<blockquote>


    This is one of three worlds that His Devotion, Saint Percival the Investigator, implies was his first assignment. While I don’t personally believe this is the strongest candidate, it is demonstrably very early in his career. More significantly, it provides an excellent introduction into the skills he would later become famous for. We have therefore selected it as our first attempt to release His Devotion’s personal writings to the wider community. Please confirm clearances before reading or sharing any information contained within.


    </blockquote>


    Despite the explanation, finding myself in a brand new body on a brand new world was somewhat of a shock. The other two people I was summoned alongside were handling it with composure, however, so I clamped down on my natural instincts to hide under a nearby table, and played along. I was somewhat disappointed that I was neither in the wrecked scraps of clothing from the time of my death, nor in the ill-fitting suit they’d stuffed me into at the funeral. Instead I was in a white tunic and robe. Could I even say that it was my body?  Or was it more of a rental, and my body the one unnaturally embalmed in a coffin somewhere? Who was I, even? The body, the mind, or some meta-physical soul?


    To take my mind off my existential crisis, I examined the surroundings. It was rather bland. It seemed like they’d gone with a chalk circle and chanting people in green robes. There was incense burning somewhere, but subtle restrained jasmine or rose water, rather than musk. The temperature was what the enthusiastic described as ‘crisp’ in the open space. The robes weren’t just an affectation – I imagined the place would be impossible to heat. Shafts of coloured light fell on us, but it was hardly enough to warm the skin.


    I looked up to the triple height ceiling. As I had expected – a vaulted stained-glass affair. Stylised depictions of gods and goddesses I couldn’t immediately identify. It seemed that they worshipped a pantheon – hardly a surprise, given the summoning – but this was not identical to the representations I had seen in the afterlife. Some variation allowed, it seemed. A nice, day time ritual in a nice, accessible temple. Not some desperate secret attempt in some dark dungeon. I added a mental point into the ‘not a cult’ column.


    The chanters swelled to a high note and fell silent. Well-practiced, very enthusiastic. Eight out of ten.


    “Welcome, Heroes!” came the voice of a middle manager who was being forced to play nice with clients. I sympathised entirely.


    We all turned to see a tall, thin man approach us as the chanters split to either side. He was in the same style of robes as them, but of finer fabric and more embroidery. His hood was pushed away from his face, which was another point in the ‘respectable religion’ column. I had the impression that cult members generally think it looks cooler to keep theirs up. Or was it that they thought a little bit of shade was enough to conceal their identities? Either way, showing his face was a good sign about what they’d expect from us.


    “I am Minister Greenfield,” he said. “Do I have your permission to check you for any health concerns?”


    “Of course,” I replied, joined by similar sentiments from my two new colleagues.


    A health check was not an auspicious beginning. I had at least expected to at least get through the summoning ceremony without facing any danger, but I had clearly been overly optimistic. I watched him carefully. There was no particular guide to what he was doing – no shouted spell or light show. I could just about feel the prickling of my skin as something washed over it, although that could just as easily have been placebo as anything else. I relaxed when he relaxed, but I did not like the idea that someone could use magic on me that easily in other circumstances.


    “The summoning was a success. Gods be thanked!” he announced to the room, triggering cheers and praise. At least they were happy.


    “Honoured heroes,” he said to us, not sounding particularly honoured, “We are grateful the gods have sent you to us. May we know your names?”


    The other male hero took a step forward, raised a hand to his chest and bowed with a rather excessive flourish. It was very smooth. I wondered how long he’d spent practicing this particular moment in a mirror. He was broad-shouldered with very short hair, and looked as uncomfortable in his robes as I felt.


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    “I am Branneth, son of Starment, late of the Sapphire Coast,” he said, as if that would mean anything to any of us. “I have been working towards becoming a hero from the age of eight. On my death, I was honoured to be raised to that position, and I am now a loyal servant of the Court of War. I have studied the use of multiple weapons…”


    I rather tuned out during Branneth’s ever lengthening list. He must have missed the part where the minister asked for his name, and not his entire resume. After all, what were they going to do if they didn’t like us? Send us back?


    Which wasn’t to say I was upset to have him as part of our group. I was thrilled. He sounded exactly like the kind of companion I needed. We could point him towards the enemy while I stayed back and cheered him on. Eventually he came to an end, and the eyes turned to the next hero. She looked like a young girl, late teens or early twenties, although who knew how death messed ages up. Her hair was a waist length drape of glossy blonde that hinted of a very wealthy upbringing.


    “My name is Lilianna de la Fosse. I came from a world that doesn’t know of heroes. I died in a natural disaster, and the gods said that my willingness to sacrifice myself to assist others had earned me another chance at life. The Celestial Court of Mercy has sent me here to assist you in your plight. I hope that I can live up to that promise.”


    That sounded like the background of someone who would end up being some kind of healer. Or was that just me being sexist? Or rather, trope-ist? Perhaps she’d be happier as an axe-wielding berserker and I was unfairly pigeon-holing her based on her origin story. Regardless, I night have to be careful how I interacted with her. She seemed a little brighter than Brannath and less easy to manipulate. If I ever needed her skills, I wanted her to go above and beyond for me out of her own free will.


    Finally, it was my turn. All I had, looks wise, was my height, so I made full use of it.


    “Percy,” I said. “I was asked to assist by the Celestial Court of Discovery.”


    That was as much as I could honestly say. The important details would not go over well, I suspected. After my death, my attempts to explain how I was an atheist who respected the scientific method had gone a little wrong. When they asked if I was willing to do a little favour before going on to meet this god I had accidentally claimed to worship, I had jumped at the chance without doing proper due diligence about what exactly I was getting myself in for. I blame the shock of my recent death experience for that particular stupidity. One would have thought ‘never volunteer for anything’ would have been a simple enough rule to follow, but I guess everyone screws up sometimes.


    <blockquote>


    To borrow a phrase from the original world of His Devotion, Saint Percival the Investigator: "That''s not how it works. That''s not how any of this works.”


    </blockquote>


    The group stared at me for a moment until it become clear that I didn’t intend to say anything further.


    “Honoured heroes, we have summoned you here to help us against the evil empire.”


    Of course it was an evil empire. I suppose it had been unreasonable for me to hope it was to help them with choosing the colour scheme for their local beer festival.


    <blockquote>


    We hope eventually in future to release the case files for when His Devotion, Saint Percival the Investigator, had this particular wish granted.


    </blockquote>


    I kept my own expression understanding and sombre. No need to give them too much warning that I had no intention of doing any such thing for them. That was what Branneth was for. As I had expected, Branneth looked ready to go kill someone with his teeth. Lilianna, on the hand, looked sensibly more concerned.


    Another member of the welcoming party jumped in to reassure her. “That is still in the future, don’t worry.”


    Good news. Potentially excellent news. It would months, potentially years until we would be expected to—


    He continued, “We have brought you here at this time to participate in the bonding ceremony between riders and dragons. We will have plenty of time to prepare you all.”


    Well, if the new speaker had intended to be reassuring, he had completely failed in his mission. That plan sounded like a terrible way of keeping me safely away from pain and discomfort. I felt the sweat starting to run down the centre of my spine before being absorbed by the white tunic.


    No, I shouldn’t panic too quickly. The word ‘dragon’ could cover a lot of ground, and I didn’t know exactly what it meant in this world. It might not even be a fire-breathing creature, I told myself. My attempts at reassuring myself were not successful. At the very least, anything big enough to be ridden sounded like something to be avoided. Something for the Branneths of the world, not the Percys.


    “But in the meantime,” he said, “please come this way. We have food prepared for you.”


    That was something, I supposed. Food was always better than no food.


    <table>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td width="510">


    Memo to Self


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td width="510">


    Stuff to avoid:


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td width="510">


    ·         Becoming a dragon rider


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>