Tryle opened his eyes to a nearly upside-down world.

Through his blurry vision, the horizon was slanted like a crooked painting: blue sky on one side of the diagonal slash, green earth on the other. A shadow hung over it all. But that didn’t make sense.

Tryle felt a rock pressing against his spine. Ah, that was it. He was lying on his back, his head pointed down the slope of the hill.

“Tryle, can you hear me? Tryle!”

Tryle blinked. Opal’s face sharpened into focus, her face a dark moon of worry.

“Are you all right?” she said frantically. “Can you stand up?”

Tryle groaned. “I…I think so.”

His entire body was extremely sore, like a giant eagle had plucked him up and dropped him from the top of Mount Bighorn. Tryle wriggled his fingers and toes experimentally, then flexed the muscles in his arms and legs. Nothing seemed to be broken, though, which was good.

Maybe he could sit up.

Tryle rolled onto his side and tried to push himself to his knees. His head swam with nausea and he keeled over again.

Or maybe not.

“Oh, no.” Opal knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going back to get help.”

“Please don’t.”

“I didn’t want to move you in case you had a concussion from that explosion. Or internal organ damage. It’s a miracle your face wasn’t burned off.”

Tryle screwed his eyes shut and wiped soot off his cheeks. “Opal, I’m fine…”

“You nearly blow yourself up, and you’re just fine? You know I had to run down to the river and put out a fire on your lab coat, right?” Opal let out a derisive snort. “Uh-huh. You’re totally fine. Hilarious. Keep your exploded butt right here while I bring back a cart or something.”

“Opal!”

She turned back to him, surprised.

“I don’t want the others having to help me like this,” said Tryle. “Not again. Please.”

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Opal looked at him for a moment, then signed and plopped down next to him. “Fine. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Only a little dizzy. Let me lie here a bit. Just for a couple minutes.”

They sat in silence, listening to the river burbling beneath them on the other side of the hill. Birdsong wafted through the sound of the wind rushing gently over the trees, carrying the fragrant scent of honeysuckle and the less-fragrant odors of burnt hair and charred wood.

Tryle figured the burnt hair was probably him.

But charred wood? His nose prickled. “What’s that smell?”

“Don’t worry about it. Are you feeling better?”

“Almost.” Tryle’s mind wandered, and he remembered their conversation earlier. “Anyway, what’re you doing here? Is the foraging party back already?”

“We came back three days ago.” Opal squinted. “Tryle…how long have you been out of the village?”

“Me? I haven’t.”

“I mean, outside the village walls. Now that I think about it, recently we’ve been meeting up in your poop shack —”

“Laboratory.”

“I’ve been seeing you in your ‘laboratory’ for a while, now.”

“I spent two moons building it. It’s meant to be used long-term.”

“But lived in? I shouldn’t have to tell you that now, but sleeping in a room full of flammable chemicals doesn’t sound very hygienic to me.”

“I sleep outside. I’m not that stupid.”

“Sure fooled me.”

“Why’d you need to come get me in the first place?” asked Tryle. “I’ve finished repairing all the torn boots in my cobbler quota for the next month.”

Opal picked irritably at a thick root sticking out of the earth. “They’re holding a council meeting for all the men. You included.”

“A war council? Why?”

“Kinda sudden, and I don’t really know what for ‘cause nobody needs to tell some girl how to go about important business around here. As if a couple tusks in your mouth makes you less likely to make dumb decisions. Anyway, they told me they needed all eligible fighting goblins.”

“Even me?” said Tryle incredulously.

“I don’t make the rules on what makes someone weird in the village, Tryle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be bitter.”

“I know. I’m bitter, though.”

“They might as well let you attend the meeting in my place,” said Tryle. “It makes more sense to have someone actually good at raiding sit in the war council.”

“Maybe you could file a petition for me. Title it: ‘Sir Tryle Bodkin’s presence at war councils is a gross misallocation of resources.”

“Or something like: ‘Please give Mistress Opal an excuse to punch something.’”

Opal laughed. “Or something like: ‘Please give Sir Tryle more chances to blow himself up.’”

“I like that title.”

“It’s good, right?”

They lapsed into silence. The breeze changed direction, and Tryle picked up the scent of charred wood once again.

“What’s burning?” he said, but he thought he knew.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Seriously, what is it?”

“I said, don’t worry about it.”

Tryle ignored her. He sat up with a groan and looked around.

Where his laboratory had once stood was a smoky shell of charred wood. A jagged, starburst blanket of soot covered the surrounding grass and scorched ground. Glass shards glittered within its depths.

Months of hard work, gone in an instant.

“Z’a-veeshet,” cursed Tryle.

“If it’s any consolation,” said Opal. “You did build a pretty decent poop shack.”

“Laboratory.”

Opal squinted at the zone of burnt wreckage atop the hill. “Yeah, well…I wouldn’t poop in it now. Looks a bit hazardous.”

“Thanks, Opal,” said Tryle dryly.

Opal rose, dusting her tunic off. She held out a hand. “C’mon, Sir Tryle. Let’s get you to your council meeting.”