Millcross, first of the "proper" towns on my journey, greeted me with all the warmth of a wet sock to the face.
From the distance, its stone wall and patchwork gates looked promising towers rising above crooked houses, banners fluttering bravely, as if the town had something to celebrate besides not being eaten by monsters. But as I passed through the gate (after a suspicious guard counted my coins twice and let me through only when he realized I had more than him), it became clear: civilization wasn't always an upgrade.
Inside, the lanes twisted like a drunk's signature, cobbles slick with mud and worse. Old women hawked bread from carts, side-eying every stranger. Half the houses leaned on their neighbors as if either could fall at any moment. Guards strolled in pairs, their armor shiny in places, rusty in others, hands resting a little too close to their swords.
I kept my hood up, my new cloak wrapped tight. The system flickered a warning:
[Millcross Reputation: Neutral. Suspicion Level: Medium-High. Suggestion: Keep head down, avoid dramatic fireballs, and above all smile only if bribed.]
Great.
As I walked, I caught whispers behind me:
"Another stray from the wilds, look at that coat burn marks, I swear!"
"She's not from around here. Probably trouble. Lock your doors!"
"My cousin's friend's brother says he saw a girl torch a whole goblin nest last week. Left nothing but ashes…"
I tried to blend in, but the effort made me stand out. My boots were too new, my cloak not patched enough, my hands callused in all the wrong places for a peasant. People gave me a wide berth except the ones looking for an easy mark.
One of them was a guard sergeant balding, jaw like a shovel, eyes always calculating. He swaggered over, stopping just close enough that I could smell the "official town aroma": cheap ale, sweat, and authority.
"Name," he demanded, "and business."
"Just passing through." I tried for humble. It came out closer to 'bored dragon.'
He eyed my satchel. "You don't look like a merchant. Or a farmhand."
"Or a bandit?" I offered, half hoping he'd laugh.
He didn't. "We've got enough trouble from the roads lately. Flame-wielding thief, by some accounts. You hear about her?"
My heart skipped. "Sounds dangerous. I'll be careful."
He grunted, wrote something in a battered ledger, and waved me on—one eye still on my back.
The system chirped:
[Suspicion Level: Now "Watch List." Suggestion: Avoid arson, heroics, or loud sneezing for 48 hours.]
I ducked down the next lane, nearly colliding with a bulletin board bristling with official notices and amateur wanted posters.
WANTED:
"Flame-wielding Bandit Girl"
Approx. age: "Young, scowly, untrustworthy."
Crimes: Arson, banditry, public nuisance, "general menace."
REWARD: 25 gold and a week's free bread.
CAUTION:
Monsters sighted near Millcross do not leave after dusk.
DUNGEON EXPLORERS NEEDED:
Sign up at the Rusty Tankard Inn. High risk, high reward, low life expectancy.
MISSING:
One goat, answers to "Sausage." Last seen eating the mayor's hat.
I laughed so hard I nearly drew more attention. The wanted poster was a near-perfect portrait of "trouble with an attitude" if you squinted, it might even look like me. Or any girl with messy hair and something to prove.
The town pulsed with gossip. The main square had a small market: dried fruit, dubious sausages, even more dubious jewelry. I needed rest and information. And if fate was kind a bath.
I found the Rusty Tankard by smell before sight: ale, sweat, and cheap perfume. Inside, it was half-packed with farmers, traders, and the sort of people who get nervous when guards are nearby.
The innkeeper was a woman with sharp eyes and hair piled high enough to hide a dagger or two. She greeted me with a smile so wide it had to be fake.
"Welcome, traveler! Looking for a room, or just gossip?"
"Both," I said, fishing out a coin.
Her eyes narrowed with practiced speed. "Ten silver for the bed, five more if you want it quiet. Discount if you tell me where you got that cloak looks like real capital work."
"I'd tell you," I said, lowering my voice, "but then you'd have to explain to the guards why you're harboring someone so dangerous."
She laughed, clearly delighted. "Suit yourself . Name's Greta. Room's up the stairs. Just keep your nose clean and your fire outside."
She handed over a tarnished key. I could feel her eyes on my back as I moved through the crowd, searching for a table out of direct view.
Not five minutes later, a brawl broke out by the bar a classic: one drunk, one angry merchant, and a misunderstanding over who owed what for spilled stew. I tried to duck out of the way but somehow got swept into the chaos as a pint glass bounced off my shoulder.
As the fists and insults flew, a tiny hand tugged at my cloak.
I glanced down. A child mud-streaked, barefoot, all sharp elbows and wide, defiant eyes stood at my side. In the moment, he slipped a purse from the pocket of a distracted brawler and pressed himself behind me, as if I were a shield.
A shout rang out: "Thief! Get him!"
The innkeeper looked ready to call the guard. The kid's eyes locked onto mine pure terror under a layer of bravado.
With a sigh, I scooped him up and ducked behind a stack of barrels, the system pinging wild alerts.
[Host: You are now harboring a pickpocket. Alignment: Chaotic Tired.]
The fight crashed through tables and spilled into the street. I kept the child behind me, flames at the ready if anyone tried to pin blame on us.
Once things calmed, the boy grinned, gaps in his teeth, and tried to bolt. I grabbed his collar. "You picked the wrong day to pick my pocket, brat."
"I wasn't after you," he protested, but didn't wriggle away. "They'd have caught me if not for you."
"And now what? You want to tag along?"
He looked up, calculating. "Better with you than out there."
He couldn't be more than five, but his eyes were old too old.
The system popped up, smug as always.
[Scanning… Potential Sidekick Detected.]
Name: Milo
Age: 5
Stats:
HP: 14/14
MP: 6/6
Strength: 4
Agility: 10
Intelligence: 12
Luck: ???
Potential: Unlimited. Projected Growth: "Ridiculously Overpowered."
[System Suggestion: Consider keeping him. Future world-breaker detected. Cuteness is a bonus.]
I groaned. "Just what I needed. An apprentice menace."
Milo grinned. "You got a name?"
"Arielle. Don't make me regret this."
His eyes went wide. "You got magic, don't you? I saw you at the gate your fingers sparked!"
I clapped a hand over his mouth. "Hush. Some people are looking for a flame-wielding girl, and I'd rather not test the bread here in jail."
He nodded, solemn and delighted, as if we'd just made a pact. I realized, a little reluctantly, that I'd agreed to something I didn't understand and that maybe I didn't mind.
We headed upstairs. The innkeeper winked, whispering, "Keep your head down girl. And watch your pockets the kid's got faster hands than half my staff."
In the narrow, creaking room, I sat on the bed, Milo perched at my feet, swinging his legs. He hummed a tune I half-recognized a lullaby from a place I'd never called home.
Outside, the town carried on: guards grumbling, rumors swirling, darkness creeping in.
The system chimed one last time:
[Welcome to civilization, Host. Try not to burn it down. At least, not on your first night.]