Ah, the GOAT.
Narro sniffed the air of victory, deeply and self-indulgently.
The look on that smug bastard’s face when he realised what was happening—
The moment of denial, the tear that almost fell—
The forced forfeit.
It was beautiful.
Narro savoured it all over again.
But now he had other things on his mind. He was riding toward his kidnapped daughter.
Although, to be fair, nobody really napped when Syril was near.
So Syril was “kid”—that sounded too casual.
She was taken. And Narro would get her back.
Preferably before Reralt and Mary found her.
Last time Syril spent time with Reralt, she came back a little criminal.
She picked up bad behaviour like it was a competitive sport.
Good behaviour? That one made her gag. Literally.
She made a face every time she had to share a toy or give away something she liked.
He entered a forest. The tower behind him shrank into a floating speck—some forgotten mirage clinging to the edge of memory. A fading joke.
Narro stopped in a small clearing and dismounted. He needed food. And also—
The device.
The one the GOAT had given him. With that smirk. That mix of smug and defeated that only comes from someone who has lost, knows it, and is pretending it’s fine.
“This’ll answer all your questions,” the GOAT had said, frowning, fighting a smile. “Just shake it. And ask away.”
Narro pulled the device from his bag.
It was an apple-shaped glass ball.
He shook it.
The ball hummed faintly. A soft blue glow bloomed from the core.
Three ascending tones rang out—ping, ping, ping.
Words appeared, floating behind the glass:
Eye Ball 8?
loading…
Narro squinted while chewing a cold sausage.
Across the glass surface of the Eye Ball 8?, a massive wall of text flashed by—terms and conditions, naturally. Too fast to read, too small to care about.
Then, in large divine font:
“Do you agree?”
Two options hovered below:
[Yes]
[No]
Narro stared at it. He did not want to agree to a magic eyeball without at least some confirmation that he wouldn’t be eternally soul-bound to divine torture.
These things were usually apples. And divine apples rarely came without serpents.
He pressed No.
The Eye Ball 8? shut down instantly.
No message. No “Are you sure?” No second chance.
Just gone.
He stared at the dark glass, mid-sausage.
“Of course,” he muttered. “That tracks.”
He sighed, pocketed the Eye Ball 8?, and finished the rest of his cold sausage. He thought he had some vegetables left but was disappointed. Mary always nagged him to be more healthy if he insisted on travelling with Reralt. Narro felt better when he had some—but he had none, and no time to forage.
Then he checked on his horse—brushed down the coat, adjusted the saddlebags, refilled the water pouch.
A few minutes later, they were back on track.
The track, that is.
***
Up ahead, the road split into three.
Each path wound vaguely in the direction of Westerpoint.
“Of course,” Narro muttered to no one in particular—though his tone suggested that if it were someone in particular, he would respect their intelligence immensely.
“The one time and place a sign would actually be helpful.”
He flipped someone off. Nobody knew who.
With a deep sigh, Narro clawed the Eye Ball 8? back into his hand and gave it a shake.
Getting lost wasn’t helping. The wrong path would set him back hours, if not days. Let’s see how many years of eternal damnation he could trade for good directions.
“Do you agree to the previously stated terms and conditions?” the Eye Ball 8? asked again.
“Please summarise,” Narro said. “As short as possible.”
“Agree to terms?” the Eye Ball 8? replied.
Narro stared at it.
“That one’s on me,” he sighed.
Then Narro thought of the one word that might save him—a word he’d seen attached to most bad decisions and even worse subscriptions.
“Trial?” he asked.
“A trial of three questions starts now,” the Eye Ball 8? announced.
“Afterwards, you may decide whether to agree to the terms and conditions.”
A soft blue light pulsed from within the ball, vaguely ominous and slightly smug.
Narro nodded slowly. “That’s… something.”
Inside his mind, a story flickered—one about a lamp that granted three wishes.
It hadn’t ended well for the wishers.
These devices—these Apples—were known to trick you.
You’d think you were in control, asking questions, making choices.
But before you knew it, you were under its spell.
Persuading everyone around you to try it just once.
Joining the cult.
Losing your wealth.
Your sanity.
Your good taste.
All your personal information.
All of it.
“Which of these three roads will lead me to Westerpoint the fastest, with the least amount of danger?” Narro asked, slowly.
Each word was carefully weighed, dropped like an anchor from his lips—just in case the ball tried to twist them.
“The left one,” the Eye Ball 8? said.
Narro looked at the left path.
It wound through a dark, damp wood.
Not inviting. Not promising. Not reasonable.
The middle road led into a lush, green forest, bright and sunlit.
The right curved gently around it, meandering through cheerful meadows full of flowers.
He didn’t ask Are you sure?
He thought himself smarter than that.
These things—these Apples—they were usually right.
Or close enough that arguing felt pointless.
So he took the left path.
***
He’d been uneasy at first—
But now, Narro had to admit: the path was very safe.
Well maintained. Not a pebble out of place.
It sloped gently downward.
The forest grew darker.
It was midday… but here, it looked like late evening.
Then he saw the ogre.
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Just before it hit him on the head.
His last thought:
“I believe I failed to specify the degree of danger.”
***
He woke up belly-deep in a cooking pot.
Onions, carrots, and one unpeeled garlic bulb floated lazily past his chest.
An ogre stood in front of him, grinning like a toddler with a toy.
It held a massive wooden ladle, occasionally scooping water and pouring it gently over him like a soup-based baptism.
“Yum yum,” the ogre said, voice booming with delighted stupidity.
It reminded Narro—horribly—of Reralt.
Panicked, Narro tried to pull himself free.
His arms—miraculously—were loose.
His legs? Not so much.
They were roped tightly, bound with the kind of dedication usually reserved for gift-wrapping or ancient curses.
The ogre leaned in close, its breath thick with mystery meat.
“Yum yum,” it repeated. “No escape. Steve hungry.”
Narro froze.
Another hit could end him. He stayed still. Waited. Breathed.
And in that moment of clarity, he noticed three things:
- There was no fire under the pot. So he probably wouldn’t die by cooking.
- Steve—apparently the ogre’s name—was not the brightest ladle in the drawer. See point 1.
- The table was set for two.
Apparently, another ogre was coming for dinner.
Narro thought long and hard.
He tried to see the positive in things.
Mary had always wanted him to take scented baths. Surely this counted.
Garlic. Onions. Maybe some thyme. All had health benefits.
Honestly, it didn’t smell half bad. He tried to relax.
A plan began to form in his mind.
It wasn’t a good plan—
But for ogres, you didn’t need a good plan.
Just commitment.
“Just like writing,” Narro muttered, smiling to himself.
“Huh?” Steve blinked.
“Not you,” Narro said. “He knows who I’m talking to.”
***
“How hungry are you?” Narro asked, eyeing the ladle warily.
Steve paused mid-drape, cold soup dripping from his spoon.
“Very hungry,” he said, nodding solemnly. “Could eat a horse.”
Narro whipped his head around, panic rising—
Only to find Twilight Sparkle peacefully chewing grass a few metres away, entirely unbothered.
Steve followed his gaze, then shook his head with genuine disappointment.
“Horses are noble creatures,” he said. “Not for eating.”
He leaned closer. “Humans?”
A shrug. “Nothing noble about them.”
Narro, reluctantly, had to agree.
“What if I could give you something,” he began slowly, “to help you find food?”
The ogre looked at him—
A question mark almost visibly forming in his eyes.
“Steve!” he suddenly yelled.
Narro blinked. Maybe this one was too dumb to reason with.
“Okay, Steve, what if I—” Narro began.
“No,” the ogre interrupted, pointing toward a nearby cave.
“Steve,” he said again.
“Of course,” Narro muttered.
From the cave emerged a slim, suspiciously well-groomed ogre in a black turtleneck.
Sharp jawline. Minimalist loincloth. Intense, judgmental eyes.
Narro nodded slowly. “Steve, I presume?”
“Yes,” they both answered in unison.
The first Steve pointed dramatically at Narro.
“Steve,” he said to the second, “Meat wants to sell meat.”
“Fascinating, Steve,” turtleneck Steve said.
“And what, I pray, may that be?”
Narro was stunned. Again.
It took him a few seconds to recover from the sight of a well-spoken, turtleneck-wearing ogre.
“Well… I have this,” he said, cautiously offering the Eye Ball 8?.
Steve—not the articulate one—took it and, without hesitation, bit directly into the glass.
There was a sickening crunch. He chewed.
Trickles of blood ran down his chin and neck.
“Not tasty,” he finally proclaimed—far too late to be useful.
“Steve, wait,” said the other Steve, holding up a calming hand.
“Perhaps our young meal here needs to… explain himself a bit better.”
Narro took the ball back, inspecting the fresh ogre bite.
He shook it anyway, hoping it would still work.
After what felt like eternity—but was probably just a few seconds—the ball flickered.
The familiar blue glow returned, slightly dimmer and now vaguely pulsing around a tooth-shaped indentation.
“Please state your inquiry,” it hummed.
“Meat,” said Steve.
“That’s not an inquiry. That’s a word,” the Eye Ball 8? replied, unimpressed.
“Meat?” Steve repeated, more hopeful this time.
The other Steve stepped forward, taking the device from Narro’s hand.
He held it up to the dim light, inspecting it with something close to reverence.
“Fascinating,” he murmured.
“It’s clearly been crafted by draining the souls of a thousand workers, far, far away.”
He sniffed it. Leaned in.
The other Steve was already opening his mouth—considering taking another bite.
“Don’t,” Turtleneck Steve warned, pushing him gently back.
He turned to Narro, eyes gleaming.
“So people here can reap the benefits of cheap labour without actually doing any.” He finished his sentence after making sure Steve could not eat it.
He nodded, clearly impressed.
“Brilliant.”
Narro opened his mouth to say something—
Then changed his mind mid-breath.
He decided to wait it out.
Instead, he looked around his soup, plucked out a floating carrot, and took a bite.
Chewed slowly. Thoughtfully.
Steve stared at him, bewildered.
“Stuffed human,” Narro said between chews.
Steve nodded, as if that explained everything.
“I need to activate it and hand it over to you,” Narro said, addressing the smarter Steve.
“And in return, you want us to set you free, I guess?”
Steve stroked his chin thoughtfully—like a philosopher made of meat.
“Chances are, if you’re dead, it resets anyway,” he added.
“You thought about that?”
Narro stared at him.
Being outsmarted by an ogre felt… filthy.
He grabbed a nearby branch of what was supposedly rosemary and rubbed it over his chest.
“Apparently I did not think this through,” he admitted, eventually.
“If it works, we set you free,” Steve said, standing.
“One more meal from Steve over there, and I jump in the pot myself.”
That seemed to delight Dumb Steve.
“Pot too small,” he giggled. “Silly Steve.”
***
Narro, now out of the pot and still shaking, took the Eye Ball in both hands and gave it a hard shake.
“Find something to eat for two ogres,” he said slowly,
“which isn’t me, Twilight Sparkle, or any other human.” He added.
The Eye Ball 8? pulsed once.
“What do you want to eat, ogres?” it asked.
Both Steves looked at each other—
Then said in perfect unison:
“Tandoori!”
The ball glowed, whirred faintly, and processed for longer than felt safe.
Then:
“Uber Eats will arrive in 25 minutes.”
“Hooray!” all three of them yelled simultaneously.
***
Fifteen minutes later, Narro rode out of the forest on Twilight Sparkle.
He hadn’t said a word since leaving the clearing. Still wet and smelling like either soup—or like someone who’d bathed in herbs and regret.
He finally broke the silence with a flat murmur:
“Nobody is ever going to believe this one.”
***
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