---
Harold Bonesworth was, unfortunately, unemployed.
This was unusual, because necromancy was supposed to be one of the most stable careers in the world. Farmers had bad harvests. Smiths had to compete with dwarven imports. But necromancers? As long as people kept dying, there was always demand.
Graveyards were practically offices with built-in resources. All you needed was a shovel, a chant, and the willingness to tolerate complaints about "grave robbing ethics."
And yet, here Harold was — broke, humiliated, and still owing three months' rent to a landlady who had threatened to "repossess his femurs" if he didn't pay up soon.
Why?
Because Harold was bad at necromancy.
Not "slightly below average" bad. Not "needs a refresher course" bad. He was catastrophically, historically, "bards compose songs about your incompetence" bad.
He couldn't summon skeletal armies. He couldn't even summon a single intimidating undead minion. All he ever managed to conjure was Greg.
And Greg… was not intimidating.
---
It was sunset in the village of Timberhook, and Harold was standing in the middle of the graveyard, waving his staff over a freshly-dug mound of dirt. He had been practicing for hours, hoping that this time, something terrifying would crawl out of the earth.
A ghoul. A banshee. Hell, he would've settled for a spooky skeleton with glowing red eyes.
He raised his staff. His voice echoed dramatically.
"Rise, O servant of eternal darkness! Awaken, by bone and by marrow! Come forth and serve your master!"
The ground trembled.
The villagers watching from the graveyard gate leaned forward, muttering to each other. A child squeaked with excitement. Someone clutched their rosary beads.
The air shimmered with green necrotic energy. The earth split.
And out of the dirt climbed Greg.
Greg was a skeleton. Technically. But unlike the skeletal soldiers promised in necromancy brochures, Greg wore a bright Hawaiian shirt with pink flamingos on it. His bony feet were wedged into flip-flops. His eye sockets glowed faintly blue, but instead of menace, the glow radiated a vibe of "casual beach vacation."
"Yo," Greg said, brushing dirt off his shirt. "What's good?"
The villagers stared.
Harold's face went red. "Greg. I told you — act scary."
Greg tilted his skull. "Scary how? Like 'boo' scary, or like 'tax collector' scary?"
The villagers chuckled. Harold ground his teeth. "Menacing! The kind of scary that makes people regret every life choice!"
Greg thought about this. Then he struck a breakdancer pose, bones clicking into place. "Hyaaaah!"
The villagers did not wet themselves.
One woman folded her arms. "That's it?"
A farmer scoffed. "I've seen scarier chickens."
A teenager pointed at Greg and laughed. "Nice shirt, bone-boy!"
Harold's stomach twisted. He could feel his reputation collapsing further with each snicker.
"Show them your combat stance!" he hissed.
Greg attempted a cartwheel. Halfway through, his flip-flop flew off, his femur popped loose, and he collapsed into a pile of bones. His skull rolled a few feet and came to rest against Harold's boot.
From the dirt, Greg's skull muttered, "Stick the landing next time, Greg. Stick the landing."
The villagers started walking away.
"This necromancer's a fraud."
"Waste of time."
"I skipped dinner for this?"
Harold's face burned hotter than dragonfire. "He's… adaptable," he said weakly.
The last villager spat on the ground before leaving.
Greg rattled himself back together, bones snapping into place in the wrong order. His ribcage ended up backwards. He gave a shaky thumbs-up. "Nailed it."
Harold buried his face in his hands. "I'm never getting hired."
---
They sat together on the grass as the sun dipped below the hills, painting the sky a melancholy orange.
Greg lay sprawled on his back, staring up at the clouds. "Hey, boss?"
"What."
"Do you think seagulls ever get tired of stealing fries?"
Harold groaned.
Greg turned his skull toward him, sockets glowing faintly. "I'm serious. Like, maybe one day a seagull goes, 'Bro, maybe I don't want fries today. Maybe I want, like… inner fulfillment.'"
Harold leaned his head back and groaned louder. "I could've apprenticed as a baker. I could've been normal."
"Yeah, but bakers don't get to wear sick robes," Greg said. "You look like a wizard ninja."
Harold glared at his staff. It was chipped. The gem at the top flickered. He bought it secondhand from a traveling merchant who promised it had once belonged to the legendary Archlich of the North. More likely, it had once belonged to a scarecrow.
"Necromancers are supposed to command respect," Harold muttered. "They're supposed to stride into battle, summon an army, and conquer kingdoms. What do I have? One skeleton. Who can't even stay upright."
Greg raised a finger bone. "Correction. One skeleton in a stylish Hawaiian shirt."
Harold gave him a look of pure despair. "Greg, that shirt is the single biggest obstacle to my career."
Greg sat up, offended. "Excuse you, this shirt is my identity. Without it, I'm just another pile of bones. With it? I'm Greg, the chillest skeleton in Timberhook."
"Timberhook has, at most, three skeletons."
"And I'm still the chillest."
Harold buried his face in his hands again.
---
By the time the moon rose, Harold's humiliation was complete. Word of his failure had spread through the village faster than plague. The tavern bards were already composing songs about "Harold the Hopeless." Children were daring each other to sneak into his shack and steal his "pathetic staff."
Even worse, rival necromancers in nearby towns would hear about it. Necromancy was already an unpopular profession, one bad scandal away from being outlawed again. And now he was the scandal.
Greg lay on the grass beside him, humming tunelessly.
"Boss," Greg said suddenly.
"What," Harold mumbled.
"You ever think maybe your true calling isn't necromancy?"
Harold sat up, glaring. "Don't you start."
"No, no, hear me out." Greg sat up too, adjusting his shirt. "Like, maybe you're destined to be, I dunno… a juggler. Or a bard. Or one of those guys who yells about miracle knives in the market."
"I spent ten years studying the dark arts."
"Yeah, but are you good at it?"
Harold's eye twitched.
Greg patted his shoulder with a cold hand. "Don't worry, bro. Even if you're the worst necromancer in history, I'll still hang with you. We're ride-or-die."
"Some days I think I'd prefer the dying part."
"Exactly. Low commitment."
Harold let out a long, defeated sigh.
The moonlight cast Greg's skeleton in pale silver, making him look almost majestic — until his jaw fell off and clattered into the grass.
Harold stared at the sky. "Maybe I really am cursed."
The night was quiet, save for the sound of Greg's jaw clattering against the grass.
Harold lay on his back beside the skeleton, staring up at the stars.
Greg rolled his skull to look at him. "You'd burn the bread."
"Bread doesn't heckle me when I fail," Harold muttered.
Greg wiggled his loose jaw. "Can't help it, boss. I'm naturally hilarious."
Harold groaned, pulling his cloak tighter. He imagined the future stretching out before him: endless days of failed summonings, villagers snickering behind his back, Greg telling bone puns until Harold finally snapped and tried to reanimate himself just to get some peace.
That was when the sky tore open.
Literally tore — like someone had grabbed the heavens and ripped a seam straight through the constellations. Light poured out, golden and blinding. Harold sat up, shielding his eyes.
Something whistled as it fell. Fast.
It hit him on the head with a thunk.
"OW! For the love of—" Harold toppled sideways into the grass.
Greg leaned over, sockets glowing with curiosity. "Incoming mail?"
A scroll lay on the ground, glowing faintly. It unrolled by itself, golden letters burning across the parchment in a neat, smug script.
---
Congratulations!
You have been selected for the prestigious position of:
HERO'S SIDEKICK
Starting salary: 3 copper per month.
Benefits: Exposure.
Mandatory health insurance not included.
---
Harold blinked. Then blinked again.
Greg whistled. "Duuuude. That's legit. You're hired!"
"I don't want to be hired!" Harold snapped.
"It comes with exposure!"
"Exposure doesn't pay rent!"
"Neither do you."
Harold opened his mouth to retort, but the scroll suddenly pulsed with light. The ground shook. Trumpets blared from nowhere, echoing across the graveyard.
A column of radiance split the night sky, slamming down into the grass. Harold stumbled backward, throwing up his hands.
From the light descended the most offensively perfect man Harold had ever seen.
Golden hair. Sparkling teeth. A jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Armor so polished Harold could see his own horrified reflection in it. A crimson cape billowed majestically behind him, despite there being no wind.
The man landed with heroic grace, raising one fist to the heavens.
"I am Arion Dawnblade!" his voice boomed. "Chosen Hero of the Radiant Order! Slayer of Ten Thousand Shadows! Handsome Beyond Reason!"
Greg clapped. "Nice entrance, bro."
Arion's radiant gaze swept over Harold, and he pointed. "And you—! You are my new assistant!"
Harold blinked. "Assigned?"
"Yes!" Arion spread his arms wide, like a preacher at the pulpit. "Rejoice! You will bask in my greatness, aid me on my sacred quest, and—should fate demand—heroically sacrifice yourself in my stead."
Greg's jawbone clacked in amusement. "Solid benefits package."
Harold sputtered. "Sacrifice myself—? Absolutely not! I didn't sign anything!"
The golden scroll hovering nearby flipped open again. Fresh letters burned themselves across the parchment.
---
Contract Initiated.
Party A: Arion Dawnblade, Chosen Hero.
Party B: Harold Bonesworth, Unemployed Necromancer.
Term: Indefinite until Heroic Quest completion.
Penalty for breach: Immediate smiting.
---
Harold went pale. "Immediate smiting?!"
The scroll emitted a faint, threatening crackle of lightning.
Greg tilted his skull. "Bro, it's magical fine print. You're toast."
"I didn't even touch it!" Harold protested.
"You looked at it," Greg said wisely. "That's basically consent."
Arion laughed, the sound rich and heroic. "Worry not, my gloomy friend! As my sidekick, you will gain purpose, renown, and possibly a tragic death that inspires future generations!"
Harold rubbed his temples. "I don't want renown. I want rent money. And to not die tragically."
"Three copper per month!" Arion announced proudly, as though this were a fortune.
"Three—?!" Harold choked. "That's not even enough to buy bread! Rent alone is ten!"
Greg raised a finger bone. "To be fair, boss, you haven't paid rent in, like, four months."
"Shut. Up."
Arion ignored them both, striding across the graveyard as if he were already on parade. "Gather your belongings, Harold Bonesworth! At dawn, we march against the Forces of Darkness!"
"I am the Forces of Darkness!" Harold snapped. "Or at least, I was trying to be!"
Arion stopped mid-stride, frowning. "…Really? You?" He gave Harold a slow, pitying once-over. "You look more like a substitute librarian."
Greg cackled.
Harold felt his eye twitch. "I hate everything."
---
Back in Harold's shack, things did not improve.
Arion had insisted on inspecting Harold's "arsenal of necromantic tools." Which turned out to be:
One chipped staff with questionable magical power.
Two grimoires Harold had borrowed from the library and never returned.
A box of chicken bones Greg swore were "for emergencies."
Arion looked at the collection and shook his head sadly. "Tragic. But fear not! Under my shining guidance, even you may become marginally useful."
"Marginally," Harold repeated flatly.
Greg was attempting to wear one of Harold's cloaks as a cape. He posed dramatically. "Hey, boss, look! I'm like him!"
Arion gagged. "By the Light, why is it wearing flamingos?"
"Don't shame my drip," Greg said.
"It's disgraceful," Arion said firmly.
"It's iconic," Greg shot back.
Harold buried his face in his hands. "This is my life now. This is actually happening."
---
The next morning, Harold's nightmare continued.
Arion's horse arrived before dawn. It was pure white, eyes glowing faintly, mane braided with golden threads. It sparkled. It actually sparkled.
Harold squinted at it. "Does your horse… glitter?"
"Radiant steed, blessed by the gods," Arion said proudly. "Do not question the shine."
Greg patted the horse's leg. "Good boy. Got any oats?"
The horse snorted, showering Greg with glitter.
"Sweet," Greg said, coughing sparkles.
Arion swung onto the saddle with a flourish. "Come, my sidekick! Adventure awaits!"
Harold dragged his feet. His cloak was wrinkled, his hair was a mess, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He looked like someone who'd lost a bar fight with his own despair.
Greg strutted beside him, humming a marching tune badly off-key.
"Do I even get a horse?" Harold muttered.
"Sidekicks walk," Arion said, patting his own steed.
Greg pointed to himself. "What about skeletons?"
"Sidekicks of sidekicks double-walk," Arion declared.
Greg sighed. "Brutal."
---
By midday, Harold was already regretting breathing.
Arion had spent hours giving motivational speeches. To birds. To passing farmers. At one point, to a rock shaped vaguely like a goblin. Every time, his voice rang out with the same heroic cadence.
"Evil never rests!" he proclaimed to a goat.
The goat chewed grass.
"And so neither shall we!" Arion continued.
Greg clapped. "Preach, bro."
Harold dragged his staff along the dirt. "Kill me now."
"Don't worry, boss," Greg said cheerfully. "If he doesn't, someone else will."
---
That night, they made camp on a hill. Arion sat polishing his sword, its blade gleaming in the firelight. Harold stared at the flames, wondering how hard he'd have to shove his head into them to escape his contract.
Greg roasted a marshmallow on one of his finger bones.
"Boss," Greg said, "you know, this isn't so bad. Food, travel, death-defying adventure. It's like a vacation!"
"A vacation usually doesn't involve dying tragically for someone else's glory," Harold muttered.
Greg shrugged. "Details."
Arion sheathed his sword, his teeth sparkling. "Rest well, Harold Bonesworth. Tomorrow, you take your first step on the path of heroism!"
Harold closed his eyes and whispered, "Maybe I should've gone into carpentry."
The golden scroll fluttered into view again, glowing faintly in the firelight. New words scrawled across its surface.
---
Quest Assigned:
Assist Hero Arion Dawnblade in slaying the Goblin King of the Black Caves.
Reward: Continued employment.
Failure: Termination (in both senses).
---
Harold groaned. Greg fist-pumped.
"Bro," Greg said, "we're finally legit!"
Harold curled into his cloak. "I'm doomed."
---