They just sat there—the three of them—for five to ten minutes, saying nothing.
Staring at the burning field.
At the large, very dead, green dragon lying in the middle of it.
“Well, how about that,” Narro said at last, the realization finally settling in. “We defeated a dragon. An actual, full-sized dragon.”
He nodded, then added for emphasis. “One that breathed fire.”
Reralt patted him on the back, immediately regretting it. He didn’t say anything, but the way he shifted his weight away from his bleeding side said enough.
“Your first?” He asked, grinning. “That’s the one that always stays with you.”
Narro smiled. “So… how many have you slain before?”
He fully expected a number greater than the total dragons known to exist.
“Reralt never keeps count,” Reralt replied, winking.
Narro took that for what it was: a silent admission that this one might’ve been the first.
And knowing Reralt as well as he did, he decided not to press the issue.
“We should head into town,” Narro said, rising slowly, carefully. “See if we can find a healer or something.”
“For me, obviously,” he added. “But since we’ll be there anyway, maybe they can look at you too. You know—just so I don’t feel too weak in comparison.”
“Of course,” Reralt said, attempting to stand.
He immediately failed.
Narro helped him up without a word.
“Didn’t warm up properly,” Reralt muttered.
“Must be it,” Narro agreed, glancing at the gaping wound in Reralt’s side.
Surely the bit of intestine poking out had nothing to do with it.
The Void, completely unharmed, was napping atop what remained of their belongings.
They decided not to wake her.
They weren’t entirely sure she was a kitten anymore.
She had fought like a puma.
A very angry, very murdery puma, a hundred times her size.
***
The town was still scrambling to contain the fire that raged through it. It wasn’t a sprawling city—maybe a hundred houses and shops, all tucked behind a wooden palisade. Most of them were on fire.
“There they are!” a child shouted. “The heroes who defeated the dragon!”
Those not busy with buckets or screaming turned to applaud.
Reralt immediately stood a little taller, wincing as he waved with one hand—clearly trying not to pass out on the spot.
“Thank you, dear peasants,” he said, voice booming and very clearly in pain.
Narro rolled his eyes. “Just say people. ‘Peasants’ is derivative.”
“What river?” Reralt asked, blinking. “Would take the fire out quicker.”
He turned to Narro, pleased with his own logic. Narro just stared.
Across the square, a healer’s tent fluttered in the smoky wind. A man in a soot-stained robe was treating burn victims, barking orders, applying salves, and trying to not be trampled. He looked up just in time to see the two limping their way toward him—one nearly naked and covered in mud, the other clearly leaking from several places.
His expression went flat.
“Oh good,” he waved at them. “The heroes.”
***
“Do you pay in advance or afterward?” a woman asked, stepping in front of them just before they reached the triage area.
“We’re dying here,” Narro snapped. “Can that be done later?”
“Well no,” she replied, genuinely puzzled. “If you die, who’s paying the bill?”
“Universal healthcare?” Narro tried.
“Private clinic.” The lady replied.
Reralt tossed a small rectangular card at her. “Hero insecurance,” he declared, nodding solemnly at Narro. “Includes the premium for sidekicks.”
The woman took the card and turned it over, squinting. “Insur… what?”
“Yes,” Reralt said, puffing up proudly. “It’s when… people you don’t know, somewhere far away, promise to give you money—if you give them money first.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“Well… because they’re afraid you’ll get upset if they don’t?” Reralt offered.
Narro stared at him. “You have no idea what insurance is, do you?”
“Not even slightly,” Reralt said cheerfully, pushing past her with the last of his strength.
“You thought you were paying off your insecurities, didn’t you?” Narro said with a grin, which immediately hurt his ribs.
“Don’t be stupid,” Reralt muttered. “It just gives them away.”
And with that, he limped into the healer’s tent, leaving the woman clutching a mysterious card, too afraid to ask what it actually meant—for fear of looking stupid.
***
They found a healer in the middle of a rather strange consultation.
“Does it hurt more or less than getting trampled by a horse?” the healer asked, pen poised.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“Aaawwww,” the patient moaned, face twisted in agony.
“Hmmm.” The healer nodded, checking a box in his notebook. “And more or less than being trampled by an elephant?”
“Aaawww!” the patient cried louder, trying to grab the healer’s robe with one trembling hand—half from the pain, half from sheer, desperate frustration.
“Well, best not skip the questionnaire,” the healer muttered, shaking him off. “Healing potions aren't exactly abundant, you know.”
The man's arm dropped limply behind the bedframe. His cries faded, then stopped altogether.
The healer sank to his knees and screamed at the ceiling, “If only he’d known what an elephant was!”
He stood up with a heavy sigh and moved on to the next bed.
“Right then,” he said, flipping the page. “Does it hurt more or less than being trampled by a goat?”
Narro and Reralt stared at the man who was holding up a finger.
It had a splinter.
“Could you perhaps first help the man with his intestines sticking out?” Narro asked, pointing at Reralt.
“Well no,” the healer said sternly. “They’re number 30D. I only do A and B. C and D are for doctor Phil, he made this system so he understands.”
“He died,” the man with the splinter said, pointing to a nearby bed—where the previously frustrated, now very dead patient lay motionless.
“No excuse, He instituted the method he would be proud that we uphold it.” The doctor said with a slightly tired smirk on his face that spelled out revenge, flipping his notebook. “Now—more or less than being trampled by a small goat?”
The splinter man glanced at his number, then at Narro and Reralt.
Without a word, he walked over, swapped his number with Narro’s, and returned to his place.
“I have 30D now,” he said. “What are you gonna do about it?”
The healer froze. Puzzled. Then panicked.
After a tense second, he rushed over to Narro and Reralt.
“More than an elephant,” Narro said flatly, before the man could speak.
“Ah,” the healer said, visibly relieved.
He handed Narro a healing potion. “Take a sip of this and yell at me in the morning.”
Then, without another word, he surveyed the room full of dying patients, nodded to no one in particular, and went on his break.
They both took a large swig and waited until it had the desired effect.
Narro distributed the rest to the people in the hospital.
Healing more people than the doctors in a month.
***
“So,” Narro said, relieved, as they stepped outside again.
Reralt was already giving handshakes, signing pieces of burned parchment, and awkwardly posing beside strangers with a strained, heroic smile.
“What… is that?” Narro asked, frowning.
“Shelfies,” Reralt said confidently. “standing very still so the memories are easier remembered.”
He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Narro opened his mouth, closed it again, then sighed.
“You know so they can ‘shelf’ them in their mind,” Reralt explained as if that was Narro’s issue with it.
The crowd, somehow, loved it. People lined up. Some brought pets. One even handed Reralt a half-melted spoon to sign.
And yes—Narro ended up in a few shelfies too.
“Shall we find the horses?” Narro offered once he’d had enough. “Heroes don’t linger.”
Reralt looked appalled. “What? Of course they linger. They bask in glory for at least a night.”
He leaned in closer. “You do realize you’ll need to play some campfire ballads,” he added, already grinning in anticipation of a glorious feast.
Narro nodded. “Fair. You earned it. But we still need to find the horses.”
Reralt rolled his eyes and whistled through his fingers.
The two horses came trotting up almost immediately—as if they’d been waiting for the cue all along.
Narro turned and plucked the mysterious card from the nurse’s still-bewildered hands. “I need that more than you,” he told her.
***
The feast was everything Reralt had ever dreamed of—people gathered around a campfire, shouting his name in reverence.
Well, they were also talking about Narro, the brave bard, and some kind of enormous black feline warrior. But Reralt coped, because the silver-haired warrior they kept praising was clearly him. They even called him Reralt the Bold.
He told his tale of how he had slain and tricked the dragon by attacking from behind.
“Always attack from the rear,” he instructed a group of wide-eyed children.
They hung on his every word. Some of the stories were loosely based on actual events. Most, Narro was fairly certain, had never happened—especially the one about how Reralt had slain the Quackagaddon. That one made a scar on his leg itch in protest.
Still, he played his part.
Nervously, he pulled out his lute. This would be his first real performance—the little lullaby for sweet Syril didn’t count.
He readied the first chord. The crowd fell silent.
Deep inhale. Deep exhale.
He struck the first note. It rang out, clear and strong. Then the second—twang.
All the strings snapped at once.
“Huh,” Narro muttered, turning crimson as every eye focused on him. “Apparently, hitting a dragon with a lute… turns it to a mute.”
Laughter erupted. Applause followed.
Reralt began to hum the song, a simple four-chord melody. Slowly, the crowd joined in.
Narro sang.
And as he sang, the chorus returned to him again and again—not just from his own mouth, but echoed by the voices of others. Each repetition hit something deep, the kind of ache only artists feel when others sing (or share) the words they once kept to themselves.
When the song ended, there was a tear in his eye. A lump in his throat.
Reralt had the same.
***
Early, too early the next morning.
They woke up next to the campfire, slightly hungover.
The Void was purring contentedly between them.
“Ahem,” someone said from the other side of the still-smoking fire.
“What?” Narro rubbed the sleep from his eyes, sat up, and blinked at a moody-looking man.
He was covered in scars, bruised black and blue, and missing two fingers. His leg had a familiar wound.
“You know Reralt?” Narro guessed.
“Lord of Givia,” the man corrected stiffly.
“Messenger boy!” Reralt shouted, rising halfway with a grin.
“Milord.” The messenger gave a shallow, begrudging bow.
“News from the realm,” he said, handing Reralt a wet, battered, half-burned, bloodstained parchment.
***
If only we could,
give it away we should,
have a card that would—
give insecurities.
Did we have some blame?
Do we feel some shame?
Did we forget a name—
gives insecurities.
In that we could guess,
Reralt never miss,
forever he was bliss—
without insecurities.
But we who still think,
and sometimes still blink,
we balance on the brink—
of insecurities.
So pass on the crown,
just toss it all down,
burn the world for a frown—
and some insecurities.
He holds it so proud,
shouts nonsense aloud,
while we walk, head bowed—
with our insecurities.
But don’t worry, The Ballads of Reralt continues straight into Book 2: Devin’s Wishdom.
I’m excited. You should be too.
