Chapter 4
Sir Dorian Lionsreach was doing everything correctly.
This was, unfortunately, part of the problem.
He stood atop the eastern watchtower at dawn, cape fluttering dramatically in the wind, eyes scanning the horizon with the practiced focus of a knight who had survived long enough to develop opinions about sunrise. Below him, the city of Eastrun was waking—smoke curling from chimneys, carts rattling along stone roads, guards changing shifts with the exhausted efficiency of people who had learned not to ask questions.
The chicken was not present.
This, Dorian noted with suspicion.
"Good," he murmured. "Let's keep it that way."
He turned his attention outward, toward the trade road snaking away from the city. Reports had come in overnight—unconfirmed, frantic, and unhelpfully vague.
Something's blocking the road.
Something big.
Something angry.
Which, in Dorian's experience, usually meant bandits with ambition or a monster having a very bad morning.
Either way, people were at risk.
Dorian cracked his knuckles.
"This," he said to himself, "is a problem I am allowed to handle."
He checked Rowan's notice again in his mind.
No independent action.
No emergency responses.
No handling it himself.
Dorian nodded.
"Excellent," he said. "I will involve everyone."
The roadblock turned out to be a collapsed stone bridge.
It had once spanned a narrow ravine, elegant and sturdy. Now it lay in jagged chunks, half the central span missing entirely. Merchants clustered on either side, shouting at one another and at the guards who had arrived moments earlier.
Dorian rode up and dismounted smoothly.
"Good morning!" he called. "I'm here to help."
The guards groaned.
A merchant thrust a hand toward the ravine. "Sir Knight! Our wagons are stuck! We've got perishables!"
Dorian peered down. The ravine was deep, rocky, and inconveniently placed.
"Hmm," he said. "Yes. That's a problem."
Another merchant added, "A family was crossing when it collapsed! They're stranded on the other side!"
Dorian straightened instantly. "That's a bigger problem."
He turned to the guards. "Status?"
"Bridge collapse happened sometime last night," one guard reported. "No sign of monsters. We suspect structural failure."
Dorian nodded. "Right. So no one caused it."
The guard hesitated. "Not... intentionally."
Dorian smiled. "Excellent. That simplifies things."
He looked again across the ravine. A small group stood on the far side—a man, a woman, and two children clinging tightly to each other.
Dorian raised his hand and waved.
The man waved back, frantic.
Dorian turned to the guards. "We need to get them across."
"Yes, sir," the guard said. "But the ravine is—"
"—narrow enough," Dorian interrupted. "If one were very athletic."
The guards exchanged looks.
"Sir," one began carefully, "Guild Master Valebright specifically—"
Dorian held up a hand. "I am not acting independently."
He gestured broadly. "I am consulting."
The guards stared.
"...With who?" one asked.
"With everyone," Dorian said. "Right now."
He turned to the merchants. "Anyone here good with ropes?"
Several hands went up.
"Excellent. Anyone here not afraid of heights?"
Fewer hands.
"Good. You'll learn."
Within minutes, Dorian had organized a plan—ropes anchored, guards positioned, merchants recruited. It was messy, improvised, and deeply against at least three guild safety protocols.
But it worked.
Dorian crossed first, leaping the broken span with reckless grace, landing solidly on the far side. He secured the rope, then guided the stranded family across one by one.
The children clung to him like he was a living statue.
"Thank you," the woman said tearfully.
Dorian smiled. "All part of the service."
The crowd cheered as the last person made it safely across.
Lives saved.
Problem solved.
Dorian turned, hands on hips, satisfied.
"Alright!" he declared. "Now we just need to restore traffic flow."
The guards stiffened.
"Sir," one said slowly, "you mean... rebuild the bridge?"
Dorian tilted his head. "No."
The guards relaxed.
"I mean redirect it."
The guards froze again.
Dorian surveyed the ravine thoughtfully.
"See," he said, gesturing, "if wagons go around—"
A merchant interrupted. "Around is a three-day detour!"
Dorian frowned. "That seems inefficient."
He scanned the rubble.
"Or," he continued slowly, "we use what we have."
The guards' expressions grew wary.
Dorian crouched, studying the fallen stone. The central chunk was massive—too heavy to move normally.
He cracked his neck.
"Well," he said, "there's always a way."
He braced himself, dug his boots into the ground, and lifted.
Stone groaned.
Merchants gasped.
Guards shouted.
The central slab rose—slowly, impossibly—suspended by sheer will and muscle.
Dorian grinned. "Ah! Still got it."
He heaved the slab back into place.
It almost fit.
The problem with "almost" is that gravity notices.
The slab slipped.
The ravine shook.
The bridge collapsed further.
The rope snapped.
Everyone screamed.
Dorian leapt backward just in time as the remaining structure crumbled, sending dust and stone cascading downward.
Silence followed.
Dorian stared at the devastation.
"...That," he said carefully, "was suboptimal."
The guards stared at him in horror.
The merchants stared at the now much larger ravine.
A child began to cry.
Dorian turned slowly.
"Well," he said, forcing cheer into his voice, "good news is—"
A voice cut in sharply.
"Sir Dorian Lionsreach."
Dorian winced.
He turned.
A city engineer stood at the edge of the crowd, face pale, eyes wide.
"What," the engineer asked, "did you do?"
Dorian smiled weakly.
"I saved a family?"
The engineer stared at the ravine.
"...You doubled the repair cost."
Dorian nodded. "Ah."
The engineer rubbed his temples. "This bridge was scheduled for reinforcement next month."
Dorian blinked. "It was?"
"Yes!"
"...That would have been helpful information earlier."
The engineer glared. "You are banned from touching infrastructure."
Dorian straightened. "Temporarily?"
"Forever."
Dorian considered this. "I will appeal."
The engineer stormed off.
Dorian looked around at the people he'd saved, the lives protected, the chaos left behind.
A guard cleared his throat. "Sir... what do we tell the Guild?"
Dorian exhaled.
"The truth," he said.
The guard swallowed. "Which part?"
Dorian smiled faintly. "The heroic one."
From somewhere behind him, a familiar cluck sounded.
Dorian closed his eyes.
"...Of course," he muttered.
The chicken stood at the edge of the ravine.
Watching.
Dorian stared at it.
"You didn't help at all," he accused.
The chicken tilted its head.
Dorian sighed.
"We're definitely apologizing for this," he said.
The chicken clucked once.
Almost approvingly.
The ravine had become a landmark.
This was not an improvement.
By midmorning, what had once been a simple trade route was now a spectacle. Merchants pointed. Children stared. Two artists had already begun sketching the "before" and "after" versions of the bridge, arguing loudly about perspective.
Dorian stood at the edge of it all, hands on his hips, trying very hard not to look like a man calculating how many laws he might have broken.
Behind him, the city engineer returned with reinforcements.
And paperwork.
So much paperwork.
"This," the engineer said, jabbing a finger toward the ravine, "was a manageable collapse."
Dorian nodded. "Yes."
"This," the engineer continued, waving the stack of documents like a weapon, "is now a structural incident."
Dorian frowned. "Is there a difference?"
"Yes," the engineer snapped. "One is repaired. The other is investigated."
Dorian winced. "Ah."
A guard cleared his throat. "Sir... we've received complaints."
Dorian blinked. "Already?"
"From three merchant guilds. Two trade caravans. And one man who insists the bridge was sentimental."
Dorian sighed. "They grow attached so quickly."
The engineer turned sharply. "Do you understand what you've done?"
Dorian gestured broadly. "Saved people?"
The engineer stared at him.
"...You also," the engineer continued through clenched teeth, "destabilized the ravine walls, redirected the river's sediment flow, and turned a one-month repair into a three-month reconstruction."
Dorian opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"...I see," he said finally.
The engineer took a deep breath. "Good."
Dorian smiled. "However—"
The engineer held up a hand. "No."
"—the family lived."
The engineer hesitated.
Dorian pressed gently. "They were seconds from falling."
The engineer looked past him—to the family now seated nearby, wrapped in borrowed cloaks, children sipping warm broth.
The engineer exhaled slowly.
"Yes," he admitted. "They lived."
Dorian nodded. "That's usually my priority."
A silence settled—not angry now, but complicated.
The engineer lowered his voice. "Sir Dorian... no one doubts your intentions."
Dorian smiled faintly. "That's generous."
"What they doubt," the engineer continued, "is whether intention can replace planning."
Dorian tilted his head. "I'd argue it often does."
The engineer stared.
"...I would argue it really, really shouldn't."
A runner arrived, breathless. "Sir! Update from the south road!"
Dorian perked up. "Good news?"
The runner hesitated. "...Define good."
Dorian sighed. "Go on."
"The detour you suggested?"
"Yes?"
"It collapsed under wagon weight."
Dorian winced. "Ah."
"Also," the runner added, "a goat escaped."
Dorian closed his eyes. "Why is there always a goat?"
The engineer pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is why Guild Master Valebright forbade you from acting alone."
Dorian stiffened slightly.
"I didn't act alone," he said quietly. "I involved everyone."
The engineer looked at him. "That's worse."
The guards snorted.
Dorian turned away, scanning the ravine again. He could still feel the stone under his hands—the moment where strength had almost been enough.
Almost.
A familiar cluck sounded behind him.
Dorian turned.
The chicken stood on a boulder overlooking the ravine, feathers pristine, posture impeccable.
Dorian stared at it.
"...You saw that, didn't you."
The chicken clucked once.
"You always see it."
The engineer followed his gaze. "...Is that the chicken?"
"Yes," Dorian said flatly.
"The one from the guild hall?"
"Yes."
"Why is it here?"
Dorian spread his hands. "I'm no longer asking that question."
The chicken hopped closer, peering down into the ravine. It tilted its head.
The ground beneath it settled slightly.
The engineer gasped. "Did it just—"
Dorian stepped in front of him. "No."
The engineer blinked. "I'm fairly certain it—"
"No," Dorian repeated firmly. "It did not."
The chicken clucked.
The ground stopped moving.
The engineer swallowed. "I don't like this."
"Join the club."
A city clerk arrived, already writing. "Sir Dorian, we need an official report."
Dorian nodded. "Of course."
The clerk hesitated. "How would you like this incident categorized?"
Dorian considered.
"Heroic rescue," he said. "With... structural complications."
The clerk paused. "That's not a category."
"It should be."
She sighed and wrote something anyway.
The engineer folded his arms. "You will not touch this site again."
Dorian nodded solemnly. "Understood."
"You will not supervise repairs."
"Agreed."
"You will not attempt to lift anything larger than a chair."
Dorian frowned. "What about benches?"
The engineer stared.
"...Fine."
Dorian smiled. "Excellent."
As the crowd slowly dispersed, Dorian lingered a moment longer, watching the ravine swallow the last of the dust.
Lives saved.
Damage done.
He felt the familiar weight settle in his chest—the quiet realization that came after every success.
He had helped.
He had also made things worse.
The chicken approached, stopping beside him.
"You know," Dorian said softly, "if you wanted to teach me a lesson, there are easier ways."
The chicken blinked.
"Less paperwork," Dorian added.
The chicken clucked.
Dorian snorted despite himself.
"Well," he said, straightening, "let's go see how much trouble this causes."
He turned toward the city.
Behind him, the chicken followed.
No one noticed when it did.