The night passed quietly. When the fire sank to a faint glow, everyone found a place to rest. James, who had no tent, climbed into the wagon. The wooden planks creaked beneath him, but it was still better than sleeping on dirt.

  Marty tossed him an extra blanket. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

  Gerrard followed, placing something soft near James’s head. “Here. Not exactly a pillow, but it works.”

  James mumbled something that might have been “thanks” before drifting off.

  Villen, meanwhile, reached into thin air and pulled out a tent from his inventory. It unfolded neatly in seconds, the fabric still smelling faintly of rain and travel. He set it up beside the wagon, muttered a few words, and disappeared inside.

  The stars turned, the fire died, and morning came.

  A hand poked James in the ribs. Once. Twice.

  “Hey,” a voice said cheerfully. “Wake up. I’m hungry.”

  James groaned, pulling the blanket over his head. “Then go make breakfast yourself.”

  “I would,” Villen said, “but my cooking tends to offend people. My niece used to complain about it constantly.”

  Gerrard’s voice floated from outside. “I don’t cook either. Marty knows a bit, but I’d rather eat something made by James.”

  James sat up slowly, hair a mess, eyes half-open. “If you all want a real breakfast, bring me some ingredients. Because what you’ve got in this wagon is a tragedy: dried meat, old vegetables, and regret.”

  Villen crouched near the wagon. “What do you need?”

  James rubbed his chin. “For breakfast... a few eggs, some milk, flour we already have... maybe jam. If not, there’s still a bit of honey left, though not enough for everyone.”

  “Understood.” Villen reached into his inventory again. One by one, he pulled out everything James had listed: fresh eggs in a small basket, a sealed bottle of milk, a jar of strawberry jam, even a block of butter wrapped in cloth.

  James blinked. “Hey, are you running a secret market chain or something?”

  Villen frowned. “A what?”

  “Never mind.”

  He threw off the blanket, stretched, and got to work. The shield that had served as their oven last night would do again. He flipped it over to use the flat side and set it above the coals. A faint hiss rose as butter met the metal. The smell of melting fat filled the air.

  Marty appeared, rubbing his hands together. “Smells promising already.”

  Gerrard leaned on his staff, grinning. “The man cooks like he’s got divine blessing.”

  James cracked the first egg, mixing it with milk and flour in a wooden bowl. “Divine? More like practice and boredom.”

  Villen chuckled. “Whatever it is, I’m grateful. My niece would have loved you.”

  “Your niece sounds like she had taste,” James said, pouring the first batch onto the shield.

  The batter sizzled and spread into neat circles. Steam rose in slow curls, carrying the sweet scent of butter and flour. Morning sunlight filtered through the trees, painting everything gold.

  For a moment, it almost felt like peace.

  The pancakes began to take shape, golden at the edges and soft in the center. The scent of butter and flour spread through the camp like a gentle spell.

  The others gathered close, forming a loose circle around the fire.

  James sighed. “Watching them cook won’t make them any faster. Don’t you people have something better to do?”

  Marty crossed his arms. “Not really.”

  Gerrard looked around. “There’s nothing else here worth doing.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Villen tilted his head. “So mixing these things together makes this?”

  James gave him a tired look. “You’re all hopeless. Fine, but since you’ve got nothing to do, you’re washing the dishes after breakfast.”

  A few minutes later, the pancakes were ready. James stacked them neatly on a wooden plate, steam rising in soft curls.

  Villen leaned forward, eyes wide. “I’ve seen something like this once before.”

  “Really?” James asked, flipping another one.

  Villen nodded slowly. “Yes. But it didn’t smell half as good.”

  Marty grinned. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Gerrard rubbed his hands together. “How do we eat it?”

  “Simple,” James said. “A little strawberry jam on top, maybe some honey. Ah, if only we had coffee.”

  “Coffee?” Marty asked.

  “Coffee?” Villen echoed. “What is that?”

  James blinked, realizing once again how far from home he was. “It’s a kind of drink, bitter but good. Maybe one day I’ll show you. For now, eat before they get cold. They’re best fresh.”

  Villen hesitated for only a moment before taking his first bite. He started slow, chewing carefully, then suddenly began eating with surprising speed. “Can I have more?” he asked through a full mouth.

  James frowned. “First, swallow. Then talk. And fine, since you supplied the ingredients, I guess you earned it.”

  He turned back to the fire, pouring the next batch of batter.

  Marty raised a hand. “Me too, please.”

  “And me,” Gerrard added. “Wouldn’t say no to seconds.”

  James smirked as the smell of new pancakes filled the air again. For a moment, with sunlight filtering through the trees and laughter mixing with the hiss of butter, it felt like the world had forgotten to be cruel.

  After breakfast, they packed up the wagon and set off once more. The road wound through the forest, sunlight flickering through the leaves above. For a while, everything was calm. The only sounds were the creak of wheels, the rhythm of hooves, and the easy silence of full stomachs.

  Then the horses snorted. Marty pulled the reins tight. The wagon slowed to a stop.

  “Hey,” James muttered, straightening up. “Why are we—”

  He froze. Ahead of them, half-hidden among the trees, stood a massive creature. Feathers and fur blended into one monstrous shape, its yellow eyes fixed on them.

  Gerrard’s voice dropped low. “Ah, damn our luck.”

  James blinked. “What the fuck is that?”

  Marty’s tone turned grim. “Owlbear. Aggressive, territorial, and very hungry. You’ve never seen one? They live almost everywhere. Lucky for us, this one’s alone. Gerrard can handle it.”

  Gerrard exhaled through his nose. “Figures it’s me again.”

  He stepped down from the wagon, staff in hand, and began walking forward with slow, deliberate steps.

  Behind him, Villen lifted his head slightly and sniffed the air. Once. Twice.

  James frowned. “What are you, a dog?”

  “Shh,” Villen whispered.

  Marty turned to look at him.

  “They’re not alone,” Villen said quietly. “I smell at least three more.”

  Marty’s eyes widened. “Gerrard, stop! There’s more of them!”

  The old mage turned just as movement stirred in the brush. Three more shapes emerged behind the first: each one snarling, each one easily twice Gerrard’s size.

  Color drained from his face. “Oh, hell.”

  The four owlbears charged. The ground trembled under their weight. Gerrard spun and ran, his robe flapping wildly. “If I live through this,” he muttered between gasps, “I’m retiring tomorrow. For real this time.”

  James screamed. “What do we do, what do we do!”

  Villen shot him a look. “Last night you were brave enough to insult strangers. What happened to that courage?”

  “Courage?” James yelled back. “That was against an old man, not these feathered nightmares!”

  Marty gripped the seat of the wagon, whispering, “If this is how I die, at least I died eating good food.”

  James’s voice cracked. “No! No, not again! I’m not dying twice!”

  Villen stood, brushing the dust from his cloak. “Calm down. And stop shouting. No one’s dying today.”

  He lifted one hand toward the sky. A low rumble followed. Lightning split the clouds and struck: one bolt for each beast. The owlbears collapsed mid-charge, smoke curling from their fur.

  The air cracked white and blue, the smell of ozone biting at their noses. The flash left shadows burned into their eyes before the thunder caught up, rolling through the forest like a beast’s roar.

  Gerrard, who had already sprinted past the wagon, stopped and turned slowly. His mouth hung open.

  Marty and James stared at Villen, speechless.

  Villen smiled faintly. “For someone who wrestled goblins naked, you scare easily.”

  James pointed at him. “You could do that this whole time? Why didn’t you say so?”

  Villen shrugged. “You never asked.”

  Gerrard climbed back onto the wagon, clutching his chest. His face was pale, his breath uneven.

  “Ah, I thought that was it for me,” he wheezed.

  Marty laughed. “No way. You were running so fast I could barely keep up with my own eyes.”

  “Every bone in my body aches,” Gerrard grumbled. “Don’t make fun of the dying.”

  “You were supposed to protect us, remember?” Marty teased.

  “Against four owlbears?” Gerrard shot back. “Next time you fight them, I’ll cheer from the wagon.”

  James crossed his arms, still staring at Villen. “So, you’re a mage too? And if Villen could do that, why couldn’t you?”

  “Kid,” Gerrard said, rubbing his knees, “if I could cast magic like that, I wouldn’t be here playing merchant with this geezer. I’d be raiding dungeons as an adventurer and swimming in gold.”

  “Dungeons?” James muttered. “Adventurers? Figures. I should’ve known when I saw an owlbear.”

  The three men turned to look at him, puzzled.

  James coughed. “Never mind. Villen, that move you pulled was really cool. What kind of skill was it?”

  “Skill?” Villen raised a brow. “That was a magic.”

  “Right, right, but how did you activate it?”

  “To cast magic, you need mana,” Gerrard explained.

  “That’s it?”

  Marty shook his head. “Most people aren’t born with it. Only those who have mana can use magic.”

  James frowned and opened his system window.

  [Status Window]

  Mana: 120 / 120

  Stamina: 196 / 240

  “I’ve got mana,” he said slowly. “So why can’t I use magic?”

  Silence fell over the wagon. Even the forest seemed to pause. The question hung there, heavy and waiting for an answer.