Morning arrives with the distant sound of a rooster attempting opera. Or maybe being strangled by existential dread. Either way, it is far too early, and I am not emotionally prepared for this level of avian drama.

  Ren is already awake. Naturally. The boy wakes with the sun, as if cursed by an ancient god of productivity and soup-making. He hums as he stirs porridge, hums as he feeds the goat, and—most insultingly—hums as he lovingly cleans my blade with a linen cloth that smells like lemon balm and misplaced optimism.

  “I signed us up for a mission,” he says between bites of bread and honey. “From the village board.”

  I blink. Mentally. Violently.

  “What kind of mission?” I ask, knowing——this cannot possibly go well.

  He smiles. “The poultry farmer’s chickens have gone missing.”

  I do not dignify that with a response.

  But he takes my silence as agreement. He always does.

  By midday, we’re at the edge of the forest, standing in front of a coop that looks like it lost a bar fight with a raccoon. Feathers are everywhere. A disoriented duck stares at me with beady judgmental eyes. The farmer—a wiry man with a hat made of straw and spite—waves dramatically.

  “Third time this week!” he says. “Something’s snatching them right out from under my nose! It’s sorcery, I tell ya. Or foxes. Fox sorcery.”

  Ren listens patiently, nodding like he’s receiving a royal briefing instead of a deeply unhelpful rant about chicken-napping spirits. I, meanwhile, begin to question whether the gods are actively trying to ruin me or if this is just what rock bottom feels like when it involves poultry.

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  We investigate.

  By which I mean Ren follows a trail of feathers while I hum warningly every time a squirrel moves too fast. We find no blood, no signs of struggle, and no footprints. Just feathers. And, somehow, a half-eaten turnip.

  “I think they’re being led away,” Ren says thoughtfully.

  “Oh, brilliant,” I reply. “We’re dealing with a cultist goose. Maybe it’s recruiting.”

  He chuckles, which makes me want to set something on fire out of sheer self-defense. We follow the trail deeper into the woods. And there, in a small clearing, we find them.

  The chickens.

  All of them.

  Alive. Well.

  Dancing.

  I wish I were joking.

  There’s a large stone at the center of the clearing. Around it, chickens hop and spin in what can only be described as synchronized rhythmic flapping. Their eyes glow faintly with unnatural light. One of them is wearing a tiny crown made of twigs.

  Ren watches in awe.

  I am experiencing a crisis.

  We stare for a while. The chickens stare back. The crowned one approaches Ren slowly, clucks with grave seriousness, and deposits a smooth pebble at his feet.

  Ren kneels. “It’s a gift,” he whispers. “They trust me.”

  [Quest Completed: Investigate Chicken Disappearances]

  [Reward: +3 Heart, +1 Reputation (Avian Circles), +1 Item: Smooth Pebble of Allegiance]

  I am going to need therapy.

  We return to the farm with the chickens trailing behind us in solemn procession. The farmer sobs with joy. Ren bows slightly and hands him a basket of eggs he didn’t ask for. I remain quiet. If I speak, I will scream.

  That night, back at the cottage, Ren places the smooth pebble on our mantle beside a dried sprig of lavender and the hand-carved sign that says

  “They liked you,” he says as he settles me into my pillow.

  I do not reply.

  Because no one, not even the cursed weapon formerly known as the End of All Things, is ready to be declared an honorary chicken.

  But I hum.

  Um Okay....Just a little.