The next morning the village square buzzed with more energy than usual. A long table had been set up near the well, with a ledger, a pot of ink, and a stack of worn quills. Mayor Elias stood behind it, looking both hopeful and slightly overwhelmed as people trickled in.
Word of the militia had spread fast. Most of the early arrivals were young boys between fourteen and twenty, chests puffed out and eyes bright with dreams of glory. They laughed too loud and talked about fighting demons like it was a game.
A lanky boy named Tomas was first in line. "Put me down, Mayor! I'll swing a sword better than any of those capital guards."
His friend Jarek shoved him playfully. "Me too! We'll be the ones who hold the line when the real monsters come. Just like the old stories."
Elias wrote their names with a patient sigh. "Easy, lads. This is for protecting the village, not chasing glory. You'll be walking cold night watches and hauling logs for barricades more than swinging blades."
More boys signed up anyway. A few older men joined as well — retired soldiers and farmers who knew what real trouble looked like. Dov added his name in his slow, steady handwriting. "I'll take the heavy lifting," he said simply.
Garret watched from a distance, leaning against a post with his arms crossed. He had no intention of getting any closer until someone dragged him over.
Sable arrived a little later, moving stiffly but on her own two feet. The bandages under her tunic were fresh, and color had returned to her face. She walked straight to the table.
"Add me," she said. "I'll teach combat when this wound heals. Proper footwork, how to read an enemy, when to run instead of fight. The basics that keep you alive."
Elias looked relieved. "That would be a great help, Sable. The boys need someone who actually knows what she's doing."
One of the young lads whispered loudly, "A woman teaching us? She doesn't even look that strong."
Sable turned her head slowly and gave him a flat stare. The boy shut up immediately.
Garret snorted to himself. At least someone sensible was stepping up.
He tried to slip away before anyone noticed him, but Pip spotted him from across the square. She was still limping on her bandaged leg, but that didn't stop her from waving enthusiastically.
"Mister Garret! You have to sign up too!"
Every head turned again. Garret cursed under his breath and walked over, mostly to stop the staring.
"I already said I'd do watches," he grumbled. "That's enough."
Elias dipped the quill. "We'll put you down for patrols and basic training help. Even if it's just showing the lads how not to die stupidly."
Garret sighed. "Fine. But I'm not teaching glory. I'm teaching how to throw rocks and look mean enough that trouble picks someone else."
A few of the boys laughed. One of them muttered, "He's joking, right?"
Garret gave the kid a long, unimpressed look. The laughter died.
With the sign-up sheet filling up, the crowd started to break apart into smaller groups. Some headed off to gather wood for barricades. Others talked excitedly about their first training session.
Garret turned and headed back toward his farm before anyone could rope him into more conversation. His daily routine was calling, and he intended to answer it.
He started with the fields. The weeds had grown bolder overnight, so he grabbed the hoe and went through the motions — swing, chop, move on. His body handled the work with the same quiet efficiency it had shown since he woke up in this world. No dramatic strain, just steady effort that left him sweaty but not exhausted.
Halfway through the morning, Dov's dog wandered over again and flopped in the shade. Garret tossed it a scrap of bread from his pocket without thinking.
"Freeloader," he muttered. The dog wagged its tail.
By midday he took a break on the porch with a jug of weak ale. The liquid was still sour, but it went down easy. He leaned back, eyes half-closed, listening to the distant sounds of the village — hammers on wood as people reinforced fences, laughter from the young boys practicing swings with sticks.
Yissa's cart rolled past on the path. She waved. "Garret! Still alive and avoiding responsibility?"
"Trying my best," he called back.
Old Henk showed up next, leaning on the fence like he owned it. "Heard you got dragged into the militia list. Congratulations, hero."
"Not a hero," Garret said, taking another drink. "Just the guy who doesn't want his farm burned down."
Henk cackled. "Same difference out here. You'll end up teaching those boys something whether you like it or not."
Garret grunted and changed the subject. "Your arm still weak from losing that wrestling match?"
The old man took the bait and they spent the next twenty minutes trading insults and half-hearted challenges.
In the afternoon Garret fixed a loose board on the chicken coop and checked the rain barrel. Simple, mindless tasks that kept his hands busy while his mind stayed mostly blank. The new body made everything feel smoother than his old one ever had. Less pain in the joints. Better balance. He could almost enjoy the quiet rhythm of it.
As the two suns dipped lower, he made his way to Bram's tavern for the evening part of his routine. The place was louder than usual with talk of the new militia.
Bram slid a full mug across the bar without being asked. "Heard you signed up, Mole. Proud of you."
"Didn't have much choice," Garret replied, taking a long pull. The ale tasted better after a day of honest work. "At least Sable's handling the real teaching. I'll just stand there and look ugly."
Bram laughed. "That scarred face of yours does scare the youngsters. Useful skill."
Pip poked her head in near closing time, limping but determined. "Mister Garret! When training starts, you'll show us the rock trick again, right?"
Garret waved her off with his mug. "Go rest that leg before your mother skins me."
She grinned and disappeared again.
Later, as Garret walked the dark path back to his farm, the distant howl rose once more from the treeline. Closer than before.
He paused for a moment, listening.
Then he shook his head and kept walking.
"Another day done," he muttered to the empty road. "Weeds chopped. Ale drunk. Militia signed. Nothing exploded."
Yet.
He scratched the scar on his jaw and headed inside.
Tomorrow would bring more of the same.
At least that was the plan.
End of Chapter 11