“Come on, Cyrus—stay with us,” I said, steadying the rack made from shell things as Feya gently lifted our injured friend. His eyes were half-closed, but he managed a weak twitch.

  Cyrus was barely conscious, but that didn’t stop us from doing our best to make him comfortable.

  Feya adjusted the stretcher carefully, making sure the bindings were secure. “Are you sure this is okay?”

  “It’s the best we can do until we get back. My magic’s not strong enough to fix fractures.” I sighed, brushing dirt off my robes.

  Varthus went first leading the way.

  He was still kinda messed up from the fire.Ripped clothes, beard all smoky and he kept muttering about ‘youth these days’ and ‘no respect for elders’, which was ironic considering it’s common courtesy to aggressively burn the one who punched your friend through a wall.

  I sighed. “So, all our hopes of getting out of here are riding on a half-burnt caveman.”

  Varthus huffed. “Caveman? I will have you know that I am a man of great wisdom and—”

  Feya gave him a pointed look. “Just lead the way, old man.”

  He grumbled under his breath but did just that.

  The secret route outside the cave, honestly, I don’t remember and can’t really expin. He simply led us through winding tunnels, taking sharp turns without hesitation. I had the distinct feeling this passage wasn’t something just anyone could find.

  But we had more important things to worry about.

  Like getting Cyrus home.

  The one thing I did notice was that the cool, damp air of the cave gave way to a warm, sunlit breeze as we neared the exit. Soon enough, Varthus stepped out into the open, and we followed.

  “Ack!” We blinked against the sudden brightness…(And almost dropped Cyrus.)

  When I managed to open my eyes again, I found the damp darkness of the cave-tunnels repced by the vibrant green of the forest. Small shrubs, herbs (oh look, there were pufflops growing; I should make note of this pce), towering trees with all their leaves shimmering with sunlight, stretched towards a clear blue sky.

  A sigh of relief escaped me… We were out.

  “Ah, fresh,” I breathed, feeling the tension drain from my shoulders. Feya gently lowered the shell-rack for a moment, letting Cyrus rest. Even he seemed to stir slightly.

  For a few precious moments, we simply stood there, soaking in the sun.

  “Okay, enough rest. FORWARD MARCH!” Varthus spoiled the moment.

  --------------------———————————-----------------------———————————--

  The sun was setting by the time we reached the outpost.

  The elven rangers at the gate took one look at us and immediately moved to help.

  “Filven! Nice to see you again. Your face is prettier now that the scar faded,” Varthus greeted one of them. Filven, a grizzled veteran with sharp eyes, paused when he saw.

  “You…” Filven said, squinting. “Do I… do I know you?”

  Varthus straightened, a flicker of something in his eyes. “It’s me, Varthus. You remember that time, during the Siege of Silverwood? When the supply lines were cut, and we were down to eating tree bark?… And I remember you as that scout who nearly took my toe off with an arrow… when our party arrived.”

  Filven's eyes widened. “By the Ancients… Varthus? Varthus the Loyal?” He stepped forward, a look of stunned recognition on his face. “Hail Varthus the Loyal! I recognized you not; you look like a cave goblin!”

  Varthus smiled, probably pleased at being compared to a cave goblin.

  ‘That cave goblin is actually someone important!’ Feya signed to me.

  ‘I am just as surprised as you,’ I signed back.

  “You served the Hero,” Filven continued. “Not many can cim to have done what you did. Your loyalty and efforts saved this nd.”

  “It was my duty,” Varthus answered, looking oddly solemn. “It was my duty. And now, another duty calls. A new Hero has been chosen, and the nd needs them once more.” He gestured vaguely towards our group.

  Immediately, all eyes turned towards us.

  Since Cyrus was still unconscious and Feya was focused on him, I was the one holding the sheathed holy sword.

  That was supposed to be another sign, as everyone (except Varthus, who was oblivious to the current holder of the sword) assumed he was talking about me.

  Of course, being the big idiot I was, I did not read the signs.

  I just shrugged. “Uh, yeah, sure. We just need to get Cyrus treated.” I shifted the sword to my other hand, trying to bance it.

  “Of course, the blood always tells,” Filven, however, stared at me with a mix of awe and knowing in his eyes.

  I thought he was talking about the blood stains on Cyrus’s skull.

  “We’ll send word ahead,” one of the rangers said, helping lift Cyrus onto a proper stretcher.

  I nodded, and with Feya and the others, I followed the rangers towards the healing ward. Varthus, still muttering about the new hero and holy order, stayed behind, completely oblivious.

  ---------------------———————————-----------------------———————————--

  It was te evening when I returned home.

  After three hours of healing, Cyrus seemed fit enough to limp on his own and left, signing his thanks and farewell.

  Feya stayed back in the outpost to help her fellow rangers.

  A ranger had been sent to inform our families about the situation, so it wasn’t like we were getting any scolding, but I definitely felt a sense of… fear, dread, or just my stomach compining about rockwall mushrooms (fibrous and chewy but edible, and if you want to survive stuck in a cave, eat them).

  “Fiona! Little—” Grandma burst out. Her eyes immediately nded on the sword I was carrying. She paused, her expression shifting.

  I really should have dumped the sword on Cyrus, but he asked me to keep it, though.

  He signed it felt lighter to him when he held it, and he felt high and powerful.

  Just like how we got power-drunk on Vos, which was a really bad experience.

  He’d looked so pale, I hadn’t argued.

  “Fiona, give me that a moment,” she said, her voice unusually serious. I handed it over, more worried about Cyrus.

  Grandma turned the sheathed sword over in her hands, her brow furrowed. After a long moment, she looked up at me, her eyes filled with a strange, almost misty light, and rushed me inside.

  “You know, this sword… it’s been in our family for generations,” she said, her voice low. “But it’s not just a family heirloom. It’s the sword of the Hero. And… it responds to those with the right blood.”

  “Um, Grandmother… did you accidentally eat the pinkcaps? I know they aren’t immediately poisonous, but there’s still a reason those mushrooms are beled as highly toxic in the field manual…”

  “That was one time, and… no, that’s not it.” She paused, then continued, her voice barely a whisper. “This is your grandfather’s sword, which he wielded during his time as a hero.”

  “WHAT!?”

  “Shhh! Someone might hear!”

  “Who?”

  Just then, a ctter and a squeak echoed from a nearby window. Before we could react, a bunch of teenage girls tumbled out, nding in a heap.

  We stared at them.

  They stared at us.

  “Fiona is the Hero!” they shouted in unison after their heads started working, their high-pitched voices echoing, and they ran outside the window.

  “You little eavesdroppers!” Grandmother hissed, her voice a low growl. “Only I have the right to tell everyone that MY GRANDDAUGHTER is the Hero!” She lunged after them.

  “FIONA IS THE HERO!!”

  “MY GRANDDAUGHTER IS THE HERO!!”

  “WHAT SHE SAID!!”

  “LET’S PARTY!!!”

  I blinked, feeling a headache pounding me.

  “I need a drink.”

  ---------------------———————————-----------------------———————————--

  Fun fact: Vos is an old term where Vos means Fire and La means big.

  So Vos transtes to ‘big fire.’

  Honestly, it sounds like a giant parasite monster that may destroy the pnet.