Dust motes spun in golden shafts of sunlight, the barn thick with the scent of singed fur and spilled grain. Milo and I locked eyes over a battlefield of chaos buckets overturned, hay scattered, the lingering stench of rat panic in the air. My heart thundered not just from adrenaline, but from the knowledge that, for once, I wasn't fighting alone.
Milo darted across the barn like a pint-sized whirlwind, wielding his battered broom with a confidence that bordered on reckless. "This way, cheese thieves!" he whooped, stomping and flapping his scarf, driving three of the smaller rats toward me. Their glowing red eyes flicked from Milo to me and back, calculating which opponent was less likely to set them on fire.
I took a deep breath, calling up that surging warmth in my core, and let it flow to my fingertips. A quick, controlled flick sparks danced through the air, searing a line in the dirt before the rats. They shrieked and spun, their fur curling at the edges, and Milo pounced, trapping one beneath a bucket and sitting on the lid, giggling as the rat's tail thumped furiously underneath.
The largest rat the saucepan-helmeted brute charged me headlong, teeth bared, a metallic scrape echoing through the barn as it crashed through a tangle of tools. I didn't hesitate. The heat in my chest bloomed outward, and I swept one arm in an arc. Flames whirled, chasing each other in a spiral, brightening the barn like a festival gone rogue. The rat skidded to a halt, squeaking in terror, and doubled back right into Milo's outstretched boot.
"Score!" Milo crowed, his face aglow with equal parts fear and delight.
More rats streamed from the shadows, some clad in bits of tin or scraps of cloth, others bristling with attitude alone. The barn filled with a cacophony of angry squeals and thundering little feet. I felt the rush of power welling up inside me, ready to be shaped.
I snapped my fingers, and threads of fire slithered up the support beams, corralling the rats into a panicked, circling mass. For a moment, the flames danced an intricate pattern of shimmering red and gold, flickering like living ribbons. The rats darted, skidding to avoid the heat, each movement reflected in a thousand miniature mirrors in their frantic eyes.
One bold rodent hurled itself at Milo, who yelped and stumbled back. I hurled a crackling burst of heat just over his head the air shimmered and a sudden wall of fire burst to life, shielding him as the rat bounced off, singed and stunned. Milo peered up at me through the haze, eyes wide, admiration practically bursting from him.
"Whoa. You're amazing!"
I shot him a crooked grin, swatting a wayward ember from my sleeve. "Stay back. Let me handle the spicy bits."
He saluted, dragging his bucket-prison deeper into the corner. The largest rat wasn't deterred. With a guttural hiss, it launched itself at my leg, saucepan glinting.
This time, I drew fire through the dust and hay, letting it spiral along my arm and crack like a whip. I snapped it down just in front of the rat, carving a smoking line in the earth. The beast reeled back, helmet askew, and I pressed my advantage, sending a concentrated bolt of flame streaking through the air. It exploded in a shower of sparks right at the rat's paws, sending it tumbling back in a mad scramble.
A handful of rats broke for the window. I flicked my wrist, twisting the heat until the flames surged and shrank, molding themselves into the silhouette of a hawk. The fiery shape swooped through the barn, flaring and fluttering, scattering the last of the pests in a rain of terrified shrieks. When the fire-bird faded, only a handful of twitching tails and the acrid smell of defeat remained.
The chaos subsided. The barn was battered, but upright only a few scorch marks here and there (artfully placed, if I did say so myself). Milo limped over, arms full of rescued turnips, the triumphant rat-bucket dragging behind him.
"We did it!" He dropped the bucket and flung himself at me in a spontaneous, awkward hug. For a moment, I froze, startled by the warmth of his gratitude, and then patted his back with a bemused smile.
We high-fived, my hand twice the size of his, the gesture clumsy and perfect. Milo beamed up at me, badge gleaming, cheeks red with exertion.
The system, sly as ever, scrolled a notification behind my eyes:
[Barnyard Mayhem Complete! Motherly Instincts Achievement: Pending. System Comment: 'Your teamwork rating has improved by 300%. Milo Adoration Level: MAXIMUM.']
I laughed aloud, relief and pride mingling in a way that made my chest ache in the best possible way.
The farmer burst into the barn, wife at his heels, both gawking at the sight. Rats subdued, barn intact, and miracle of miracles his wife's precious copper pot retrieved (slightly chewed but serviceable). Hilda swept Milo into a bone-crushing hug, then eyed me with something like respect.
"You got a way with fire, girl," she grunted. "And a way with kids. Don't let this one go running off, eh?"
The farmer pressed a pouch of coins into my hand, more than promised. "For the barn, the pot, and our peace of mind. And you " he fished a loaf of still-warm bread and a wedge of cheese from his coat, tucking them into Milo's arms, " don't let her do all the work next time!"
Milo's eyes sparkled. "I'll try. But she's the real magic."
Wordless, I ruffled his hair and thanked them both. The farmer clapped my shoulder, promising to "spread the right kind of stories" about us in the village and the guild.
"You'll have folks knocking down your door for help after this. Good ones, I hope!"
Hilda pressed a fat pouch of coins into my hand with all the subtlety of a woman breaking bread, not bones. Her husband added a wedge of cheese, half a loaf, and a dozen heartfelt thanks. Milo, arms laden with loot, looked ready to burst from pride or bread whichever came first.
We set off down the rutted lane toward Millcross, shadows stretching long behind us, Milo bouncing at my side. He kept turning the pouch of coins over in his hands, weighing it like it might hatch more treasure if he stared long enough.
"Think it's enough for a pony?" he whispered.
"It's enough for a decent dinner and maybe a pair of boots that don't try to eat your socks," I replied, ruffling his hair.
Back in the village, word had traveled fast. As we neared the guild hall, a cluster of locals eyed us from doorways, whispering with a mix of respect and wariness heroes or madmen, it was a thin line. We pushed through the guild's heavy doors, the familiar scent of sweat, ale, and roasted nuts wrapping around us like an old cloak.
Inside, the air was thick with stories. A few adventurers looked up as we entered, eyes narrowing with surprise at our slightly scorched but victorious return. No one expected the "new kids" to survive, much less succeed. A tall man with a sword twice his width let out a low whistle.
"Back so soon?" the receptionist called, glancing up from a sea of paperwork.
"Barn's clean. Farmer's sleeping easy tonight," I announced, sliding our completed slip across the counter. Milo displayed his badge and bread, beaming at anyone who'd look.
There was a pause—then a grudging nod from the desk, and the sound of stamps thudding as our success was marked down in the guild ledger. "Officially completed. That's more than some can say after their first job. Not bad, Ember Pair."
No applause. Just a handful of silent looks some impressed, some envious, a few trying to remember where they'd stashed their own rat traps.
Milo grinned, tugged my sleeve, and whispered, "Barbecue?"
"Best idea I've heard all week," I said.
Out behind the Rusty Tankard, in a patch of wild grass and battered stones, we made a fire. I shaped the flames, keeping them low and bright, and let Milo arrange the skewers a creative interpretation of "orderly." We had bread, cheese, and miracle of miracles actual sausages donated by the grateful farmer.
The first bite was heaven: smoky, spicy, the kind of taste that makes your toes curl with gratitude. Milo devoured his share, eyes shining in the firelight.
"We make a good team," he said, toasting his sausage over the embers. "Do you think we'll ever have to eat rats?"
"Not unless we run out of sausage," I promised. "And even then, only if you cook."
He snorted, a sound that became laughter, bubbling up between mouthfuls.