Trouble in Brindle Cross was usually the size of a misplaced chicken. Unfortunately, Malik met a slightly larger variety.
He was helping Lira carry buckets to the town well when shouting rolled through the street. A horse galloped past pulling an empty cart, reins snapping like angry ribbons. Behind it ran a tall girl with soot on her cheeks and determination in her shoulders.
"Stop that idiot animal!" she yelled.
Malik did not consider himself heroic, but his legs volunteered. He sprinted, grabbed the reins as the cart wobbled toward a stack of barrels, and performed a miracle of not dying. The horse, surprised to meet resistance, decided to be reasonable.
The soot-cheeked girl arrived, breathing fire. "Thank you. He thinks he's a legend."
"Most horses do," Malik said, handing over the reins.
She looked at him properly then—sharp eyes, hands strong enough to bend arguments. "I'm Anwen. Apprentice blacksmith, professional wrangler of fools."
"Malik. Temporary traffic sign."
Lira caught up, applauding. "You caught Storm? He only listens to people he respects or fears."
"Probably fears," Malik said.
Anwen examined the cart. One wheel had cracked, the iron band bent like a tired smile. "I was delivering tools to the north field. Now I'm delivering disappointment."
"We can fix it," Malik heard himself say. He knew nothing about wheels, but the words felt right.
At the forge Malik learned the music of work: hammer meeting metal, sparks gossiping in the air, Anwen explaining how iron had moods. Lira fetched water and told jokes so terrible even the fire blushed.
They worked until the sun leaned against the rooftops. The wheel stood straight again, proud as a recovered patient.
"You're not useless," Anwen told Malik, wiping her hands. "That's rare in newcomers."
He felt something settle inside him—a small, warm certainty that maybe he was meant to be here, message or no message.
That night the three of them shared stew outside the boarding house. Lira spoke of festivals; Anwen spoke of building a bridge someday that would refuse to fall. Malik listened and collected their dreams like bright coins.
As stars began to crowd the sky, he remembered the goddess's odd command. Live fully. Enjoy life. The rest, he decided, could wait until he understood what kind of man he was becoming.
Somewhere beyond the hills an owl asked a question the dark didn't bother answering, and Malik Reed—formerly of a world with trucks—laughed because the sound felt like a door opening.
The story has taken its first breaths. Further chapters could wander into deeper dangers, louder miracles, and the complicated business of hearts learning one another's names.