Garret woke up to the sound of his own rooster crowing like it had a personal vendetta against sleep. The mattress felt lumpier than usual, his shoulder still carried a faint bruise from the boar, and there was a dry taste in his mouth that reminded him he'd skipped the watered-down ale last night in favor of actual water. Small mercies.
He dragged himself outside, splashed his face from the rain barrel, and stared at the fields. The weeds had staged a comeback overnight. Typical.
"Fine," he grumbled, grabbing the hoe. "You win this round."
He worked in slow, deliberate swings — just enough to look busy if anyone wandered by. The new body made the labor easier than it had any right to be. His arms didn't burn out after ten minutes anymore. His back complained, but it didn't scream. After an hour he was sweating properly, shirt sticking to his skin, scar itching from the dust.
Dov's dog showed up again, flopping down in the shade of the porch like it owned the place.
"You're not even subtle about it," Garret told the mutt. It thumped its tail once and went back to sleeping.
Mid-morning, Old Henk appeared on the path, moving with the stiff swagger of a man who refused to admit he was seventy. The former village drunk was smaller and wirier than Garret, with a permanent scowl that deepened when he saw him.
"Mole!" Henk called, voice crackly. "Heard you were out causing trouble again. Boar in the street one day, pleasure district the next. You're making the rest of us look bad."
Garret leaned on the hoe and wiped his forehead. "Didn't cause the boar. Just ended it quicker. As for the rest… mind your own liver, old man."
Henk cackled and leaned against the fence. "My liver's seen better days, but at least I still hold the title of 'most likely to pass out in a ditch.' You're stealing my thunder, boy. Used to be I could count on you to keep the tavern interesting. Now you're out here playing farmer like you give a damn."
"I give a damn about ale money," Garret said. "Everything else is negotiable."
They stood in companionable silence for a bit. Henk spat to the side. "Yissa's got new stock in. Says some fancy noble's caravan passed through the capital roads. Talk of a hero kid causing ripples. Golden sword, big destiny, all that nonsense. You hear anything?"
Garret's hoe paused mid-swing for half a second. He kept his face blank. "Nope. Sounds expensive. Let the rich kids handle it."
Henk snorted. "Smart. Last time heroes came through here, half the borderlands got burned. Better to stay low."
A cheerful voice interrupted before Garret could agree.
"Mister Garret! I practiced!"
Pip came running up the path, wooden sword raised triumphantly. She was covered in dirt and leaves, braid half-undone, face flushed with pride. "Watch this!"
She swung at an imaginary enemy with more enthusiasm than skill, nearly whacking herself in the knee. The rock-throwing lesson from yesterday had clearly stuck — she followed it with a decent lob at a nearby stump that actually hit.
Garret nodded once. "Better. Don't swing so wide or you'll tire yourself out before anything gets close."
Pip beamed like he'd just handed her the keys to the kingdom. "See? You are teaching me! Mama said I shouldn't bother you every day, but I told her you don't mind."
"I mind," Garret said flatly. "But you keep showing up anyway."
Old Henk laughed. "Kid's got your number, Mole. Stubborn as you were at that age."
"I was never that age," Garret muttered.
Petra appeared a few minutes later, walking briskly with a basket of herbs. She looked like she'd already patched up three people and delivered bad news to two more. "Pippa, leave the man alone. Garret, you look like you need a tonic for that bruise on your shoulder. Don't pretend it doesn't ache."
"It doesn't," Garret lied.
Petra gave him the mother-stare. "Liar. Come by the clinic later. I'll mix something that doesn't taste like swamp water." She glanced at Pip. "And you — if you're going to train, at least help me restock the bandages first."
Pip groaned but followed her mother, throwing one last grin over her shoulder. "Tomorrow I'll show you blocks! Don't go anywhere!"
As they left, Yissa's cart rolled by on the main path. The fox beastwoman waved, tail swishing. "Garret! Fresh spices and that strong southern brew. Stop by before Bram buys it all!"
"Later," he called back. "After I pretend to finish these weeds."
The rest of the afternoon passed in the same slow rhythm. Garret weeded a little more, fixed a loose board on the chicken coop with half-assed hammer swings, and took two breaks to sit on the porch with a jug of weak ale. The dog stayed. Dov waved from his field once. A retired soldier couple walked past arguing about taxes from the capital.
Nothing big happened. No monsters. No dramatic visitors. Just the borderlands doing what they did best — existing loudly in the background while people tried to live quietly.
By evening, Garret was back at Bram's. The tavern was comfortably full. Bram slid a mug over without being asked.
"Another quiet one?" the big man asked, polishing a tankard.
"Exactly how I like them," Garret said, taking a long pull. The ale tasted better after a day of honest(ish) work. His body felt loose and tired in a satisfying way. The scar on his jaw didn't itch as much. Even the faint ache from last night's activities had faded to nothing.
Sable was in the corner again, nursing her own drink. She caught his eye and gave a small nod — no words, no questions about the Velvet Lantern. Just acknowledgment. Garret nodded back. Whatever her "lead" had been, it apparently hadn't exploded into village drama yet.
Old Henk challenged him to arm-wrestling halfway through the second mug. Garret let him win the first one, then crushed the second just to watch the old man sputter.
"Cheater!" Henk grumbled good-naturedly.
"Experience," Garret replied, raising his mug in mock toast.
Pip poked her head in near closing time, but Petra hauled her away before she could start another training rant. The girl waved enthusiastically anyway.
As the tavern quieted and Garret nursed the last of his drink, he felt something dangerously close to contentment settle in his chest.
Another day in the village. Weeds half-done. Ale mostly drunk. No one had tried to recruit him for a quest. No glowing swords or demon armies on the horizon.
He could get used to this.
Outside, far beyond the treeline, something howled low and distant — the kind of sound that promised the borderlands weren't done testing people.
Garret drained his mug and set it down with a solid thunk.
"Not tonight," he said quietly to no one in particular.
Tomorrow would be another damn day. And he planned to keep it that way for as long as possible.
End of Chapter 7