“I needed a drink, and Gods, did I get a drink. In fact, a lot of drinks.

  Apparently, when you’re suddenly decred a “Hero,” people tend to throw parties in your honor. And when those people are elves, those parties involve serious craft alcohol.

  Here’s how it went down:

  Me, sitting at a long, polished wooden table, a small, green gss in my hand. “Just a little something to take the edge off,” an elf with impossibly long, braided hair said, smiling serenely. The drink was amber, smelled like spiced apples and tasted like a blend of spiced honey and warm apples.

  ...

  Me, holding a slightly rger, slightly more ornate gss. Smooth but full-fvored ger with a cloudy appearance and a pillowy mouthfeel, accompanied by slightly rustic bready malt tones with a finishing bite of bitterness.

  ...

  Me trying a copper-amber colored ale with fvorful malt and subtle hints of caramel sweetness, and I’m pretty sure I saw a squirrel wearing a tiny hat.

  ...

  Me after having at least three dozen different drinks, attempting to expin to a very patient-looking tree why I thought it was secretly a giant, sentient mushroom. The tree, unsurprisingly, remained silent.

  ...

  That’s how I ended up with a headache that felt like a tiny army of gnomes was marching on my head.

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

  The party eventually wound down, or at least, I think it did. My memory gets a little fuzzy after the “happy dragon tears” incident. I vaguely recall someone carrying me to a soft, feather-filled bed, but honestly, it could have been a particurly fluffy cloud for all I knew.

  When I finally managed to pry my eyelids open, the morning sun was streaming through the window, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. I groaned, rolling over and burying my face in the pillows.

  “Morning, Hero,” a very familiar cheerful voice said.

  I lifted my head, wincing. My grandmother was sitting on the edge of the bed, a steaming mug in her hands. “Here,” she said, handing me the mug. “This will help.”

  I took a tentative sip. It was warm, fragrant, and tasted vaguely of herbs and... was that Pufflops? “What is this?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

  “A hangover cure,” Grandmother said, smiling. “Works every time.”

  “Now, about this ‘Hero’ business...” I asked.

  “It all started with....”

  Long story short, back when my Grandmother was still young (which she cims she still is,not totally wrong, she still looks like she’s thirty.), she decided to join as the personal medic for my Grandfather Gleen after he came to her for the umpteenth time horribly injured.

  Eventually, they developed feelings for each other, but they had a fight, broke up, and Gramps unhappily married that annoying princess brat they rescued after sying the Dragonlord.

  Eventually, Gramps, tired of politics and attempted assassination attempts, rode here and married my grandmother.(about 40 years te but better te than never) and settled down peacefully until he left to find my parents thirty years ago (he muttered something about missing his sword and horribly dismembering my father, whoever he is).

  Oh, and Varthus the Loyal and Annoying would not leave him alone, so he tricked him into guarding the holy sword for an entire century and a half with an illusion spell of his death.

  Unfortunately, the sword was very genuine, and so was the fact that only the hero can wield the sword.

  “…” Gran grew quiet for a moment. I could see her traveling back to those times, the wars. The fear, violence, ghosts of dead friends haunting her heart.

  Gran sighed and looked out at the people of his town. “If we have to celebrate, I suppose the peace is a good reason. Still, a hero’s fate is never an easy one…most of the time it means wars, disasters, and some upstart evil monster trying to kill or ensve everyone.”

  “I… I’m not a hero. I’m.., I’m just borrow—”

  I tried to say something, but the hangover cure, which was also a sleep potion, knocked me out leaving me barely conscious and oh yeah, I was still wasted.

  “You’re in denial if you think a hero is born by simply picking up a sword,” Gran chided gently. “Your grandfather wasn’t handed his legacy on a silver ptter. He was chosen for a reason—through struggle, sacrifice, and yes, sometimes even through a drink or two when it gets too overwhelming.”

  She then lectured me about fate, destiny, love, rvos, gates, monsters, and magic and bored me back to complete sleep.

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

  (Feya)

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

  “This is a pain,” I grumbled as I led Captain Aric Wen Furt, who was doing his best to ignore the cheerful sun overhead and the charming birds which sang out their greetings.

  The Remus Theocracy, a bunch of stuck-up idiots who preach about humanoid supremacy, came along here to pick up the hero.

  For diplomatic reasons, I had to lead them, and apparently, they were in a rush, so they tolerated a lowly elf.

  Now they were gawking like a bunch of eyeshells (name of the shell monsters in the caves).

  Apparently, they had never seen a “vilge” so grand. Honestly, I was surprised as well. True, our elf vilge is humble compared to this vilge, but I just thought that humans’ standards are different.

  For one, it contained a vast smithy area called the Street of Steel where you can buy any metal items from a pan to an enchanted full body armor, a busy marketpce teeming with vendors shouting their wares, oh, and the two squares which were packed.

  There was quite a lot going on; almost everybody had taken the day off work. Everybody was milling around the street in their celebration clothes. There were a few colorful banners in terms of decoration and a couple of stalls set up along the street, although they had no particur wares to be seen.

  “How in the name of the twelve is this a vilge?” one of the mages called out.

  “The humans here call it one,” I shrugged.

  “No vilge has such good cobblestone streets or rge houses with gardens,” the man pointed out.

  Now that they mentioned it, all houses in the ‘vilge’ were rectangur, often two-story, with timber frames with brick or masonry infill, with red tiled roofs and smooth stone floors, arched doorways, and most of these houses are always accompanied by a rge outdoor courtyard either exterior or interior of the house.

  Pushing those thoughts out of my head, I stepped out into the bustling street, trying to find someone who might know where Cyrus lived.

  “Excuse me,” I said to a passing vilger, a middle-aged man with a friendly face. “Could you tell me where the Cy- I mean the Hero lives?”

  Those insufferable pricks hated it if we called their hero by name for some reason.

  The man smiled. “It’s just near the outskirts, a stone’s throw from the walls, the one with the green tiled roof.” He pointed down a narrow alleyway.

  “Thank you,” I said, and headed down the alley.

  “The hero lives in the outskirts of the town.”

  I guess town is a fancy human name for big vilges or something, so I nodded.

  “That’s a good thing, a humble origin is a must for a hero.”

  “Why?”

  “Happens all the time. There are far too many legends about it. The hidden gems, they’re called. They go lurking around in the distant nd or wilderness for ages, handing down the secret sword and divine birthmark and so forth from generation to generation. Then, just when the world needs them, they turn up and trump out any evil usurpers who happen to be around. And then there’s general rejoicing.”

  “A swineherd or farmboy or forester or simir. It’s got to do with being of, you know, humble origins.”

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

  When we arrived at the house (which I noticed seemed oddly familiar) and knocked politely.

  “Ah, you must be the king’s men! You actually arrived faster than I expected!” a very familiar woman with long dark brown hair and red eyes opened the door.

  “Morning, Is, is Cy- the Hero inside?”

  “Ah yes, she is, poor girl has a hangover.”

  Wait, girl? I could have sworn that Cyrus looks like...oh.

  Fiona was slumped on the bed, the sword resting in her p. Her eyes were half-closed, and she looked completely out of it.

  “There,” Aric said, pointing. “She has the sword.”

  The mages exchanged knowing gnces. “Then she is the Hero,” one of them decred.

  “But she is a half-elf,” another mage pointed out.

  “Actually, she is an eighth of elf...you see, I am a half-elf, my daughter Ashlyn is a quarter elf, so that makes my little Fiona an eighth of elf,” Is expined.

  “Wait, you are her Grandmother!?”

  “Of course, I am,” Is answered as if it was the most common thing.

  Aric opened his mouth, then probably realized that Is is a half-elf and shut his mouth.

  “Wait,” I said, stepping forward. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding?” Aric raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over Fiona. “She holds the sword of the Hero. That is all we need to know.”

  “But she’s not…” I started, then trailed off. I didn’t know how to expin without proof of the information.

  “Ah, there you are! I was wondering oh it’s you...” Varthus strode into the room, his singed beard bristling and looking highly disappointed at the party from the Remus Theocracy.

  “I take it you have come to cim the hero-ien then!?” he gnced at Fiona.

  Wait what!? this senile old cave goblin!

  “See?” Aric said, turning to me. “Even the Sword companion confirms it.”

  “He is mistaken.” I said. “This is a mistake.”

  “The Hero is here,” Varthus said, “and the King is waiting.”

  “She’s not the hero!” I yelled, my voice echoing through the house. “Cyrus is!”

  “We have no time for these arguments.” Aric said. “We are leaving no-”

  “I would be very happy if you did so but...” Varthus paused and pointed outside “The Armanian army is blocking the road.”

  “What?” Aric asked, his eyes widening.

  “The king wishes to meet the Hero,” Varthus expined. “They’re not letting anyone take the hero born in our kingdom without our King’s consent...”

  I looked at Varthus, my expression filled with confusion and frustration. I had no idea what he was pying at. “What is going on?” I asked him.

  “Nothing, keeping the hero safe from these power-hungry zealots,” he gestured to a furious Aric who was restraining himself from cutting off Varthus in two (a feeling I can rete with).

  A groan caught our attention.

  "Uhh... What's going on?" Fiona asked, finally awake, her voice groggy.

  "I really want to know too," I muttered.

  ---------------------———————————--