Tank’s Herb Run

Francis "Tank" Sinatra tugged his belt one notch tighter, hoping to keep his pants from slipping as he lumbered down the muddy path toward the Moathouse ruins. The summer heat clung to his skin like wet bread, and the buzzing of bugs made him twitchy, but he pressed on with purpose. Brena, the village baker and wife of Mytch the Miller, had promised him two copper pieces and an extra honey bun if he could fetch a bundle of silverleaf and marshmint from the banks near the crumbled keep.

Tank liked the Moathouse well enough in the daylight—moss-covered stones, quiet pools, and the occasional frog croaking from the reeds. He wasn’t technically allowed to go there alone, but he reasoned that being “almost fourteen” and "stronger than a goat" made him an exception.

He found the herbs quickly enough. The marshmint grew thick near the western wall where the moat curved around like a dragon’s tail. The silverleaf, stubborn as ever, clung to the shadows near a fallen tree inside the ruins. With hands stained green and a sack half full, Tank squatted beside the overgrown courtyard to catch his breath.

That’s when he heard it.

Clang.
A distant sound of metal tapping stone.
Then… a soft dragging noise.

He froze.

The wind had died, and the birds were silent.

“Just the frogs,” Tank whispered to himself, though he didn’t believe it. He stood, heart knocking hard against his ribs, and looked toward the ruined stairwell descending into the keep’s cellar. The shadows down there were darker than they should’ve been.

Clang.

This time, closer.

Tank took a step back, his foot squelching in the mud. He knew what bravery looked like—his dad had told stories from his mercenary days—but Tank also knew when it was time to not be a dead hero.

He quickly picked up his herb basket, hugged it to his chest like a baby goose, and scrambled down the overgrown causeway. As he crossed the bridge, he risked one last glance over his shoulder. Just shadows. Just stone. Just wind whispering secrets.

Or maybe not.

Back in Hommlet, Brena accepted the herbs with a grunt of approval and handed over the coins. Tank didn’t mention the sounds. He just ate his honey bun in silence, staring at the rising moon and wondering if he’d imagined it all.

But the next morning, Brena found muddy footprints on her doorstep—too large for a child, too odd for a man—and Tank quietly decided that the next herb run would be a team effort.