“The Chosen One,” I mutter, rolling my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out of my head.

Bob—or “Destiny, last name Unknown”—is out of earshot now. His cape swishes as he approaches the overly fancy set of doors.

I swear, if I had a copper coin for every Chosen One I’ve seen cross through this gate, I’d be rich enough to buy a decent pair of boots—ones that don’t make my toes feel like they’ve been soaking in a swamp.

“Another one bites the dust, huh?” Dave’s voice slides into my ears, like it’s wearing the same smug grin he’s been perfecting since we started this gig. He’s leaning against the guard tower, munching on an apple like he’s the poster boy for “I Don’t Care.”

“Yup,” I reply. “Another Chosen One. Ready to save the world or die trying.”

Dave smirks. “I’ll wager ten bronze coins they don’t survive the first quest.”

I snort. “Not taking that bet. Odds are way too good.”

Dave tosses the apple core over his shoulder, where it lands with a splash in the mud. “You’d think they’d learn by now. Half the time, the prophecy’s just some poetic mumbo jumbo some drunk bard scribbled on parchment.” He waves a hand in the air. “‘Oh, the Chosen One will rise when the stars align and the goats bleat twice at midnight.’”

“Don’t forget,” I add, “‘He shall wield the Blade of Infinite Light, forged in the fires of Really Specific Volcano.’”

Dave chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, it’s not our job to save the world, Greg. Just keep it from falling apart until someone else does.”

The words hit me in that annoying, deep way I don’t like to admit. I’ve been guarding this stupid gate for so long, I’ve forgotten why I’m even here. Protect the castle, keep the troublemakers out, make sure the logbook is perfect. That’s the job. But saving the world? Not my department.

I’m about to respond when a loud crash echoes through the courtyard.

Both Dave and I whip our heads around to see Bob—sorry, the Chosen One—backpedaling out of the Ancient Doors of Doom. His sword clangs uselessly against the cobblestones. Behind him, a huge orc stomps into view. It’s got green skin, tusks as big as my arm, and an expression that says, “I’m not here to chat.”

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Dave takes one look at it and sighs. “I’m too sober for this.”

Bob scrambles to his feet, pointing his sword at the orc like it’s going to magically turn into a flamethrower. “Stay back, foul beast! I am the Chosen One!”

The orc does not look impressed. It lunges.

Bob lets out a scream that’s somewhere between “Help me” and “My boots are ruined.”

“Should we…?” I gesture vaguely toward the chaos.

Dave shrugs. “Not our job.”

Bob’s still flailing, his cape now tangled around one of his legs. The orc’s massive hands swipe dangerously close to his head, and I sigh.

“Fine.” I grab a spear from the rack by the gate and jog over, muttering the whole way. “Not our job, he says. Just keep it from falling apart, he says.”

The orc’s distracted enough by Bob’s theatrics that it doesn’t see me coming.

I jab the spear at its side.

The orc lets out a roar that rattles my brain. With one last shove, I manage to send it stumbling back into the dungeon.

Bob collapses to the ground, breathing like he just ran a marathon. “Thanks,” he wheezes. “I had it under control, though.”

“Sure you did,” I reply. “Great job, Chosen One.”

Bob doesn’t move right away. He’s just lying there, staring at the sky like it might offer him answers. “That… that was terrifying.”

“Welcome to Tuesday,” I say, dusting off my hands. “Next time, maybe bring a backup plan.”

“Backup plan?” Bob asks, sitting up slowly. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, gesturing toward his tangled cape. “A less dramatic outfit? Some snacks? Maybe a map?”

Dave’s joined us now, arms crossed as he surveys the scene. “Snacks are key,” he says sagely. “You can’t save the world on an empty stomach.”

Bob looks between us, clearly confused. “Aren’t you supposed to be… I don’t know, encouraging?”

Dave snorts. “Encouragement’s extra. We’re on the basic guard package.”

I hold out a hand to help Bob up. He takes it, wobbling a bit as he gets to his feet. “Look, Bob,” I say, “being the Chosen One is great and all. But maybe next time, read the fine print. The prophecy doesn’t mention anyone coming to save you from an orc, does it?”

Bob shakes his head, clearly embarrassed. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Exactly.” I pat him on the shoulder. “Now go get your doom serpent or whatever and try not to die. We’ve got a gate to guard.”

Bob looks like he wants to say something else. But he just nods and heads back toward the doors. His cape swishes, this time less dramatically, as he disappears inside.

“Think he’ll make it?” Dave asks, watching him go.

“Not a chance,” I reply.

Dave grins. “Ten silver says he trips over his own sword.”

I’m tempted, but I just shake my head. “Odds are still too good.”

Dave crosses his arms. “You know, if you keep saving these guys, they’re gonna start thinking it’s part of your job description.”

I shoot him a look. “Just keeping it from falling apart.”

He grins. “Attaboy, Greg.”