My father took me up to the top of the wall two steps at a time, except that his idea of two steps was apparently closer to five. He bounded up the stairs with me still perched on his shoulders, boots striking stone in rapid, confident impacts, as if gravity were more of a polite suggestion than a rule that truly applied to him. Each leap carried us higher, the stairwell blurring into a steady rhythm of stone, shadow, and motion that felt more like flight than climbing.

  I giggled, unable to stop myself, the sound bursting out of me from sheer, unfiltered joy. It surprised me how easy it was to laugh like that, how little effort it took in this body. He laughed too, loud and unrestrained, the kind of laugh that came from the chest and did not care who heard it. He seemed just as delighted by the climb as he was by the excuse to inconvenience Randall later. The wall rushed past us in alternating bands of torchlight and darkness as he flew upward, higher and higher, until the enclosed stairwell finally gave way to open air.

  Wind hit my face immediately, cool and sharp, tugging at my hair and clothes. Sunlight flooded in all at once, bright enough to make me blink and squint. The world opened beneath us, vast and living, stretching away from the wall in every direction. From up here, the land felt enormous and small at the same time, orderly where people had claimed it and wild where they had not.

  At the top of the wall sat a solid, well-built structure of stone and reinforced wood. It was practical rather than imposing, its lines clean and purposeful, built to endure weather, monsters, and the long, grinding weight of bureaucracy. There were no banners, no carvings meant to impress. It looked less like a seat of authority and more like a place where decisions were made, recorded, and enforced.

  “That’s the office,” my father said when I tilted my head at it. “Commander’s office.”

  He jogged up to the door and knocked once, sharp and confident, then stopped without fidgeting or shifting his weight. We waited. Around us, the sounds of the wall carried easily, distant shouts, the clink and scrape of armor, the measured calls of watch rotations, and the ever-present wind pressing against stone.

  “So, Dad,” I said, leaning forward slightly, fingers resting against his hair for balance, “what made you want to be a defender?”

  He chuckled, the sound rumbling up through him in a way I felt more than heard. “That’s a long story,” he said. “I can summarize it for you if you want, but I think we’ll have more than enough time later. If you’d rather wait, I’ll tell you the full version.”

  I was tempted to ask for the short version anyway, curiosity tugging at me, but before I could decide, the door opened.

  “Izem,” a voice called warmly. “Come in, come in.”

  The speaker stepped into view, and my father shifted slightly so I could see him properly without sliding from his shoulders.

  “Is this your son?” the man asked, his tone open and curious rather than merely polite.

  “Yes,” my father said without hesitation. “This is my Zolo.”

  “Zolo,” he added, “meet Commander Raptan of Northland.”

  Before me stood a goblin in full plate mail.

  Goblins were not actually as short a race as most people believed. They simply hunched by habit and tradition, carrying themselves low and compact, as if always braced for a fight or a quick retreat. Raptan did not. He stood straight, shoulders back, spine locked into place with practiced rigidity. He came up to roughly three quarters of my father’s height, which put him at around five feet tall. He was not a small man by any reasonable measure.

  The way he held himself made it clear that posture had been drilled into him for most of his life. This was not affectation or pride. This was discipline, reinforced until it had become instinct, until standing any other way would have felt wrong.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  That alone was notable. What was truly unusual was how immaculate he looked. His armor was polished to a muted shine, fitted perfectly to his frame, and worn with the ease of long familiarity. It did not look ceremonial or unused. It looked maintained, cared for by someone who believed details mattered. His stance was precise, balanced, and economical, the posture of someone who wasted no motion.

  And his smile… his smile was perfect.

  Goblins, as a rule, did not have smiles like that. They shed teeth with alarming regularity and often had too many at once when they did not. Commander Raptan’s teeth were even, well cared for, and clearly maintained with deliberate effort. It was the smile of someone who took pride in presentation and followed through on it.

  He looked, quite possibly, like the most proper goblin I had ever seen.

  Not that goblins lacked culture. They simply defined propriety differently than most other societies. Even so, I had known goblins who were kind, clever, and fiercely loyal. They were an industrious people, practical to the core, and when it came to family, they fought almost as fiercely as dwarves did. Seeing all of that distilled into one man made the impression stronger, not weaker.

  “Come in, come in,” Commander Raptan said again, stepping aside to let us enter. “Zolo, your father tells me you are a reincarnator. It is very nice to meet you.”

  He inclined his head slightly. “I am one as well. So we have that in common.”

  “Oh,” I said, blinking once as the pieces clicked into place. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”

  He laughed softly. “Yes. The teeth.” He gestured to his mouth with a gloved finger. “I was an elf in my last life. The grooming never really left me. In this one, I decided to keep the custom. I like my appearance to be as good as my paperwork.”

  His smile widened just a touch. “Which is excellent, all things considered.”

  I smiled back, unable not to.

  “My Zolo here has a request,” my father said, shifting slightly as he stepped fully into the office, hands still steady at my legs. “And I think it will help with that outstanding issue we’ve been having anyway. So I told him you’d probably be willing to help.”

  “Oh?” Commander Raptan said, turning his attention fully to me now. “Is that right, Zolo?”

  I straightened instinctively, shoulders squaring despite my position. “Is there any way,” I asked carefully, “that you could make Randall arrive later than normal. Late enough that he has to go through a proper inspection. Paperwork. The whole process.”

  Raptan’s smile thinned, not disappearing, but sharpening into something precise and assessing. “I generally dislike the man,” I added. “He is a horrible teacher and does not deserve the title of wizard.”

  “Ah,” Raptan said slowly. “Yes. Your father mentioned that you were a wizard in your last life.” He studied me with open interest, unhurried and thoughtful, the way a craftsman examined a tool. “It is interesting to see you take up adventuring now that you no longer have magic. If I had lost mine, I think I would have gone into a craft. Inventing, perhaps. Defender work was my last life’s path.”

  He nodded once, approval clear. “You are a strong-willed person, Zolo. I am glad you have come to this world again to help stand against monsters and the incursion of dungeon cores.”

  I met his gaze and spoke honestly. “I am glad to be back,” I said. “And I hope we can work together to make a better world for all sapient races.”

  “Wonderfully put, young Zolo,” Commander Raptan said, his smile returning in full.

  He studied me for a moment longer, then his expression shifted into something more playful. “Let us have a little fun, little Zolo,” he said. “Your father tells me your mother and you used to play weave together. In my past life, I was a master of the game. I assume that you, as a wizard yourself in your last life, were quite proficient.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back, posture never wavering. “I have not had a true challenge at the board in many years. I think you and I might have a game worth remembering.”

  My father shifted slightly beneath me, pride and amusement bleeding into his voice. “This was one of the things I planned for you, son,” he said. “Raptan has been telling me about this game for years, and I always thought it sounded a bit dull, if I’m being honest.”

  Raptan’s smile flickered, clearly offended for exactly half a heartbeat, before turning amused.

  “But,” my father continued, unbothered, “when your mother told me you had started playing with her, and how much joy she got from it, and how much joy you had playing together, I thought maybe I had been wrong. I thought, why not introduce you to someone who truly loves the game, and see if the two of you might get along?”

  I felt something warm settle in my chest at that, the image of my mother’s quiet concentration and rare smiles rising unbidden. The memory carried weight without pain.

  “I would be honored,” I said, meeting Raptan’s gaze without hesitation. “I would love to play a game of weave with you, Commander Raptan.”

  His smile widened, satisfied, the expression of someone who had just found exactly the challenge he had been hoping for.