooves cutting deep furrows in the earth as it tried to regain its footing while Greg leaped back, putting distance between them.

  The boar's fierce grunts gained a hint of confusion for half a second — what's wrong, bacon bits, never had someone fight back? — before it regained its bearings, its eyes finding Greg's green-clad body, and charged again. This time, Greg was less than a second away from being trampled or worse. On instinct, the teenager held his hand out, palm shimmering with white-blue light and words filled his mouth like pop rocks fizzing on his tongue. "Quen!"

  White-blue energy rushed from his palm in a flare of light and filled the space right in front of his outstretched palm as Greg called on the protective sign. Please work, please work, please don't be useless. It formed just in time, absorbing the impact of the boar's charge... for a second, at least. "Fu~uuuuuck..."

  Greg audibly groaned as a crack immediately formed on the shield with a sound like broken glass as the boar pushed into it, several more fully forming on it before the single word left his lips. The cracks spread like lightning across the surface as he rolled his eyes and tried to keep it going strong — great, my magic shield has the durability of a screen protector.

  And then, as expected, it gave. FUCK ME RUNNING!

  Staggering back from the force of the blow, Greg felt the glowing magical shield shatter, its energy dissipating into the air with a flash of light that sent him stumbling back and the boar rushing forward. Without wasting momentum, he spun on his heels with the momentum and leapt, his body moving before his brain could catch up.

  The boy flipped over the boar's back as it passed him by, landing awkwardly but quickly regaining his footing, boots sliding in the mud as he found purchase. Not wasting a moment, heart hammering in his chest like a drum solo, he thrust his hands forward, palms outstretched, summoning another spell aimed at it.

  "Aard!" His palm thrust out, fingers curled exactly the way he knew how to do, and a visible shockwave of translucent energy surged out, distorting the air like ripples on water. The smell of ozone filled his nose as the magic poured from his hand, raw force condensed into a blast of pure kinetic energy.

  The beast stumbled as the blast struck it square on the back, confused and enraged as it whirled around again, hooves tearing up chunks of earth. Okay, that's not gonna do anything. Time for plan B - or is this plan C? Whatever, time for fire!

  "Igni!" His fingers shifted position and fired off a burst of fire from his palm, the flames licking at the boar's face like an angry cat made of pure heat. The beast recoiled but only for a moment, anger flaring in its beady eyes as it regained its momentum, shaking off the flames like they were nothing more than annoying flies. Shit...

  Realizing the single burst wasn't enough, Greg's movements became more frantic, adrenaline making his hands shake slightly.

  He dodged to the side as the boar charged once more, weaving through the trees with Ash's anxious whines echoing behind him. Sorry buddy, kinda occupado right now! The forest floor crunched beneath his feet, leaves and twigs snapping with each desperate movement as he tried to stay ahead of the angry bacon factory trying to turn him into a shish kebab.

  With each leap, he peppered the charging beast with more blasts of Igni and swift, forceful gusts of Aard, trying to maintain distance. The forest filled with the crack of branches and the sizzle of scorching fur, the air tinged with the acrid smell of burnt bristle that made his nose wrinkle. Really, he would have spared a few moments to dig around in his bag for his blade, but he couldn't deny... Man, fighting with magic is way more fun than just swinging a sword!

  A grin spread across his face for a moment, only for it to freeze and falter as he heard another fading groan, the same one that sent him running this way in the first place. The sound cut through his excitement like a knife, reminding him this wasn't just some game. He winced. Dying man over there, Veder. Get your head in the game!

  As the boar lined up for another charge, its hooves pawing at the ground and sending clumps of dirt flying, Greg knew he needed to end this quick before he had somebody's blood on his hands. He paused, feet planted firmly on the soft, leaf-littered ground, and took a deep breath that tasted of earth and smoke. Clenching both fists, he drew on the deeper reserves he felt in his gut, the solar system of nerves in his soul whirring to life, all fifty of them spinning slowly like tiny stars made of pure energy.

  Visualizing his hand forming a firm grip on his sword — because apparently that helps or something — he pulled the energy up from his gut and poured it into his palms. The magic felt different this time, heavier somehow, like holding a lit firecracker instead of a sparkler.

  The boar bellowed as it charged forward, each step making the ground shake. Greg stood stock still, eyes open as he stared it down, trying to ignore the voice in his head screaming at him to move. Not yet.

  The ground began to rumble ever so slightly as he felt its mass through the forest floor, each impact sending tremors up his legs. Not yet...

  He could see the steam from its nose in the cold air, curling like angry smoke signals, the bright yellow in its eyes as it neared and the flecks of blood on its tus-Now! Do it now or become pig food!

  "Igni!" The words left his mouth with a depth he didn't know he had, like his voice had dropped three octaves, as he thrusted both hands forward, palms out. A bark of flames—larger and more intense than the near-sparklers of before—burst forth with a roar that drowned out even the boar's squeal. The twin streams of fire merged into a near-solid, a tight cone of heat and light twice as long as his arm that surged toward the charging boar like nature's own flamethrower.

  The beast's charge turned into a half-scramble as it tried to backpedal at the same time, hooves sliding in the mud, but it was too late. The fire engulfed its head and shoulders, the force of the blast halting its momentum like it had hit an invisible wall. It staggered, then slammed to its knees, fight draining out of it as smoke rose from its charred fur in thick, grey plumes that reeked of burnt hair and meat.

  The teenager watched the massive beast fall—at least a quarter ton of it slamming into the ground with a thud he felt in his bones—then stared down at his hands in shock, and then back up at the boar. ...I don't know what I expected.

  Honestly, when setting anything on fire, the answer is obvious. Like putting a Hot Pocket in the microwave for too long - crispy outside, molten inside. "It'll be on fire," Greg muttered to himself, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Clicking his tongue, the blond boy approached the boar cautiously, coming to a harsh stop as he got near the thing, a wince instinctively forming on his face as the smell hit him like a punch to the nose. The boar's face was...

  Well, a mess.

  Half of it charred from the blast of fire that seared through its flesh with an oozing mass of raw muscle and burnt skin showing, pink and black mixing together like some grotesque painting. The tusk on that side was splintered, bone-white fragments scattered in the mud, barely hanging from its jaw, probably from its hard impact on the ground. One eye was gone, the socket a pit of ash and blood, while the other rolled wildly in pain, glazed and unfocused. The smell of burnt meat and singed hair hung heavy in the air, cloying and thick, like someone had thrown a BBQ in hell, as the boar let out a low, gurgling sound—more a labored wheeze than a growl—its breaths uneven and ragged.

  Fuck me... He couldn't help but feel something raw in his gut, somehow even worse than how he had felt that first day with Ash's mom. Unlike the people that had tried to kill him, this was just an animal, not like it knew any better. At least bandits choose to be assholes.

  He frowned at that, unsure why he felt like this. I'm cut out for killing people, not animals? What sense does that make? The thought sat heavy in his stomach even still.

  Shaking his head, Greg shrugged his bag off his shoulders, laying it at his feet with a soft thud. Leaning over, he dug around in it for a second before pulling out his all-white sword, the blade looking far too long to fit as easily as it did inside the magic bag. Next time, I'm keeping this thing on my waist.

  The creature's body tensed once, muscles going rigid under his blade, then relaxed as the life fled from it, along with a large amount of blood as the sword exited its artery. The crimson stream painted the forest floor, turning dead leaves another color entirely.

  "Sorry, big guy," he murmured, glancing back to ensure Ash was safe. As the bear walked up to him, little paws padding softly on the blood-soaked ground, he sheathed his sword on his waist and shot a glance over at the dead boar. Now, time for that guy.

  Greg dashed over to where the man lay atop a large boulder, his tunic soaked with blood that looked almost black in the fading light. The sight of the man clutching his stomach, trying desperately to hold his grievous wound together like he was keeping his insides from becoming outsides, sent a jolt of urgency through Greg.

  Greg dashed over to where the man lay atop a large boulder, his tunic soaked with blood. The sight of the man clutching his stomach, trying desperately to hold his grievous wound together, sent a jolt of urgency through Greg.

  "Hey, man, you okay?" he called out as he scaled the boulder with a single agile leap to get a closer look, boots finding purchase on the moss-covered stone. Dumb question, Veder. Real dumb.

  The injured man looked up, face strained with pain and pale as old paper, half-glazed eyes widening slightly as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Probably the outfit. Green's not exactly a common color around here. "Nay, m'lord, ain't no help for me, I reckon. I'm proper done for," he gasped, his voice hoarse and barely carrying over the wind. "Thought I was huntin' small game, then that devil of a beast came from nowhere. Bloody..." he took in a weak, sucking breath that sounded wet in all the wrong ways, "...bloody thing's done me in."

  "What's your name?" Greg asked, slowly crouching over beside the man, eyes widening slightly as blood bubbled up between the hunter's red-stained fingers.

  "Wald," he rasped, the single word labored, as if the simple act of speaking cost him more strength than he could spare. "Wald," the man repeated, a pained grunt escaping him as he tried to adjust his position on the blood-slicked stone. "Trackin' a deer, I was, with two others, when th' bloody beast charged. Came...came so fast."

  Greg's eyes tracked to the gaping hole in the man's stomach, gruesome and deep, visible through his torn tunic. The wound looked like someone had taken an ice cream scoop to his abdomen. "Hang on, Wald. I can help," he said, reaching for the energy within, his fingers tingling as he tried to draw upon his magical reserves.

  "They ran, I told 'em to, Mikken and Rulf, good men, but they ain't knights, m'lord," Wald's breath hitched a bit as he spoke, his hand gripping Greg's arm with surprising strength. "Don't... don't let them find me like this, lad. Take me home, if it comes to it. My Wynda, she's waiting. Don't know how to tell her... I won't be comin' back."

  "Wald…" Greg tried to calm the guy down but the hunter's grip only tightened as he continued to beg, fingers digging into Greg's arm with surprising strength for someone who'd lost that much blood. Dude's got a good grip for a dying guy.

  "Not too far from 'ere, our town is. Just past them oak trees, north of da stream fork," Wald gasped out, each word seeming to cost him. "Please, m'lord, if I don't make it, see me body returned to me village. Me wife, me daughter, they'll be wantin' to say their goodbyes proper-like."

  Greg couldn't help but let out a short, breathy laugh, not out of amusement but to ease the tension that hung thick in the air like fog. "Don't worry, man, you'll be fine." He saw the doubt flicker across Wald's face but rolled his eyes. Time to show off the good stuff.

  Drawing on his inner reserves, Greg envisioned gripping his sword, the trigger that helped focus his magic like tuning a radio station. His hands glowed with a soft golden light, forming a translucent ball of energy that danced between his palms like a miniature sun. "Heal," he commanded gently, the golden light pooling and swirling before flowing towards Wald's wounds like water finding its path.

  The warmth of the spell enveloped the injured man, the glow seeping into torn flesh and knitting sinew and skin together with an almost visible haste. Like watching a video in reverse, except grosser. Wald's eyes went wide, a mix of fear and wonder overtaking his features as he watched the gaping wound in his stomach close before his eyes. "What in da... da pain? It's... it's gone?"

  "Just hold still," Greg urged, his voice steady as he maintained the flow of magic, watching torn flesh weave itself back together like some kind of weird time-lapse video. "Still fixing you up."

  The smallfolk went quiet at his command, and the minutes stretched on like taffy. Wald's breaths gradually grew steadier, the color slowly returning to his cheeks as the magic knit his flesh back together, turning angry red into healthy pink.

  As the light faded, Wald lay back, exhausted but whole. "I'll be... it's like the wound never was. How did ye...?" Wald stammered, touching his now-healed stomach with trembling fingers, his fingers tracing the spot where his fatal wound had been mere moments ago. The disbelief in his voice was thick enough to spread on toast.

  "It's magic," Greg repeated, helping Wald to sit up slowly, a grin spreading across the teenager's face as he steadied the older man. "Pretty handy, right?"

  Wald looked up at Greg, his earlier confusion and shock replaced by a clear respect that seemed a bit more intense than what people usually gave him as a 'lordling'. "Aye, that it is, m'lord. That it is. Never thought I'd see such wonders in all me days, no mummer's tale this one." His voice slowly softened, gratitude edging into his tone like warmth into cold hands. "I owe ye me life, m'lord. Anything ye need, just say da word."

  Greg chuckled, offering Wald a hand to help him off the boulder. The man's palm was rough and calloused against his own. "Man, I'm just happy to help."

  Wald's laugh was weak but genuine, but it paused, the man going quiet as he glanced at Greg with earnest eyes that reminded the teenager of a hopeful puppy. "Aye, I thank ye... can I offer ye a hot meal, m'lord? Ye and... yer bear?" His eyes flickered to Ash, who had padded closer, nose twitching at the mention of food.

  Greg blinked, first down at Ash, and then back up at Wald, not even bothering to dismiss the 'm'lord' anymore. He'd long gotten used to the smallfolk saying that, but the offer of a warm dinner... Real food that isn't jerky or hard cheese? Yes please.

  "An'... an' a place t' rest yer head for da night?" Wald continued, rubbing his hands together like he was trying to start a fire. "Ye saved me life; it's da least I can do."

  The blond blinked, opening his mouth slowly, the thought of a real bed making his back ache in anticipation.

  Seeing his hesitation, Wald pressed on, almost pleading like a kid asking for five more minutes before bedtime. "Please, it ain't much, but it's warm an' safe. An' me wife, she cooks a mean stew, best in da village."

  "...What's for dinner?" Greg finally asked, a small smile breaking across his face like sunrise.

  Wald's face lit up brighter than Greg's healing spell. "Would've been deer, if that damned boar hadn't..." He trailed off, eyeing the massive carcass of the boar they had left behind, its bulk casting a shadow in the dying light.

  Greg sighed, a plan forming in his mind like puzzle pieces clicking together. "Well, how about boar, then?"

  "Boar, m'lord? But it's too big t' carry..." Wald's voice faltered as he stared back at the daunting size of the downed beast, its bulk easily the size of a small cart.

  Hmm... well, guess I did find a use. The teenager shook his head and shrugged his bag off his shoulders. Reaching inside, he pulled out a pair of thick gold wristbands that gleamed in the fading light. Wald's eyes widened in awe as he caught sight of the shimmering metal, probably worth more than his house.

  "...not for me," Greg said casually, slipping the bands onto his wrists with practiced ease. As the cold metal touched his skin, he felt a familiar surge of strength flood his body, the powerful enchantment within the bands amplifying his already impressive strength. He knew this was probably going to leave him feeling drained a good bit later, but it was better than how drained he'd be by carrying this thing with his own strength.

  Stepping over to the boar, Greg positioned himself carefully, boots finding purchase in the blood-soaked earth. He eyed the massive creature, noting the way its coarse, mud-matted fur was clumped and matted with dried blood, still steaming slightly in the cool air. With a calculated movement, he slid one hand beneath the bulk of the animal, making sure he avoided the still-dripping blood from its wounds. In one smooth, practiced motion, Greg lifted the boar effortlessly with one hand, holding it high above his head like the world's grossest trophy. The boar's body was massive, easily the size of a bear, but Greg's arm remained steady, the gold bands glowing softly under the strain.

  He turned around and shot a grin at the hunter, the man's jaw as far down from the rest of his face as humanly possible as he stared with wide eyes that looked ready to pop out of his head. "Which way's the village?"