I’m standing in the middle of the empty room, gripping my spear like it’s going to give me answers. It doesn’t. Bob is gone. Sintra is gone. The goblins are gone. And I’m left standing here like the universe’s most useless gate guard.

For the first time in forever, I feel hollow. Not the “I skipped lunch, and now my stomach is staging a protest” kind of hollow. No, this is worse. It’s the “I let the Chosen One get kidnapped by a glow-stick-wielding villain while I ate floor” kind of hollow.

I pick up my spear and start the journey back to the castle. My boots squelch with every step. Of course, they’re still full of swamp muck. Because why not? If I’m going to be miserable, might as well go all in.

When I reach the castle gates a few days later, Dave is there. He’s leaning against the wall, eating an apple.

“You’re back,” he says, taking another bite. “Where’s Bob?”

“Gone,” I say, walking past him.

Dave raises an eyebrow. “Gone as in dead? Or gone as in kidnapped?”

I glare at him. “What kind of question is that?”

“A serious one,” he says, following me as I stomp toward the throne room. “Because there are different forms to fill out. If he’s dead, it’s Form 42-A. If he’s kidnapped, it’s Form 19-B. And if he’s just missing—”

“He’s not ‘just missing,’” I snap. “The villain took him. Poof. Gone. Kidnapped.”

Dave whistles. “Form 19-B it is. The king’s going to love that.”

I don’t reply because I’m already dreading what’s coming.

When I get to the throne room, King Marcus is sitting on his oversized golden throne. His stupid pineapple hat is back. Though I can’t tell if this is the same one or a backup hat. Either way, it’s still hideous.

“Guard Greg,” he booms when he sees me. “Explain yourself!”

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I step forward and bow awkwardly. “Your Majesty, I… I failed.”

He narrows his eyes. “Failed how?”

“The villain kidnapped the Chosen One,” I admit. “She used some kind of purple noodle spell and just… took him.”

“Noodle spell?” The king raises an eyebrow.

“That’s not the official term,” I mumble.

The king sighs dramatically, like I’ve ruined his whole day. “This is unacceptable. Do you know how much effort we put into training the Chosen One?”

“None?” I guess.

“Exactly!” he shouts, slamming a fist on the armrest of his throne. “He came pre-trained. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Your Majesty, I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.”

“Whatever it takes?” He taps his chin, clearly savoring the moment. “Very well. Your punishment will be severe.”

I brace myself. Here it comes. Dungeon duty. Public flogging. Or worse… pineapple hat duty.

“I sentence you,” he declares, “to… fill out the necessary paperwork.”

I blink. “Paperwork?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “Specifically, Form 19-B: Hero Kidnapped During Active Quest. And Form 19-C: Villainous Gloating Observed. Oh, and don’t forget the extra 19-C-2: Witness Testimony Of Monologues.”

“Is that even a thing?” I ask, half horrified, half impressed.

“It is now,” he says, smirking.

“You’re punishing me with paperwork?”

“Not just paperwork,” he says. “You must make sure every form is signed and stamped by the Royal Department of Absolutely Everything.”

I groan. “Your Majesty, with all due respect, wouldn’t it be more productive to send me after Bob?”

The king leans back, his smirk widening. “And risk you failing again? I think not. The kingdom doesn’t need another incident.”

“Another incident?”

“Yes,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “Last time, we lost a Chosen One to a bridge troll because someone didn’t file Form 36-A: Request for Bridge Repairs. Do you see the stakes here?”

“I’m beginning to,” I say.

He claps his hands. “Good! Now, get to work. And don’t even think about skipping the appendix on page forty-two. That’s where the fun begins.”

Fun. Right.

I turn to leave, already dreading the mountain of papers waiting for me.

“Oh, and Greg?” the king calls after me.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Don’t mess up the margins,” he says, his tone suddenly serious. “You know how the Department feels about crooked lines.”

“Noted,” I say through gritted teeth.

Dave’s waiting for me outside, looking way too amused. “So, how’d it go?”

I glare at him. “You’re helping me.”

“Nope,” he says, tossing his apple core. “I don’t do paperwork. That’s Form 12-F, and I’m exempt.”

“Exempt?”

“Fine print,” he says, grinning. “Good luck, buddy.”

As he walks away, whistling a tune, I seriously consider using my spear for something other than goblins.

But for now, I head to the Department, wondering if Sintra has a job opening for minions. Because honestly? It might be an upgrade.