Marty’s pace was starting to kill me. For someone who was supposed to be “teaching me the ways of the world,” he didn’t seem all that concerned about actually reaching any part of said world. But I guess when you’re seventeen and powered exclusively by spite and naps, urgency isn't on the menu.

“You sure you’re not tired?” I asked, glancing up at him. He was moving like a snail that had just lost the will to live.

“Nope,” he said, dragging his feet with great enthusiasm for doing nothing. “Just enjoying the journey. Slow and steady wins the race, or something.”

It would’ve been nice if he could pick at least one of those words and commit to it—preferably “steady”—but I decided to save my breath. He was the kind of person who thought walking slower somehow counted as wisdom.

We’d been walking since sunrise, and even though I was five and allegedly “full of energy,” I’d already hit my daily quota of enthusiasm. The bag Tarmellon gave me? Stuffed with nonsense. Twelve different kinds of dried beans. Twelve. Who does that? Who looks at a small child and thinks, “Yes. Beans.”

“You could carry this, you know,” I muttered, shifting the sack on my back.

“I could,” Marty replied, yawning, “but then you wouldn’t learn anything.”

I briefly considered learning how far I could throw the bag at his head. He’d probably call it “innovative spellcasting” and give me extra credit.

Eventually, we crested a hill. I’ll admit—it wasn’t the worst view I’ve ever had. The outer ring of the city sprawled ahead of us, wrapped in a half-hearted stone wall with squat towers and carts rolling in and out. More people than I’d seen in... well, in this lifetime, anyway.

“See?” Marty said, clearly proud of himself. “Great view, right?”

I squinted. “Sure. If you like buildings. And crowds. And smells.”

“It’s called a city, Hat. Not every place is a quiet little farm with nobody around. You’ll have to get used to it.”

“Pretty sure I could survive just fine without it.”

Marty just shrugged and pulled out his sacred relic: the notebook. He flipped to a page titled—

Things to Show Hat So He Doesn’t Turn Into Tarmellon

I rolled my eyes. Though part of me wondered just how long that list actually was.

“First stop,” he declared, using that bored, emotionless tone only teenagers and undead liches can master, “the mana scriptorium.”

“Is that a fancy way of saying ‘place where I’ll slowly die of boredom’?”

“No. It’s where people study magic. You might actually learn something useful.”

“I’m five, Marty. I know what magic is. It’s the thing that ruins everything.”

“Exactly,” he said, yawning again. “So let’s go ruin stuff.”

We made our way down toward the city gates, which were... barely guarded. Two guards stood by, lazily chewing on what looked suspiciously like bread mixed with paste. One of them waved at Marty like they were old drinking buddies.

The outer district was a mess of farmers, scammers, and street performers all yelling over each other like it was a contest. One guy was trying to sell “authentic troll teeth” that looked suspiciously like they came from a very cooperative goat.

“Please tell me we’re not stopping there,” I said, pointing.

Marty didn’t even slow down. “Last time he sold me goblin ears. Not making that mistake again.”

I gave him a look. “Goblin ears?”

“They were very convincing goblin ears,” he muttered.

The crowd thickened as we walked, and that’s when I felt it—something tugging at my hat.

I spun around and gave the best glare I could muster. Which, coming from a five-year-old, probably looked more like a startled owl trying to do math.

Behind me stood a group of kids, most around my size give or take an inch. Age had started to feel more like a suggestion than a measurement anyway. Leading them was a girl taller than the rest, with stiff blonde braids and a glorious gap where her front tooth used to live. She wore it like a trophy.

Her arm was still raised, mid-crime.

“What is that on your head?” she asked, pointing at my hat like it owed her money.

I blinked. “Oh. Right. It’s a frog.”

She tilted her head. “A real one?”

“If it was, you’d be down another tooth.”

The kids behind her giggled. She didn’t.

“I’m Jonka,” she declared, like she was dropping a royal title.

“My condolences.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s your name?”

“Hatrellon.”

“...Condolences.”

...Fair enough.

“You seem interesting. Wanna come play with us?”

“No. I’m tired. I’d rather nap in traffic.”

“What? You can’t say no!”

“I can’t? Who decided that?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m Jonka.”

She said it like that explained everything.

“Yeah. I heard. So?”

The kids behind her froze like I’d just insulted their ancestors. Jonka’s smile vanished. Her whole body tensed.

“Guess you’re not from around here, are you?” she said, stepping in closer.

“No. I’m not.”

She smiled then—a wide, gap-toothed grin that might’ve looked friendly if not for the distinct sense of menace radiating off it.

“Then I guess you’ve got a lot to learn about how things work around here...”