1. Lyle’s Got a Latte to Learn (1/2)

The sign was small and unassuming, even as it began to flicker with neon orange over the street. The outline of a smiling bard holding a steaming coffee mug beckoned all the avenue’s passersby inside. Lyle stepped up to the front door, squinted at a stain on the glass, and quickly scrubbed it before flipping the hanging sign. It now read, Come on in—questing heroes welcome!

Lyle took a deep breath, feeling weight shift against the door. Then he flung the door open and ran for it.

Lyle Larsen was skinny and put-together, with a persistent tousle in his hair and permanent bags under his gray eyes. He was attractive, but not in the way people remembered once they left the café counter. In Lyle’s own opinion, the only things that did make him memorable were his knowledge of the kitchen pantries and his speed when outrunning the morning rush.

“Hey, you!” rumbled a pigtailed ogress, and stomped up to the counter. "I saw that!" Lyle watched her tensely, bracing for a good shouting—she had one of those forceful voices and resting glowers that a guy learned to look out for. But then, to Lyle's huge relief, the customer cracked a smile and said, "You've got sweet moves there, Markless!"

Oh. "Much appreciated," Lyle said, deadpan. "I get that a lot." His voice was a rhythmic drawl, and made him sound like a man twice his age.

He noted the ornate cobalt mark shining on the ogress's breastplate: a letter B beneath a flaming torch. A quick scan with the crystal ball confirmed she was a registered hero, with the title of Bronwyn the Brash.

"Anyway, welcome to the—"

“No, I mean it!" Bronwyn grunted. "I bet people just say that sometimes, but you've got seriously fast footwork! And the way you vaulted that counter, it's giving track-and-field star..."

“Thank you, really,” said Lyle. “You’d be surprised how many tricks a guy can pick up when he’s trying not to get pancaked by customers twice his size."

“I swear, the Markless are always so inspiring,” Bronwyn boomed. “Just goes to show there are all sorts of ways to make a difference, even if you're not really a hero. Speaking of, you ever considered applying for a Mark yourself?”

“Anyway, welcome to the Overture Café, where our quest is to fill you up for yours. How can I help you today?” Not an inkling of frustration leaked through onto Lyle’s face, but he really wanted to move this conversation along.

“With athletics like that, I bet a guy like you could thrive out in the Questlands!” said Bronwyn. “Just imagine it. Hacking and slashing through desert basilisk nests, dashing away from hordes of cursed armors—”

“I have imagined it,” Lyle replied, with a hint of resignation. “It’s just not my line of work. So. What can I get you today?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry!” Bronwyn the Blazing lifted a heavy-looking reptile-skin bag onto the counter and dumped out several fistfuls of copper coins and a few other trinkets—chunks of ore, oddly glowing mushrooms, and two parchment maps worn from use. “I’ll take a venti-sized Frosted Happy Place Latte with oatmilk, a half-dozen Murderous Meringues, candles on the side, and…oh, one can of sprite! Can’t forget that!” As Bronwyn dictated her order, the crystal ball began to list off the price of each item.

“Forty-seven coppers,” Lyle said, before even looking at the crystal ball display.

“It’s a little scary how you know that,” Bronwyn giggled, and started counting her change.

From the pastry case below, Lyle gingerly reached for the Murderous Meringues. Normally, these were small blue dollops of sweet and fluffy goodness, but if one was touched by a spark, it would ignite in a rather horrifying explosion. They were perfect for snacking or annihilating one’s enemies. Lyle placed the treats in a customary cast-iron box and slid it across the counter.

Next was the sprite. Sprites were famous all across the kingdom of Reminok for their stat-boosting powers, so they were always a fast-selling item. Lyle grabbed a green can from the shelf behind him and furtively gave it a strong shake. As soon as Bronwyn popped the can’s tab, a minuscule ball of emerald light popped out and started to buzz angrily around her.

“You people can’t keep putting us in these cans!” chirped the sprite. “It’s barbaric and really humiliating!” As it flew furious circles around the ogress, iridescent dust fluttered down onto her pigtails and her rusted breastplate.

“Whoa, I can feel the stat boost!” Bronwyn cheered. “I don’t think I’ve ever had one this big! This is one quality sprite.”

“The secret is to shake the can,” Lyle confided. “The madder the sprite, the more it flies around you. More fairy dust, and you get more of a boost.”

“I’m going to sue all of humankind and ogrekind!” the sprite peeped. “Just you watch! You won’t be getting away with this for much longer!”

“Sure is talkative, that one,” muttered Lyle. Then he turned and called into the kitchen: “Hey, Pascal, come wrap up this order, will you? And please don’t forget to apply the Hero’s Discount this time!”

With that, Lyle stepped back and made room at the counter. It was time for him to try his hand at a Happy Place Latte. Maybe, if he could finally show Mrs. Sugarman that he had mastered the most complex drink on the whole Overture Café menu, he’d finally earn that long-awaited pay raise. Lyle hummed one of the café's smooth jazz soundtracks as he set up all the ingredients. First, he dropped one of the pre-programmed Puri-Runes into the bottom of the cup. Then came a huge helping of light-roast coffee, which was magically filtered into decaf even as Lyle did the rest of the prep.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Two cups of oatmilk. Ten ice cubes. A good stir. And after that came the hardest part—inserting the Southeastern Halcyon tears. It took a delicate but very speedy hand to layer in these super-sweet drops. If done properly, the tears would form a gelatinous outer layer, creating lots of delectable little bursting treats inside the drink. If not, you'd get nothing but a slippery, sickly-sweet film across the top of the latte, which nobody liked.

Lyle glanced at the wooden wall clock, trying not to think about his abysmal track record. This was always the part he screwed up, five times running. Five times Mrs. Sugarman had to take over. Lyle blamed it on the fact that his hands naturally shook. Today was going to be different. It had better be different. Lyle unscrewed the tube and steadied it over the rim of the cup. Halcyon tears had a pearlescent color and a mysterious, mesmerizing scent—like bubble gum, lavender, and some kind of tropical fruit all at once. A smile found its way onto Lyle’s face as he caught a whiff of the aroma. It put him at ease, made him feel like he could actually make do this right for once.

He took a deep breath and started letting teardrops fall, one at a time, into the huge cup. He was doing it…he was actually doing it…

“Bingo!” Lyle cheered. “One perfect Happy Place Latte for Bronwyn the Brash!” With one last flourish, the excited barista topped off the drink with a dollop of whipped cream. He handed the finished latte to Bronwyn, who excitedly thanked him and dumped a handful of copper coins into the tip jar on the counter.

“Hey, Mr. Larsen, looks like we’re both winning today!” piped up Lyle’s coworker Pascal, and started ringing up another customer. "Because guess who just got her Hero's Discount courtesy of yours truly? Bronwyn the Brash, that's who!"

“Buddy, don’t I get my Hero’s Discount?” asked the snappy knight waiting at the counter. "Or didn't you notice this?" He puffed out his chest, making sure Pascal could see his gleaming red Mark.

“Ooh, yeah. That.” Pascal flashed a sheepish smile and clumsily typed into the cash register.

Pascal Rojas was wide-eyed, pure-hearted, and dependable—if a little lacking in the brains department sometimes. Ever since his first day at the café two months ago, there were theories going around the workplace that Pascal was actually a puppy magicked into a person’s body. Of course, it was a real possibility. The news said transformation incidents were on the rise, after all.

“Hey, what gives, dude?” said the same knight. “You only rang up half my order! Where’s the Phoenix-Egg Salad Sandwich, huh?”

Pascal gulped timidly. “I told you, sir, that’s our lunch menu, and we kinda don’t start serving that until 11:15. Maybe you just weren’t listening? I mean, not that that’s a huge issue but—”

“Oh, stop yammering on about your stupid little rules,” the knight growled. “You zeroes only have one job, and it’s to make sure we get whatever we need for our quests. That’s it!”

As Lyle passed by with a bulky bag of coffee beans, he sized up the first (and definitely not last) rude customer of the day. According to the CB scan, his title was Hector the Mighty. Hector had a blond crew cut, ornate silver goggles, and a Mark that glowed red instead of blue. A red Mark, if Lyle remembered right, could be transferred from person to person, won and lost in the violent rites of challenge. As a result, the heroes who managed to hold onto those Marks were usually the meanest and most aggressive of the bunch. In other words, it was a joy to have them in the café.

“Now how about that sandwich?” Hector scowled, and placed a warning hand on his sword.

“Eek!” Pascal peeped. “Umm, Mr. Larsen, can’t we just make an exception?”

“No,” said Lyle. “Stand your ground, Pascal. Be brave. Tell the Mighty One here that our lunch menu hours aren’t flexible, even for heroes. Tell him he can come back at a quarter past eleven and buy his sandwich then."

“Alright, yeah!” Pascal said. “Hear that, Hector? If you want that sandwich so bad you can…” Hector’s shining sword caught his eye again, and his legs turned to jelly. “Well, uhh, you heard Mr. Larsen over there.”

“Good effort, Pascal,” Lyle sighed. “Anyway, Hector, you heard me. Our lunch offerings start at 11:15. In the meantime, how about I get you those—” he glanced at the crystal ball— “those Rock Cakes you asked for.”

“I don’t have until 11:15,” Hector hissed. “The Poltergeist King has been following me for a whole moon, and today’s the day he attacks! Which is why I need to be in my homemade battle arena by the time that happens, so I can defeat him. Of course, I wouldn’t expect a pathetic zero like you to understand.”

“Just so you know,” said Lyle, “we don’t take kindly to the term zero around here.”

“Oh yeah?” Hector shot back, and smirked. “Why’s that? Don’t like being reminded how you were never good enough to make it as heroes?”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but us so-called nobodies keep this entire city running,” said Lyle dismissively. “And it’s funny to assume that everybody wants to be a hero anyway. A little egocentric, no? Take me, for instance. I know my calling is right here. No dangerous trials or clunky armor required, and I get to listen to smooth jazz and make delicious drinks to my heart’s content. Speaking of which, since the sandwich thing is not happening, can I recommend you a Happy Place Latte instead?”

Hector blinked. “A what now?”

“A Happy Place Latte! It’s the most calm-inducing drink you’ll ever taste, and I just got the hang of making them. They’re plenty filling and the perfect cure for any pre-battle jitters you might have. In fact, the effect is so strong it overflows onto everything and everyone around you once you drink it. Even monsters become a little more peaceful. Really, with one of those lattes, it’ll be challenging for you to lose that big battle.” Lyle spoke with such passion in his voice, it was easy to see he was telling the truth. Maybe being an ordinary coffee shop guy really was his calling.

“Whatever,” Hector groaned. “I accept your offer. Give me a small one of those. And the two Rock Cakes I asked for. And make it quick—I’ve got places to be!” He forked over some copper coins.

Lyle reached for the Rock Cakes, which were gray and very hard.

There was a coffee spill on the floor, and he somehow hadn’t noticed it.

He had one of the Rock Cakes in his hand when it happened.

Lyle slipped, stumbled backward, and messily fell down. The sturdy pastry went flying, bounced off a drip brewer, struck Hector right between the eyes. The hero let out a little yelp and crumpled.

“Oh no!” Lyle gasped and covered his mouth. “Please, please don’t be dead. Sugarman will dock my pay so bad if you’re dead.”

“I know what to do, I think!” Pascal piped up. “First aid is by the kitchen doors. I should…um, take his vitals and put some bandages on him?”

“Bingo,” said Lyle. “And you over there—yes, you, kind patron with the crossbow. Call the cleric coven right away.”

The customers in line started to mutter, and Lyle suddenly got the sense that something else was wrong.

“Mr. Larsen, the hero’s alive which is really good news—” He caught a glimpse of Lyle and froze.

“What?” Lyle tilted his head at Pascal. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Your shirt.” Pascal pointed.

“Glad we have our priorities straight,” Lyle snorted. “Look, I know I probably scuffed up my uniform from the fall. We've got bigger things to worry about. I’ll fix it later, okay?”

“No—Mr. Larsen, your shirt! Just look at it!”

“I don’t…” Lyle trailed off when he saw it. Oh. Gleaming on his Overture Café polo was something that hadn’t been there before. Lyle felt sick to his stomach. This couldn’t be. But the crimson metallic sheen, the elaborate lettering…it was unmistakable.

Lyle Larsen had a Hero Mark.