Garret was halfway through his third mug at Bram's when the small incident found him anyway.
It started with raised voices outside. Then the unmistakable crash of wood splintering. A woman screamed. Chairs scraped as half the tavern emptied onto the street.
Garret stayed put, staring into his ale like it might solve the problem for him. "Not my circus," he muttered.
Bram leaned over the bar, bald head gleaming with sweat. "Sounds like those idiot caravan guards again. Drunk, betting on who can wrestle the wild boar they dragged in. Thing broke loose."
A second crash. Louder this time. Someone yelled, "It's heading for the market!"
Garret sighed, drained his mug, and stood up. Not because he wanted to play hero. Because if the damn boar wrecked the market, there'd be no fresh bread for a week, and he needed bread to soak up the ale.
He stepped outside into chaos.
The boar was huge — bristly, red-eyed, and already bleeding from a few half-assed spear pokes. It charged straight down the muddy street, knocking over a fruit stall. Apples rolled everywhere. Pip was right in the middle of it, wooden sword raised like she thought she could actually do something.
"Pip, get back!" Petra shouted from the clinic doorway.
Garret moved without thinking much. He grabbed a fallen pitchfork from the side of a wagon, planted his feet, and let out a sharp whistle.
The boar swung its head toward the sound. Garret met its eyes and did the one thing his old life had taught him well: looked too mean and too tired to be worth the effort.
"Hey, ugly," he growled, voice low and rough. "You're blocking my way to the next drink."
The boar hesitated, snorting. One of the caravan guards lunged with a spear. The boar squealed, spun, and charged straight at Garret instead.
He sidestepped at the last second — this new body was quicker than expected — and brought the pitchfork down hard across the beast's snout. Not enough to kill it, just enough to hurt its pride. The boar skidded, confused, then bolted back toward the forest edge with the guards chasing after it, shouting curses.
The street went quiet for a beat. Then people started clapping. Someone laughed.
Pip ran up, eyes shining. "That was amazing! You didn't even use Aether! Just… stared it down!"
"Mostly luck and bad temper," Garret said, tossing the pitchfork aside. His shoulder ached a little where he'd twisted. Nothing serious. "Go help your ma clean up the mess."
Petra gave him a nod from across the street — grateful, but still tired. "Thanks, Garret. I'll patch you up later if you need it."
"Don't need it," he grunted, already turning back toward the tavern.
Bram clapped him on the back as he re-entered, nearly knocking him off his feet. "That's my boy. Minimal effort, maximum result. Drink's on the house."
Garret accepted the fresh mug with a grunt of thanks and settled back onto his stool. The adrenaline faded fast, leaving him with the familiar warm buzz. For a minute, everything felt almost normal. New world, same old routine.
That's when Sable walked in.
The wandering knight had been drifting through Cragmore for months — lean, dark-skinned, close-cropped hair, always moving like she was conserving energy for something important. She carried herself with quiet competence that made people straighten up without meaning to. Today she looked like she'd just come off the road, cloak dusty, sword at her hip.
She scanned the room, spotted Garret, and headed straight for him.
"Mole," she said, voice low and steady. No greeting, no small talk. "You handled that boar clean. Most men would've made it messier."
Garret shrugged. "Most men like showing off. I like sitting down."
Sable's mouth twitched — almost a smile. She dropped a coin on the bar. "Bram, two of whatever he's having. And something stronger if you've got it."
Bram raised an eyebrow but poured without comment.
Sable slid onto the stool beside Garret. "I'm heading into the lower district tonight. Got a lead on something I've been tracking. Could use someone who doesn't ask too many questions and knows how to keep his mouth shut."
Garret took a sip. The new drink burned smoother. "Lower district? That the polite way of saying the pleasure houses and gambling dens on the south edge?"
"Same thing," Sable said. She looked at him sideways. "You've got that face that makes people underestimate you. Useful tonight. I'll cover the drinks. And whatever else catches your eye."
Garret paused mid-swig. In his old life, "pleasure district" usually meant cheap strippers and overpriced beer. Here, who knew? But free drinks were free drinks, and turning down a quiet night out wasn't in his vocabulary.
He set the mug down. "Fine. But I'm not fighting anybody. And if it turns into hero shit, I'm walking away."
Sable nodded once, like she'd expected nothing less. "Deal. Finish that. We leave in an hour."
The next hour passed in comfortable silence broken only by Bram's occasional jokes and Pip poking her head in once to beg for more "training tips" before Petra dragged her home. Garret nursed his drink, feeling the new body settle heavier with the alcohol. His scar itched less. His back didn't ache as much. Small wins.
When Sable stood, he followed her out into the cooling evening. The two suns were dipping low, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples. They walked south along the edge of Cragmore, past the last proper houses into a row of lantern-lit buildings with colorful banners and muffled music spilling out.
The pleasure district wasn't seedy the way Garret expected — more like a lively, slightly desperate carnival on the frontier. Women and men in revealing silks called from balconies. Laughter mixed with the clink of coins and the low strum of strange stringed instruments. A beastman bouncer with bull horns nodded at Sable like he knew her.
She led him into a place called The Velvet Lantern — dim, warm, smelling of incense and sweet wine. Plush cushions, private booths, and servers moving with practiced grace.
Sable picked a corner table and ordered a bottle of something expensive-looking. "My contact should be here soon. Until then… relax. You've earned it after playing hero with that boar."
Garret poured himself a cup and leaned back. The alcohol here was smoother, fruitier, with a warm kick that spread nicely through his chest. "Not playing hero. Just protecting my drinking money."
Sable watched him over her own cup, something thoughtful in her eyes. "Most men in your position would be chasing glory or women or both. You just… exist. It's restful."
"Existing's hard enough," Garret said. He took another sip, letting the buzz settle in. A couple of the working girls glanced their way, curious about the rough-faced farmer with the intimidating scar. One with dark curls and a knowing smile started toward their table.
Sable noticed and gave a small nod. "Go on. I've got business to handle quietly. Don't wander too far."
Garret hesitated for half a second — old instincts saying this was probably a bad idea wrapped in a good time. Then he shrugged.
New world. New body. Might as well see what it could handle.
He raised his cup to Sable. "Try not to start any prophecies while I'm gone."
She actually laughed — quiet, surprised. "No promises."
As he stood to follow the dark-curled woman toward a more private corner, Garret felt a strange mix of resignation and curiosity. The body was adjusting fine. The village was tolerable. Even the small incidents weren't killing him yet.
Maybe this afterlife wasn't so bad.
He just hoped it stayed that way.
End of Chapter 4