The next morning, they were packed and back on the road.

For some reason, the conversation among them had turned to romance. Some had wives back home, others claimed to have girlfriends, and a few confessed to crushes.

Chester had boldly admitted to having never really settled down anywhere long enough to court a girl. He didn’t seem too bothered by his lack of experience, but also said he was thinking about courting a village girl back home that he had been friends with.

Rando fended off the questions directed towards him with a glare. He preferred to keep his relationships—assuming that he had any—private.

“What about you, Jonathan?” Buffo called over.

Several jeers and compliments followed.

“You might be a lady killer!”

“He definitely is. I think I saw the bartender faint when he entered.”

“He could kill me or Sinestra any time,” Carlie, one of the women in the mercenary band joked. She was playfully punched in the shoulder by her flustered best friend.

Jonathan sighed and curtly replied, “I don’t have a good track record with romantic relationships.” He was in a grumpy mood because of his bruises from sparring.

“How so?” Buffo pried.

Jonathan glared at the official leader of the mercenaries and said, “My first fiancé turned out to be an impostor, my second fiancé tried to kill me, and a woman that fell in love with me at first sight wants to force me into being with her.”

“ . . .That’s rough,” Rando commented. He wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

Several others mumbled in agreement with Rando, sympathetic looks on their faces.

Buffo’s expression was guilty and he quickly moved on to teasing someone else. He was just trying to keep things from getting boring on the road, not to unearth a man’s likely traumatic luck when it came to romance.

Hans was a terrible next target to pick, and he managed to turn it around on Buffo with ease and a smile.

Biscuit whinnied. She slowed down and craned her head to look at her rider.

Jonathan switched his holding of the reins and buried a hand in the horse’s mane. “It’s not . . . fine. I’m not okay, but I’m doing better. We need to keep moving.” He tapped Biscuit’s side and the mare picked up her pace again.

They were now rather far into Malamut. Their next stop was a city beside a lake, about ten or twelve days after they left the Golden Raider. Outside of this city were plains, and a man sitting under the only tree that seemed to grow in this place.

Chester walked towards the man, and Jonathan followed.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Chester asked.

The older man sitting below the tree was dressed in clothes that were stained and torn. He looked miserable, a scowl almost permanently etched on his face. “I am the prophet Yon. I was told to bring the word of my God to this place.”

Chester glanced towards the city. “Did they accept it?”

“Yes, but they do not deserve it.”

Jonathan stared at the prophet. This man was crazy. Why would you not want people to convert? He hadn’t seen such selfishness and moral superiority. “Who are you a prophet of?”

“I am a prophet of the Lonely God.” There was an arrogance in Yon’s voice, still not destroyed by the bone tiredness present in this man sitting underneath the shade.

Chester seemed taken aback at the name. “Are you sure it’s Him you serve?”

“You do not deserve it,” Jonathan flatly stated. Any human that looked at a city and declared the worth of all those people as okay to lose was trash. It reminded him of that one crazy guy he knew who acted like a saint but was really just up on his moral high horse.

“I did not ask for it. As for these people, they do not deserve my God’s help.” Yon had still helped them regardless, yet that didn’t mean he’d agreed with it.

“Who deserves help?” Jonathan challenged. There was a bit of heat in his voice. He had no real stake on this, but it felt a bit personal for some reason. “If your God decided to help these people, then why is it up to you?”

Chester elbowed Jonathan. He was confused by his friend’s sudden provocation. In his opinion, it was just a crazy religious guy; this man wasn’t an actual prophet of the gods, especially not the lonely one.

The leaves above this tree, standing in the fields and bearing the hot sun, rustled with the cool breeze. The fields of plants around them swayed and rippled slowly.

Yon’s lips turned down further. He was irritated by the debate, ignoring the arguments presented by the younger man. The prophet turned his eyes to Chester and said, “You, fool who is not so foolish, do not die in a way that is dishonorable and you may yet live.”

“What?” Chester questioned.

“I was told to pass along a message, so I will,” Yon replied. His tone showed how displeased he was despite his compliance. He moved back to Jonathan and grudgingly declared, “You are not a local but you are under my God’s jurisdiction just the same, as the rest of the universe spins under his care. You, Jonathan, are involved in more than you realize. You will be a kingmaker. Do not make the wrong choice.”

Jonathan stared at the prophet with some trepidation. He had not told his name. More importantly, why had Yon said he wasn’t a local? Did the prophet know he was a transmigrator?

Chester tugged on Jonathan’s arm. “Let’s go check out the city.” He had a feeling that he wouldn’t be able to find any gambling dens if the prophet had really converted people, but there was still other stuff to do and he had plenty of money.

Jonathan nodded and followed after the bard. He was still a bit stunned by the cryptic advice. Unlike Chester, he actually took the prophet seriously.

A/N
Sometimes prophets are just the most bitter people alive. Also, definitely nothing Yon says will ever be plot relevant in any story (/s).

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