I spent the entire day wandering the town, asking every vendor, drunkard, and passing stray if they'd seen a grizzly bear walking on two legs. A ridiculous question on its own, sure — but Ronald wasn't exactly easy to describe. More than a man, not quite beast. Towering, shaggy, broad-shouldered, with that unsettling in-between look that made children cry and drunks sober up for half a breath.
First stop? Obvious. The local bar. Always the best place to sniff out rumors — or trouble, depending on your luck.
The heavy wooden door groaned under my hand, spilling me into a fog of ale, pipe smoke, and half-shouted lies. Mugs clinked. Voices tangled over each other like alley cats. At the counter, George stood polishing a mug with all the grim dedication of a priest tending relics. Face like sour bread, eyes sharp enough to slice copper.
"Hey, George," I began, casual, like I wasn't on the verge of begging. "I'm looking for someone. A friend. He's… big. Like a grizzly bear on two legs."
The mug froze in his hand. Slowly, his gaze slid up to meet mine. The corners of his mouth twitched — amusement curling under old bark.
"A bear, you say?" Voice dry as sun-bleached bone. "Don't see many of those in these parts — unless you've been dipping into the harder stuff."
He leaned forward, elbows on the counter, weighing me like he weighed every rumor that passed through here. "You planning on hunting him?"
I blinked, caught off guard, then shook my head. "No, no. He's not prey. He's my friend."
Behind me, the hum of the room shifted. Conversations stumbled. Heads turned. Grins sharpened. Chuckles bubbled up like swamp gas. George's lip twitched higher, close to a smirk.
"Well," he drawled, "if he's as big as you say, you'd better hope no one else finds him first. Bear meat's a delicacy 'round here."
The words landed like sparks in dry grass. A table erupted into hoots and hollers. One man slapped the wood so hard his mug danced. Another mimed carving meat from air, face twisted in drunken glee.
"Bear! Bear!" they chorused, twisting the word into something hungry, something mean.
My stomach turned. Not from hunger — but from the sick thought that they might actually be serious.
"No. Ronald's not a bear," I snapped, voice sharp enough to cut through their noise. "He just looks like one. That's all."
But they weren't listening. Once "bear" had sunk its claws into them, reason was outmatched. The laughter only grew louder.
"Oui… There's no helping these drunkards," I muttered under my breath.
No point wasting words on stone ears. I turned on my heel and pushed through the door again. It creaked open, spilling out warmth, spilled ale, and the taste of old wood into the dying light.
Outside, the cold bit at my skin, sharper now that the sun was dipping behind bruised clouds.
And still — 'no Ronald'.
I combed the rest of the town: the market's emptying stalls, the blacksmith's forge belching smoke and sparks, the inn wrapped in lazy lamplight, even the hay-scented gloom of the stables. Same answer, every time. Blank stares, shrugs, muttered apologies. No one had seen a walking bear. No one knew a thing.
It was like he'd been swallowed by the world itself.
But deep down, something stubborn in me refused to let go. 'He's out there', I thought. 'Somewhere. My grizzly bear on two legs. My friend.'
…
And then, between one empty alley and my third snack of the afternoon, my resolve got mugged by curiosity.
A pair of new gloves caught my eye. Then a strange fruit that smelled like burnt sugar. Then a shiny brass bauble reflecting my grin. Then a steaming meat pie whose aroma nearly lifted me off my feet.
Just like that, my grand rescue mission crumbled into dust. I was spending coin like water and chasing curiosities like a cat with a ribbon.
It all came crashing down the moment I realized I had no coin left — and a suspiciously bloated stomach to show for it. I had blown through my purse on shiny, utterly useless junk and questionable street food that was probably banned in three kingdoms.
Just as I was eyeing a jar labeled "Pickled Mystery" (with no small amount of interest, mind you), a pair of vendors started gossiping behind their stall.
"Did you hear?" one whispered, voice pitched low. "The lord of the mansion's fallen ill again."
"Poor man," the other sighed, shaking her head so hard her earrings chimed. "That place has bad energy."
The words snapped me back to focus. My eyes lit up. 'The lord of the mansion! Connected, powerful… and probably surrounded by servants who know every stray dog and lost bear in town.'
Without thinking, I spun on my heel and stormed off — full of new purpose, stomach still rumbling.
"Excuse me!" I flagged down the first person I saw: a woman with a basket of herbs and kindness in her eyes. "How do I get to the mansion?"
She looked me over, the way a priest looks at a confession that's bound to get messy. Then she waved vaguely. "Third right after the fountain, then left at the broken sign."
"Got it!" I said brightly.
I absolutely did not got it.
Ten minutes later, I was standing in someone's backyard, staring at a chicken coop full of very judgmental chickens.
"This… doesn't look like a mansion," I muttered, voice small.
But giving up wasn't my style.
I asked again. A teenager in a hood told me to "follow the cobblestones till it smells expensive." That led me to a perfume shop so fancy my wallet whimpered just standing outside.
A merchant pointed behind a hill. I climbed it and found nothing but angry goats that treated me like an invading army.
The town blacksmith silently lifted his hammer and pointed east. Following that sage guidance somehow dropped me into a dried-up well. Don't ask.
By the time the sky started turning gold, I'd circled the same statue of a man holding a fish three times, got chased by a goose with murder in its eyes, and accidentally bought a hat so large it could double as a tent.
Still, I wasn't quitting. I slapped the dust off my pants, lifted my chin to the empty street, and announced to absolutely no one: "I will find that mansion. Even if I have to interrogate every squirrel in this cursed town!"
A squirrel chattered at me from the gutter.
I squinted. "Don't test me."
It threw a nut. Square at my forehead.
"Ouch!" I hissed, clutching the spot. "You little punk! You better pray I don't catch you, or I'll turn you into squirrel stew!"
The squirrel, utterly unbothered, flicked its tail at me in rude triumph — then darted into the trees, vanishing like smoke.
Rage simmered low in my chest. "Oh, that's it," I growled, ready to march after it —
Then a laugh broke through the street. Light, lilting, warm as a bell at dusk.
I spun, heartbeat stumbling. A girl stood there — about my age, holding a basket brimming with bread. Her eyes were wide with surprise, lips trembling as if trying to contain another laugh.
The moment our eyes met, she spun on her heel and bolted.
"Wait!" I called, but she didn't so much as look back.
I chased her around the corner — only to find empty cobblestones and drifting crumbs. As if she'd dissolved into the wind itself.
"Oui… she ain't a ghost, right?" I muttered, scratching my head.
Then I noticed it. A faint trail of breadcrumbs, winding into a narrow alley — each crumb fresh, soft, like an invitation.
'Either she's the clumsiest bread carrier in town… or she wants me to follow.'
My boots clicked over the stones as I set off after the trail, the scent of fresh bread and jasmine tugging me along. The alley twisted between tall poplars, old brick, and the hush of fading day.
At last, I rounded a bend — and stopped dead.
A massive wall loomed ahead, cloaked in climbing roses that glowed scarlet in the last light. My heart skipped. 'The mansion… it has to be.'
I followed the wall, half-running, half-tripping, sure a gate had to appear around the next corner.
And the next.
And the next.
"When am I going to reach the main gate?!" I shouted at the sky, frustration bubbling over.
No answer. Just birds and the echo of my own fool footsteps.
Part of me whispered, 'Maybe you've wandered into an illusion…'
Another part muttered. 'No… more likely you just walked in a circle, idiot.'
I sighed, shoulders drooping. Dust stuck to my sweat-damp coat.
Then — voices. Low, steady, clipped by discipline.
I tiptoed toward the sound, pressed myself against the stone, and peeked around a pillar dripping roses.
Two bodyguards. Burly, armored, faces locked in that perfect guard-dog scowl. Behind them, an iron gate so tall it could keep out gods themselves.
My heart nearly danced out of my chest. 'Ah-ha! Finally found it!'
One of the guards murmured, "…The lord… doctor… still sick…"
The other nodded, solemn as a grave. Neither saw me, crouched in the half-shadow, practically vibrating with relief.
And then — the creak of wheels, the steady clop of hooves. A carriage rolled into view: elegant woodwork, sleek lines, brass lanterns catching dying sunlight.
The guards straightened, chests puffed. Hands hovered near belts — not tense, just trained.
As the carriage slowed before the gate, an idea sparked in my mind. The kind that makes your pulse quicken, your grin stretch wide.
One glorious, reckless thought.
'Oh… this might just work.'