Winston began recounting how his life had flipped upside down the moment Niles and the other summoned champions from Earth arrived in their world.

At first, his parents sat wide-eyed, their expressions lighting up like they were hearing the adventure of a lifetime. Their faces brimmed with the excitement of imagined battles and intrigue.

But as Winston went on, the thrill slowly faded. His parents’ expressions shifted from amazement to muted skepticism. By the time Winston got to the part about challenging the king to a duel—and losing—their faces carried a mixture of disbelief and disapproval. Occasionally, their judgmental glances fell on Niles, who sat stiff and awkward, his back ramrod straight, as though he could shrink into the chair and escape their scrutiny. He felt the weight of their disappointment like a stone pressing on his chest.

Winston wrapped up his account with a note of exasperation, explaining how Niles had “thrown him under the bus” when the king’s decree of banishment came down. Despite the chaos, Winston added that it was Niles’s unconventional thinking that had tipped him off about the dangers lurking at the ball the previous night—dangers that they had ultimately averted. Still, the king’s punishment had remained unchanged.

Winston’s father let out a long breath, looking first at his son, then at Niles, and finally at his wife. “I don’t know what to feel,” he said plainly. “Proud or disappointed.” He paused, then added with a touch of bitterness, “But perhaps the crown is to blame for all this.”

Turning his sharp gaze to Niles, who was now doing his best impression of someone trying to disappear, he continued. “It’s not like you were asked or welcomed properly into this world. I don’t know much about your world, but I suspect it’s quite different from ours.” He narrowed his eyes. “But because of you, my son has been banished. He’s our only child. We worked hard—harder than you can imagine—to give him the chance to serve at court.”

Niles felt his insides twist. Every instinct screamed at him to escape. “I’m sorry,” he said, standing abruptly. His voice was low, regretful. “I was selfish. I acted without thinking of others. I… I should go.” He rose slowly from his chair.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Winston’s father said sharply, his gaze hard as iron.

Winston’s mother stepped forward, setting the steaming kettle of stew on the table. She began placing wooden plates in front of them. “Sit down,” Winston’s father commanded.

“But—” Niles stammered, “I don’t think I’m worthy to—”

“We made enough food for you, too,” Winston’s father interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “Sit.”

Reluctantly, Niles sank back into his chair, unsure what to expect. Winston’s mother took her seat, her voice soft yet warm. “When we invite someone to share our table while we cook, it’s our way of welcoming them into our life.” She placed a worn, mismatched fork and knife in front of Niles. Her kindness washed over him like a tide, stinging his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she added, looking at both Winston and Niles. “Our kitchenware isn’t as grand as what you’re used to at the castle.”

Her husband scoffed, his tone light for the first time. “You don’t need a silver fork to enjoy good food.” He relaxed in his chair, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But here it is—the finest stew in all of Xandria.”

He turned to Winston, his expression softening further. “Good luck, son. Your mother and I will be rooting for you.”

Winston smiled, gratitude shining in his eyes. “Thank you, Father.”

“And,” his father added, locking eyes with his son, “keep an eye on this idiot. He’ll need all the help he can get.”

Winston smirked, nodding. “I agree—with everything, especially the last part.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Oy!” Niles exclaimed, but before he could protest further, the room burst into laughter.

They settled into their meal, the stew rich and hearty, and for a time, they shared stories and laughter that eased the tension, leaving a warmth that lingered long after.

**********

Polly, the local leader of the adventurer’s guild, moved through the bustling streets, her eyes sharp as she searched for any sign of Vulcan, the blacksmith sentenced to death by hanging. She finally found him in the most ironic of places—the city square, where his execution was to take place.

“You’re building it wrong!” boomed a gruff, exasperated male voice. “The floorboards are uneven—you need to measure them properly! And those nails are too long; they’re sticking through the wood and could tear clothes or skin. Honestly, it needs more stabilization to support my weight. And that rope? Too many cut strands, it needs to be replaced!”

Polly followed the voice to its source and saw Vulcan, restrained in a crude wooden framework with his head and hands locked in separate holes. He couldn’t move, couldn’t turn, and yet he still found a way to critique the gallows the castle carpenters were assembling for his execution.

“Would you just shut up?” one of the carpenters snapped, visibly annoyed.

“Not until you fix this shoddy excuse for craftsmanship!” Vulcan retorted, undeterred. “If you’d positioned me the other way, I wouldn’t have to watch this disgrace to woodworking. You’re embarrassing yourselves—and me, by association!”

He muttered something about how this public humiliation was made worse by the gallows’ subpar quality. His rant drew laughter from onlookers and even a few groans of frustration from the carpenters, who adjusted their hammering, now visibly more careful to avoid the issues Vulcan had pointed out.

Nearby, a group of children hurled whatever they could find—rotten fruit, pebbles, scraps of trash—at the imprisoned smith. Vulcan ignored them, his focus entirely on berating the workers.

Polly seized her moment. Moving swiftly and quietly, she approached Vulcan and leaned in close. “Do you want to be saved?” she whispered.

Vulcan’s tirade paused. Though surprised, he whispered back, his voice low. “No. Now leave me be—I have to make sure these fools don’t turn this into a sandbox.” He tilted his head toward the carpenters. “Amateurs!” he shouted again.

Polly didn’t flinch at his bluster and continued, her tone calm but insistent. “My client wishes to propose an offer to you.”

Vulcan shook his head, irritation flickering across his face. “Why does no one ever listen to me? I’m not interested.”

Polly nodded curtly. “I understand. Farewell, then.” She stood, turned to leave, but added over her shoulder, “It’s about your child.”

Vulcan froze. “You’re lying,” he growled, though his voice was barely audible. “My child is gone—taken by the same people about to hang me.”

Polly’s expression remained neutral. “Fair enough,” she said softly. “Then I wish you peace in the next life.” She began walking away.

“Wait.” Vulcan’s voice was a low rumble, just loud enough for her to hear. She turned back.

“Who’s your client?” he asked, suspicion lacing his words.

“I don’t reveal my clients’ identities,” Polly replied.

Vulcan exhaled heavily. “Fine. Let’s hear this proposition.”

Polly knelt beside him again. “If you pledge your loyalty and join my client’s party, they’ll tell you everything they know about your missing child. But…” She glanced around the square, noting the guards patrolling the area. “There’s no guarantee we’ll even be able to save you from this situation. The odds aren’t exactly in our favor.”

Vulcan studied her closely, his sharp eyes trying to pierce through the veil of her hood and secrecy. “I don’t believe you,” he said finally. “Only the royal family or the elite know anything about my child. And if they wanted to save me, they’d call off this farce of an execution.”

Polly sighed. “You’re a stubborn old man.”

“And you’re dodging my questions,” Vulcan shot back. “If I’m to make a decision, I need to know more.”

Polly stood, her voice steady. “Think of this as a prepayment.” She deliberately emphasized the last word.

Vulcan’s eyes widened. That word—it was rare, almost absurd, yet familiar. He had only ever heard one person use it: the summoned champion, Niles, who had quarreled with him just yesterday. If the client was Niles, a man who seemed to be a comrade of Xander, the first prince of Xandria, it could mean he truly knew something about his lost child. The thought sent Vulcan’s mind racing, igniting a faint but persistent hope that refused to die despite all he had endured.

“I accept,” he whispered, bowing his head slightly.

Polly nodded. “We’ll get to work, then. And… sorry about this,” she added, pulling a rotten vegetable from her satchel.

“What are you—” Vulcan’s words were cut off as she smashed the putrid vegetable into his face.

Polly stepped back, a smirk playing on her lips as the onlookers laughed and jeered at the scene. She walked away, disappearing into the crowd, leaving Vulcan with only one thought: If there’s even the slightest chance, I’ll take it. For my child.