The morning market of Lower Valemark was the kind of place where everyone knew exactly what they were doing and assumed everyone else was doing it wrong. Vendors shouted about their definitely-not-overpriced goods, children darted between legs with the speed of tiny thieves, and at least three different arguments were happening about the proper price of cabbage.

  Rast led them through with the confidence of someone who'd written reports about every stall, vendor, and probable pickpocket.

  ?Dried meat from Hendrick's,? he said, pointing with his good arm. ?Trail bread from the Sisters. They bless every loaf, though I'm not sure that affects the taste. And whatever that purple stuff is, avoid it. Trust me.?

  ?What is it?? Venn asked, eyeing the violently purple substance with a curious look that defied Rast’s warning.

  ?Hells do I know. The vendor doesn't know. It might be food. It might be paint. Last week someone used it to strip rust off a sword.? He paused. ?It did work, but the sword was purple afterward.?

  His left arm hung in its sling, and Reyn noticed how he kept adjusting it with barely concealed pain. Every movement seemed to remind him of breaks that hadn't healed right, wouldn't heal right, and probably never would heal right.

  ?Your arm's not healing properly,? she said.

  ?No, it's not. Turns out repeated breaks in the same place aren't good for bones. Who knew?? He stopped at a vegetable stall, where Turnip immediately began eyeing the turnips while drooling. ?This Pilgrimage thing of yours is killing me. Literally. First the tricarrion, then the rats, then the lake thing. Then... well, I think I’m not joining further from here. There's a whole tower of wizards here that might help these bones, you know, and that won’t put me in new situations where new bones might break.?

  ?Ask for Karar,? Randulph said, examining travel cloaks with the expression of someone who expected disappointment and was rarely surprised. ?His transmutation skills are beyond anything I've seen.?

  ?He can heal me??

  ?Oh, he'll make you better than before you got hurt.? Randulph held up a cloak, grimaced at its existence and put it back. ?Much better. Possibly with extra joints. He always overdeliver.?

  Rast paled. ?Extra joints??

  ?Or fewer joints but stronger bones. Or tentacles. He's quite creative. I once saw him give a man gills because he complained about holding his breath.? Randulph found another cloak, deemed it slightly less offensive. ?I'm sure whatever he does, you'll be... improved.?

  ?I think I'll just retire,? Rast said with a sigh. ?Or find something boring that won't try to kill me.?

  A crowd had gathered near the weapons merchant, and Reyn could hear a Bormecian being mentioned. Not quietly. Not accurately either, but she realized after a while that the Bormecian in question was herself.

  ?—tore it apart with her bare hands, I heard—?

  ?—blood for miles in every direction—?

  ?—the Frogbeast didn't stand a chance—?

  ?—completely naked except for the blood—?

  ?—eight feet tall at least—?

  ?—rode the monster's corpse across the lake—?

  Venn made a choking sound at the naked comment. Reyn didn’t quite understand that particular rumor's origin, though she suspected the innkeeper's creative additions to the story had helped. Stories tended to grow larger with each telling, after all. That was why she didn’t like tales of heroes and the likes.

  ?You're famous,? Rast said with a smirk. ?The Slayer of Greenlake. The Bormecian of the Lake. The Woman Who Punched Water And Won.?

  Reyn didn’t bother to look at him. ?That last one doesn't even make sense.?

  ?Not a lot about you do, but here we are.? He selected dried meat with his good hand, winced at the price, and paid anyway. ?Fame has a cost. Literally, the merchant just raised his prices because you're watching.?

  A well-dressed man pushed through the crowd, his self-assuredness either telling about importance or excellent self-delusion. His extravagant clothes said merchant, although Reyn figured that could’ve just been some Western fashion she didn’t understand, but his bearing said someone who announced things for a living. His mustache told of several greasy meals.

  ?Excuse me! You there! The tall woman with the rabbit!?

  Turnip chittered threateningly, which from a blood-stained rabbit was surprisingly effective.

  ?That's specific enough to be you,? Rast said to Reyn.

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

  The man arrived, slightly out of breath but maintaining dignity through obvious effort. ?Micken Goldhand, tournament organizer and procurement specialist for the Royal Tournament of Arms!?

  ?That's a lot of words,? Reyn said, rubbing her right temple with her thumb.

  ?It pays by the syllable,? Micken said, then resumed his official tone. ?News of your victory over the Greenlake Terror has spread! The Royal Tournament in Crownport would be honored by the presence of the Slayer!?

  ?Crownport?? Randulph brightened, then groaned. ?That's weeks of travel. Over the Vaeli River, through King's Forest. My knees are whining just thinking about it.?

  Reyn ignored him. ?When is this tournament??

  ?Six weeks hence! In the capital itself! The King sometimes attends! When he's not busy being kinged at!? Micken seemed incapable of not speaking in announcements. ?The prize pool is substantial! The glory, even more so! The merchandise opportunities, endless!?

  ?Merchandise?? Venn asked.

  ?Wooden figurines! Commemorative plates! 'I Survived Watching the Slayer' tunics!? His hands painted invisible fortunes in the air. ?The crowds love a story! And what a story! A Bormecian does good! Or bad! Depending on perspective!?

  ?That's a long journey,? Reyn said, trying to calculate distances on mental maps that mostly consisted of 'here' and 'not here.'

  ?But convenient!? Micken continued. ?Straight to glory! And profits!?

  He paused for breath, which seemed to require concentration.

  ?Imagine!? Micken continued, because apparently breathing was a choice. ?Two Bormecians in the final round! That would make for a spectacular show! The betting alone would fund a small war! Not that we're funding wars! That would be irresponsible!?

  Reyn looked around confused. ?I don't see any other Bormecian??

  ?Oh, there's this fellow! A massive brute, if I ever saw one! And I've seen many brutes! Professional brute observer!? Micken's enthusiasm could have powered a small mill or annoyed a large one. ?Participates and wins every year! They call him the Black Mountain! Kael the Barbarian!?

  Reyn and Venn exchanged glances. Rast's good hand went to his sword, for some reason. Even Randulph looked up from his cloak examination.

  ?Kael,? Reyn said, not entirely believing what she was hearing. ?The Bormecian who leads the Crimson Hand participates in public tournaments??

  ?I don’t know about any Crimson Hand-affiliation, but he participates Every year! It's tradition! He says it keeps him honest!? Micken seemed oblivious to the tension. ?Imagine the story! Two Bormecians! Both undefeated! The clash would be legendary! The reconstruction costs alone!?

  ?That's our lead then,? Reyn said.

  ?Lead?? Micken asked. ?Like metal? We don't allow metal enhancement! Rules are very clear!?

  ?She means she'll definitely participate,? Venn said quickly. ?We'll be there.?

  Randulph groaned.

  ?Magnificent! Stupendous! Other exciting adjectives!? Micken produced a rolled parchment from nowhere, or possibly his mustache. ?Your invitation! Don't lose it! It's worth its weight in gold! Though parchment doesn't weigh much! The thought counts! Also the actual gold prize!?

  He departed in a whirlwind of enthusiasm and exclamation points, leaving them standing among the vegetables and confused onlookers.

  ?Kael fights in public tournaments,? Rast said slowly. ?The leader of the most dangerous criminal organization in the kingdom just... enters tournaments. Under his own name.?

  ?We can’t say for sure that it is the same person,? Venn said.

  Rast raised an eyebrow. ?How many Bormecians have you heard of in these parts??

  Reyn shook her head and crossed her arms across her chest. ?It is him.?

  ?In the capital,? Randulph added. ?Where the King lives. Where the army is stationed. Where law still actually matter.?

  ?Hey,? Rast started, feigning his displeasure. Then he shrugged and smirked. ?Eh, never mind.?

  ?Maybe that's the point?? Venn suggested. ?Hide in plain sight? It’s not like it’s common knowledge that he leads them, is it??

  ?Hiding is not the Bormecian way,? Reyn said.

  Randulph nodded, chewing on his thoughts. ?He may have protection of some kind. Someone high up who ensures he can compete without arrest.?

  ?That's a cheerful thought,? Rast said. ?Corruption at the highest levels. Good thing that never happens.? He adjusted his sling again. ?Well, that's your next destination sorted. And conveniently, my exit.?

  Reyn nodded.

  Venn frowned. ?You're really leaving??

  ?I'm really tired of breaking bones. Plus, someone needs to file a report about all this that makes sense. 'Rabbit-assisted barbarian fights lake monster' isn't going to write itself.? He paused. ?Actually, knowing my superiors, they'll probably think I was drunk. Might be better that way.?

  They finished gathering supplies, Turnip successfully intimidating the vegetable merchant into a significant discount by simply existing near his produce. The crowd had grown, with people openly pointing at Reyn and whispering increasingly unlikely stories about her battle with the lake monster.

  As they prepared to part ways at the market's edge, Rast pulled Reyn aside.

  ?That Rage-thing of yours. It's getting harder to control, isn't it??

  Reyn nodded. She hated to admit it, but the short time between two events that turned into a Frenzy was evident enough.

  ?Be careful. Don’t become the monster everyone thinks Barbarians are.? He adjusted his sling one more time. ?Also… well, take care.?

  ?Noted.?

  ?And Reyn?? He grinned. ?When you fight Kael, punch him once for me.?

  ?I'll punch him several times.?

  ?Even better. Make one for each form I've had to fill out about that wretched group.? He started to leave, then turned back. ?Oh, and that girl, Venn? She likes you. In case you hadn't noticed.?

  ?Friends tend to do that, do they not??

  Rast stared at her for a moment, then laughed. ?You really don't... never mind. You'll figure it out. Or you won't. Either way, it'll be entertaining for everyone watching.?

  He left them there, heading back toward the Tower district with the careful gait of someone protecting multiple injuries and possibly his sanity. Reyn didn’t feel sad watching him go. He was a good companion, but she was sure she’d see him again sometime.

  ?Six weeks to Crownport,? Venn said, checking their supplies. ?Across the Vaeli River, which means boats.? She glanced at Reyn. ?Can you swim yet??

  ?I can swim in shallow water where I can touch the bottom and walk.?

  ?The Vaeli is... not shallow.?

  Reyn held her grimace. ?Then I'll take a boat like a normal person.?

  ?You're many things,? Randulph said, finally selecting a cloak that met his minimal standards. ?Normal isn't one of them. Normal people don't have murder rabbits. Normal people don't fight lake monsters. Normal people's reputations don't grow three feet and lose clothing with each telling.?

  ?Eight feet tall and naked,? Venn muttered, still blushing.

  ?What??

  ?Nothing. We should go. Long journey ahead.?

  The King's Road stretched south before them, weeks of travel toward the heart of Vaelen. Toward leads, tournaments, wizards, and probably more things trying to kill them. The morning sun made the road look golden, which was either promising or ominous depending on perspective.

  ?A wizard, a mage, and a Barbarian walk into the capital,? Reyn said as they began walking.

  ?That sounds like the start of a joke,? Venn said, clearly surprisez.

  ?It is,? Reyn said, adjusting Good Deeds on her back, smiling. ?Rast must’ve rubbed off on me.?

  Randulph sighed. ?We just don’t know who the punchline is yet.?

  Turnip chittered agreement from her shoulder, still munching on a stolen turnip with the satisfaction of someone who'd won a tiny, vegetable-based war.

  Behind them, Valemark was already turning Reyn's story into something unrecognizable. By the time they reached Crownport, she'd probably be ten feet tall and breathe fire.

  At least the weather was nice.

  politics, fatherhood, you-name-it, in the comments.