As it turned out, Sloggendorf’s one tavern was also its town hall, panic headquarters, and, on alternate Wednesdays, the site of competitive melancholy recitations. Tonight, however, it was the scene of an even more tragic spectacle: Valerius the Valiant (pending certification and possibly susceptible to drafts) holding a vinegar jug aloft, regaling an overflowing house with tales that bent credibility into balloon animals.

‘And there I was,’ Valerius declaimed, ‘dangling above a pit of cobras so venomous they’d poisoned themselves out of spite! I connived with treacherous ravens, wrestled an invisible bear—yes, invisible!—and vanquished the Dreaded Buttonwyrm of Yesteryear with nought but my left boot and an old sandwich!’

There was a respectful, somewhat awed silence as the listeners tried and failed to remember if a Buttonwyrm was contagious or just a laundry pest.

Rhea squelched through the doorway, trailing a comet’s tail of mud and teenage irritation, and paused for effect. The room smelled of smoked cabbage, mildew, and shared suspicion. Valerius, sensing a rival performance, tacked on hastily: ‘Ah, citizens! Our…er, unconventional guest returns! Have you news of the dreaded owl?’

‘Of course,’ Rhea drawled, brushing a chunk of something Sloggendorfian from her boot. ‘Having returned alive, do I get a statue, or do I just get to keep my mud deposits? Good news: no need to overcook your insurance premiums this year. Catastrophe has been averted, the barn is not burned, and no heroically excessive arson is required. Unless you plan to fry eggs on your own sense of panic.’

The audience blinked. Several looked crestfallen—the annual Barn Burning Festival was just around the corner, and wood was expensive.

Valerius bristled, regaining control with a dazzling swipe of his provisional sash. ‘You confronted the beast—’ he squinted, lowering his voice to an impressive rumble, ‘and lived?’

Rhea stifled a yawn. ‘Oh yes. Lived, thrived, learned next season’s mud forecast. In summary: the owl is not a monster, nor a conjurer of cheap tricks, nor a nemesis of buttons. In point of fact, it’s deaf.’

Silence reigned. The laundress’s mouth opened and closed. A superstitious farmer muttered, ‘Deafness can be catching.’

‘Is that medically proven?’ Rhea asked. ‘Or just something the crickets put on their newsletters?’ She plopped onto a creaky stool, sending up a cloud of what could be dust or just powdered resignation.

Valerius waved aside these inconvenient realities, fixing Rhea with his Quasi-Heroic Gaze. ‘The hero’s path is rarely simple, nor trodden by those of faint heart, nor—sometimes—those of ordinary footwear. But the Plan remains! Its steps are—’

‘Atrocious?’ Rhea interrupted.

Valerius cleared his throat. ‘I was going to say visionary, but thank you. Now. Step one, and I shall demonstrate—’

The townsfolk leaned in. Rhea propped her chin on her hand, eyebrow at full mast, having mastered the ancient art of adolescent disbelief.

Valerius raised his arm in a grand arc. ‘First, we must enter the barn and—’

‘Oh, this is rich,’ Rhea said. ‘Would you like me to hold your heroic sash, or do you need a raincheck on bravery? I warn you, barn entry is muddy; heroics may get damp.’

Valerius drew himself up and attempted to look taller, a feat less impressive than it sounded, considering both his boots and his self-esteem had wilted slightly in the humidity. ‘It shall be done.’

A murmur of excitement rippled through the tavern. Quills were snatched up by local gossips, ready to chronicle the impending confrontation. Rhea, wiping her face with a muddy hand that left a streak like war paint, led the way back into the night.

As they crossed the market square, trailed by the entire village at a safe, rumour-milling distance, Rhea stage-whispered for all to hear, ‘Let it be known: If this barn spontaneously combusts, it will be from intellectual friction, not pyrotechnics.’

The crowd formed a nervous semicircle around the entrance, their faces illuminated by a few trembling lanterns.

Inside the barn, the air thickened with anticipation—and also with hay, dust, and the spectral aroma of last year’s unwashed potatoes. Somewhere in the shadows, the owl perched, intensely committed to looking like a painting of silence.

Valerius halted at the threshold and fished in his pockets for a small, ill-folded piece of parchment: THE VERY VERY HEROIC PLAN (draft, revision twelve).

Rhea peered over his shoulder. ‘‘Step Two: Announce Presence With Authority.’ Go on, then.’

Valerius cleared his throat, squared his not-quite-square shoulders, and bellowed, ‘MONSTER! BEGONE, FOR I, VALERIUS THE…THE—’

The echo snickered, sceptical in the way only barns and older sisters can be.

Rhea clapped politely. ‘Five out of ten. Project more. Less sheepish, more…hero.’

The owl gazed down, yellow eyes bemused, as if this was the most riveting matinee it had seen all season.

Valerius darted forward a step, then retreated immediately, reconsidering both courage and respiratory health. ‘Per the Plan… Step Three: Shine Illuminating Object at Monster.’

‘Does your illuminating object come in owl frequencies, or is it mostly for young children afraid of their own shadows?’ Rhea asked sweetly, pulling a stubby candle from her pocket and thrusting it at him. ‘Here. On the house.’

He accepted it reluctantly, hands trembling only slightly from very, very heroic anticipation.

Torch aloft, Valerius advanced, managed to knight a stray hay bale on a backswing, tripped spectacularly, and executed a manoeuvre that would later be known as The Sloggendorf Shuffle—a delicate waltz of slipping in mud without actually falling.

The owl, unimpressed, hooted: a sound containing equal parts ancient wisdom and ‘are you quite finished?’

Valerius yelped, the tavern crowd gasped from the doorway, and Rhea—flawlessly composed—proclaimed, ‘Lo! The fearsome owl hath spoken. Inquire if it takes requests.’

Valerius, gulping bravely (or possibly just choking on dust), shouted, ‘I AM NOT AFRAID, FOWL BEAST!’

Rhea whispered, ‘You were almost on your fowl back, though.’

He glared, rallying the last of his dignity. ‘Now, we must capture it!’

‘Or,’ Rhea countered, ‘we could just let it be. Owl’s crime: excessive hooting and minor button crimes. Community service: continue being absolutely unbothered and possibly deaf.’

Valerius, now face-to-beak with the ancient bird, paused. The owl blinked. Rhea smirked. ‘Congratulations. You have survived the barn with your heroism, your candle, and a reasonable amount of crap on your boots.’

‘But… nothing happened,’ Valerius said, his voice small.

‘Exactly,’ Rhea replied. ‘It’s called normalcy. Birds flying, people… not getting hit with sticks. It would be heroic to let the bird go and finish this folktale with the hero understanding that we don’t need explosions for a happy ending.’

Valerius looked from Rhea to the owl, then back again. For a moment, he seemed to genuinely consider her words, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He let out a long, theatrical sigh. ‘You know, witch… you’re right.’

He lowered his candle, his shoulders slumping in mock defeat. ‘A quiet ending. No fanfare. No glory. Just… the right thing to do.’ He gestured toward the barn door, where the silhouettes of the expectant townsfolk were visible. ‘A true hero knows when to sheath his sword… or, in this case, his very heroic plan.’ He gave her a weary, conspiratorial smile. ‘After you. Let’s go tell them the good news.’

Rhea, allowing herself a small, triumphant smirk, felt a wave of relief. She had actually gotten through to him. She had saved the owl and prevented a catastrophe with words alone. She turned her back on him to lead the way out of the barn.

The last thing she heard was the whistle of a stick cutting through the air. The last thing she saw, as she crumpled to the hay-strewn floor, was Valerius standing over her, his face no longer foolish, but cold and determined. Then, pitch black.