There are certain things one learns to tolerate when one has been reincarnated as a sentient sword. Birds. Soap. The complex and humiliating logistics of being tucked into bed like a child’s stuffed toy. But goats? Goats are where I draw the line.

  I’m not paranoid. I’m perceptive. And the creature that lives with us—the horned menace known simply as “Mimi”—has been staring at me for three days straight. No blinking. No chewing. Just staring. Unbroken, unrelenting, unmoving. I know a battle of wills when I see one. Something dark stirs behind those horizontal pupils. And I, ancient forged artifact of ruin, will not fall prey to a barnyard conspiracy.

  Ren, of course, is oblivious. “She’s just curious,” he says, scratching Mimi behind the ears as she glares at me like she’s waiting for the right moment to strike. Curious my hilt. This morning, I woke to find tufts of goat hair stuck to my grip. Coincidence? I think not. The goat is planning something. The goat is always planning something.

  Unfortunately, there’s no time to build a proper anti-goat defense protocol because Ren, in his boundless sunshine-fueled chaos, has been invited to represent our village in a “friendly inter-village gathering.” I had hoped—foolishly—that this meant cookies and idle gossip. A knitting contest, perhaps. Flower arranging. Something soft and vaguely rustic.

  No. It’s a sports festival. A. Sports. Festival.

  I was forged in celestial fire beneath the eclipse of three screaming moons. I have tasted the blood of tyrants and gods. I am not, by any divine measure, cut out for cheerleading.

  Ren is, naturally, thrilled. “It’s a chance to build community!” he says while knitting team scarves out of ethically-sourced wool and humming a motivational tune so upbeat it makes my internal runes itch. Our “team,” as he so optimistically calls it, consists of: Ren (who once apologized to a slug), a baker who throws muffins with the precision of a siege weapon, two retired adventurers who flirt more than they train, and a five-year-old with the raw upper-body strength of a disgruntled ogre. And me. A sword.

  When I ask—very politely—what I’m expected to do, Ren just places a hand on my hilt and says, “You’re our mascot!” with the kind of adoring pride that makes the goat snort behind him. I contemplate spontaneous rust. I consider faking a divine revelation. I weigh the pros and cons of flinging myself into a ditch and pretending to be an unusually elegant shovel.

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  On the day of the festival, we arrive to find the neighboring village has come prepared for war. They wear matching uniforms. They chant in unison. They’ve brought a professional bard with a lute case covered in battle stickers. Their flag is embroidered. Ours is... crocheted. With love. From Ren.

  I want to smite them but....Ren offers them cinnamon rolls.

  When the games began. It was chaos incarnate. There’s shouting. Laughing as someone falls into the potato sack pit. I am passed from person to person like a holy relic and/or extremely charismatic baton. The muffin baker shouts “GO GLIMMERS GO!” every time someone falls, whether or not I am relevant to the event. I cut the ribbon at the start of the three-legged race. The children cheer and I hum in what can only be described as profound resignation.

  But then something strange happens. The rival village unveils their mascot.

  It is a mop.

  A mop. An enchanted, semi-sentient mop named Sir Sogsworth. He’s been buffed. He sparkles. He smells faintly of lemon and broken dreams. And worst of all, he

  And yes, I do not take it well.

  What follows is, depending on one’s sense of propriety, either “a deeply inappropriate enchanted object duel” or “the most thrilling halftime show in village history.” We circle each other. We hum insults. Sir Sogsworth references my goat proximity scandal and I retaliate by threatening his enchantment thread count.

  Ren watches it all with the patient serenity of a man chaperoning two toddlers sword fighting with baguettes, while the goat eats a spectator’s shoe.

  Eventually, the mop yields. Whether from fear or frustration is unclear, but victory is mine. I am crowned the champion of the Enchanted Object Category. The crowd roars. Muffins are thrown and I am hailed as a “symbol of local enthusiasm and unified effort.” I contemplate all the ways I might disappear into the wind like an embarrassed anime protagonist.

  [Rival Encounter: Sir Sogsworth (Defeated)]

  [Title Acquired: Local Symbol of Competitive Spirit]

  [Trait Gained: Blade of the People – +2 Morale to Allied Villagers When Displayed Publicly]

  That night, Ren places a tiny trophy on the mantle beside a sprig of lavender and the Smooth Pebble of Chicken Allegiance. The trophy reads “Most Enthusiastic Team Energy.” It is pink. With glitter.

  He tucks me into my pillow by the hearth, strokes the side of my blade like I’m some deeply treasured cat, and murmurs, “You did great out there.”

  I do not hum. I purr. And Mimi, from across the room, squints at me with the intensity of a strategist who knows her rival has just gained public support. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

  The goat is planning something. And for once, I’m not entirely sure I’ll win.