Fire crackled at the silent anticipation from Arlene. Her fiery gaze lingered still on Wattyson as the offer requesting his aid hung on. The sunlight, the one managed to pierced through the foggy windows, shined on her.

  Anxious whether he would accept or not. In her wishful thinking, she hoped he would accept to journey with her in this new duty of hers. Holding onto a sliver of hope she didn’t come across as na?ve and brush her off. For what felt like an eternity. He finally answered:

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Her mind went static then blank. Her eyes blinked slow, then rapid and confused. “Just like that?!” She gasped out higher in pitch. Her shoulders lowered but her voice betrayed the relaxed posture. “A-Are you certain?”

  The reply didn’t come instantly. It felt like another eternal waiting again. Wattyson crouched down to pick up his emptied teacup and kettle with one hand then made his way to the kitchen. The sounds of his staff clicking accompanied him.

  It was only until he was in the kitchen he replied. “I am. I haven’t been to the outside world in a long time. I could use this opportunity to see the world again.”

  Arlene collapsed onto the lumpy sofa, and she could feel every fibre of her body loosen up. She exhaled out a deep sigh of bewilderment. “Is this that eccentric behaviour you told me of, great mentor?” It was in half-joking and half-worried.

  Stealing a glance at him refilling his drink, she surrendered herself to this outcome. “Well… I guess it’s fine. He accepted it.”

  Taking a peek at the window, she couldn’t make out what time it was. She remembered arriving here in the afternoon and it didn’t felt like a long time had passed. The thick red canopy blocking the sunlight made any assessment of time problematic.

  “Wattyson,” she muttered out as she heard the clicking drawing near, “Should we set out now? I would love to begin.”

  “Huh? It’s late.”

  “I don’t think it’s that lat—“

  She turned to him pointing to a clock. The arms showed it was a quarter before six. That much time had passed? Was it that long in between the quiet or did her navigation through the Red Grove take that long?”

  The sound of wood creaking as Wattyson sat down, putting the kettle back on the table. He raised his leg up on the ottoman again.

  “I don’t recommend trekking through the forest at this hour. It’s easy to get lost.” He then gestured an open palm to Arlene. “Rest here for the night. You can take the bed.”

  Arlene shook her head and waved rejecting the idea. “No no, I’m just a guest here. I can sleep somewhere else. I can’t just sleep in the host’s bedroom. Please, I wouldn’t impose.”

  He raised a hand to halt her. “I insist. You travelled great distance to get here, didn’t you? You deserve a good bedding. Take the bed. Beside,” he shrugged, “I sleep on the sofa most of the time anyway.”

  She relented. It felt rude to reject again. She only nodded to his insistence. Then it was quiet again.

  Running out of thing to talk about, her eyes drifted everywhere. To the messy room, to the teacups and kettle, to him, then to the dusty paper he was reading.

  “Wattyson… are you a scholar?”

  “No.”

  “A sage?”

  “No. What makes you think that?”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  What made her say that? His living space was anything that. There were scrolls, tomes, books, and papers all lying about in the room. Everything was stacked and piled up like a bookcase or file cabinet wasn’t enough. He had a staff laced with crystal and eagle motif. He wore a white robe trimmed with gold. He was reading a paper when a guest was present!

  If he wasn’t a sage, then who would dress like that? She couldn’t think of any other reasons. She thought of ways to explain without sounding flabbergasted.

  “It’s just,” her eyes darted to pick one item at a time, “the robe, the papers everywhere, the staff and everything else. You just give me that impression. Everything about you and your cottage screamed scholar. I mean like even earlier when you explained the supernatural to me, you did it in such a deep scholarly voice.”

  She reached out to one of the paper, “Look here! You have a handwriting of someone who can’t be bothered to with! So truthfully speaking if you aren’t one, why would you do this?” Her mind was still grappling how with all of those, how would he claimed to not be a scholar or sage?

  He finally put the paper and cup down. He sat folded his legs with hands resting above them.

  “Just a hobby.”

  “Just a hobby?! What about the robe?”

  “I like the aesthetic. It’s cool.”

  “What about all of the… things here in the room. All those papers there!” she pointed all over the place, “and those knives?”

  “Like I said; just a hobby.”

  Such a nonchalance answer froze her in disbelief. Falling back to her sofa, she pressed onto her forehead massaging it. “Good heavens…”

  As if spur by that sudden question, he waited a few seconds before asking back. “So… about this ‘quest’ of yours, you’re the only one?”

  Arlene straightened back up to locked eyes. “Excuse me? What do you mean?”

  “Well,” a short inhale of breath, “You said you’re the Chosen One, correct? As far as I know, Chosen One is usually by the party member to defeat the Dark Lord. Where are they? Are they not coming with you?”

  The hearth’s fire flickered. It only shined to Arlene’s fully, but only half of his face. She didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t be sure if he was asking seriously. She took a study of his posture—leaning toward with his head titled to the side as if to hear better. He was genuine.

  She thought for a moment. Could she trust him then? However, her na?ve and good-natured conscious weighed in. Asking him to join her on the quest, to leave his home all of the sudden and depart immediately was pretty selfish of her to begin with, and she felt she owed him to that. With that logic she deduced to herself that Wattyson should be trusted.

  “They…,” her eyes softened with nostalgia and she bore a lonely expression, “Yes. I did have them. Three others in fact. They left afterward to live lives of their own.”

  It had been two years since the Dark Citadel’s destruction. Two years since the end of her quest and so did for her party members. She glanced out to the red canopy illuminated by the evening sun.

  She spoke again softer. “For this new ‘quest’ of mine, it’s just me now.”

  Her eyes darted back to Wattyson who was leaning back. A posture that would suggested disinterest but his head was still tilted to listen. Her answer got his full attention.

  A faint smile etched onto her face as it barely twitched up. “After our celebration, we all said our goodbyes and go our separate way.”

  Her gaze landed on her right hand, lifting a finger. “Lara, our elf healer, went back to her realm and resumed her royal duties. Eilifr, our mage, departed for the Free City of Meridian to study more of our world,” speaking of her caused a faint giggle, “she was always the obsessive little scholar that one.”

  Pink blushes crept in as her face softened with three fingers held up. “Lastly, our swordsman; Harves.” Her voice became so soft like a gentle breeze. “Harves always put himself in danger even though I’m the Chosen One. He was more heroic than I am admittedly. He always laughs it off when he got injured. You’d surprised at how fast he natural heal up his wounds.”

  Another exhale of breath as she rested her head atop of the sofa, staring into the dark wooden ceiling. “I don’t know where he went. I assumed he went back to his homeland, the Duchy of Valem. I haven’t kept in touch with him… or anyone for that matter. It got harder you know? Travelling all the time.”

  Nostalgic memories filled her headspace to then a soft warm feeling on her head. Her eyes blinked to the right and found Wattyson standing beside her. His hand was on her head before quickly pulled away. She didn’t hear him at all. He always made those clicking noise whenever he walked yet she didn’t hear him at all. It was then she noticed he wasn’t walking with the staff, and he wasn’t limping.

  “Uhh… thank you?” That sudden pat flustered her.

  Wattyson didn’t reply. He strode off to the kitchen so elegantly it was almost like he was floating.

  Arlene let her gaze linger on him confused by what caused the sudden pat. There he was in the dark kitchen with the light slowly faded out from the window. Darkness for mere seconds only to be lit up by mechanical light bulbs between the two rooms, and the fire from his cooking station.

  She observed how he held his hand high with his palm opened. He was gesturing in the air seemingly shaking it. What then came to the hand was a white cup floating to him, labelled ‘Paprika’. It was floating and… wait. He could use magic without chanting?"