Field Guide for the Formerly Villainous

Chapter 1

One

Two months after leaving the cult, Oaklin Nettlewood bought a farm.

“What brings you to Mossley’s Rest?” the shifty little man selling the place asked, clearly uninterested in the answer.

That was just as well; what could Oaklin say to that?

“Well, Haymon, never let anyone tell you joining an evil villain’s cult is a great way to escape your boring little town.

Sure, it’s a laugh at first. But then there’s the mind control and the blood rituals and the trauma! ”

Oaklin barely contained the hysterical laughter that bubbled up with the thought.

Couldn’t have Haymon deciding they were too unhinged to sell a farm to—even if there might be an edge of truth to it.

But an unhinged coin spent the same, so what should he care?

He was a distant relative of the former owner and clearly had no attachment to the place.

He didn’t even know the animals’ names, for grain’s sake!

“Ready for a fresh start is all, and the price is right,” Oaklin finally answered as they scratched a signature onto the record of sale, blowing a flop of curly black hair out of their eyes for the twentieth time.

“The ad for this place practically jumped off the notice board in Riverdeep, right into my hands.”

“Yes, well, best of luck in your future endeavors,” Haymon said, snatching the paper as soon as the final swoop of ink was in place. He tucked it away in his leather case, along with the vast majority of Oaklin’s coin, and shoved his fine velvet hat atop his head. “Enjoy the…uh, chickens.”

He was out the door without a backward glance before Oaklin could say “thank you.” The ink smears on their pale, restless fingers hadn’t even dried yet.

It probably should have been a warning sign.

But hey, what did Oaklin know? They’d joined a cult mostly by accident at age seventeen, spent the last six years under a mind-control spell, and couldn’t remember…

well, most things. They were well and truly winging it.

Which was fine! Everything was going just fine, and they were the proud owner of a new farm with animals and fields and all that.

New life, new prospects, a whole future to author by their own hands. Cult? What cult?

No one had taught them healthy coping skills by age seventeen either.

Oaklin walked the sparse interior of the house once again, now that they were alone, giving each support beam a pat of greeting.

The little house by itself wasn’t much, just a main room with a single bedroom facing the eastern sunrise.

It was solidly built, though, with beds of early spring blooms hugging its sides and evergreen vines wending their way up the south-facing stone wall.

Vast fields stretched out in every direction, just waking for the season, interrupted only by the distant silhouette of a barn and a small apple orchard.

Years subsisting only on rations and being a spell-casting puppet for an evil sorcerer had left Oaklin far too lean and frail, a scarecrow of only moderate height and considerably below-average muscle.

A few months working those fields would change that, though, Oaklin had no doubt.

The house came furnished too, with a few pieces of surprising quality: an oak table so sturdy neither man nor beast could topple it, a bed with a masterfully crafted quilt stitched in the North Mountains style, and a pale blue–tiled hearth (complete with heavy cast iron pot) that Oaklin could see themself resting by after a hard day of farm labor, cup of tea and book at their side.

Dried herbs hung from many of the beams, so old now that they’d all but lost their scents; clary sage and lavender, thyme and rosemary, all tied in neat bundles with brown twine.

A chipmunk had clearly taken up residence under the bed, and everything dripped with cobwebs and entire sculptures of dust. But a quick cantrip, the tiniest thread of the most basic magic, would have this place—

A door slammed shut in Oaklin’s mind, sending a wave of cold panic like ragged claws across every inch of skin.

Well. A good old-fashioned scrubbing would have the place looking like new in no time. Who needed magic for something so basic, anyway?

Maybe dropping all their money on a farm wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but after the brief-but-memorable prison time they served when the cult first fell apart, Oaklin was feeling a powerful need for their own space, and lots of it.

(They were definitely not thinking about why it was so cheap, considering its general perfection.) Honestly, Oaklin was surprised to have any money at all.

After the Enchantrix fell, the authorities sold off the cult’s assets to pay for damages and reparations.

To Oaklin’s surprise, they were given a small payment from the victims’ fund after being exonerated.

The mind control and all. The courts said it wasn’t their fault.

It wasn’t.

Was it?

(It was, and Oaklin would be spending the rest of their life quietly atoning for the things they did in the Enchantrix’s unwilling service.)

“Well, this house is far too dark,” Oaklin said to no one, throwing open the shutters to every window and then, when that wasn’t enough, charging straight out into the midafternoon sunlight.

They were greeted by a horse.

“Oh!” Oaklin yelped, staggering back a step at the sheer level of judgment in the horse’s level gaze.

The horse snorted from the other side of the fence butting up against the front walkway.

“Don’t you snort at me!” Oaklin said, summoning their newfound authority as an adult homeowner. “This is my house now, Grumpy Horse.”

The horse jutted his nose toward Oaklin with an insolent whinny, clearly disagreeing.

Oaklin sighed. The house had come with this single judgmental horse, along with a moderate-sized flock of hens, a vicious rooster, and a handful of other animals. The fields were nearly empty except for grazing fodder, but the soil seemed rich enough. It would be doable. Probably.

“I have no idea where to start,” Oaklin said, storm clouds of overwhelm threatening at the periphery of their mind.

Fortunately, their stomach made the decision for them with a grumble so loud that Grumpy Horse snorted in reply.

“Okay, fine, I’ll start with food, I guess. I’d rather not eat grass like some people.”

Oaklin would need to name the animals at some point, though they were strongly considering calling this one “Grumpy Horse” forever.

But that was a problem for when Oaklin was less lightheaded from hunger.

With one last lingering look at their new home, they grabbed their (worryingly light) coin purse, left Grumpy Horse behind, and started the long walk into the village.

Time to put on the costume of “totally normal new farmer in town who has definitely never killed anyone.”

***

Mossley’s Rest was a small country village relatively untouched by the Enchantrix War, and that made it the perfect choice for Oaklin’s new life.

It had taken a week of asking around the city of Riverdeep before anyone had named it, as nearly every part of the Broadlands had been violently thrust into the war at some point or another.

But finally, a traveling merchant had given them the ticket: “Oh, sure, I know a place! Real sweet little village, great market, and the tavern ain’t bad neither.

Oh, and the bakery, that alone makes it worth it! ”

And so, here they were. Oaklin had avoided actually going into the village before now, but with the farm purchased, it was time.

They’d given up on trying to remember who they were…

before, and there was no going back to the tiny farm town they were born in.

The Enchantrix wiped it off the map three years ago.

But this one would do. Here, no one knew.

Here, Oaklin got to start over.

The dusty path leading south from the farm shifted from rust-orange dirt to cobblestone as it met the main road leading into the village.

As soon as their boots hit stone, the breeze brought a heavenly scent to Oaklin’s nose, one that smelled of more than just delicious food.

It smelled strangely of…home? And…childhood, somehow?

Oaklin’s head went blurry and unfocused, their mind distant from their body in a way that clashed with the immediacy of the warm, buttery scent of fresh bread.

The preparation of grain had been an act of worship in Oaklin’s childhood home, and the scent brought with it flashes of sticky dough on chubby young hands, the sweetness of freshly ground wheat, and years of daily bread broken with family and friends.

They followed their nose in a half daze, head swimming with the richness of the scent.

Eventually, Oaklin found themself on the doorstep of a shop and read the sign hanging overhead, which simply said: brEAD MAGE.

“Uh-oh, looks like Ryn’s caught another one!”

Oaklin’s head snapped around to meet the smiling eyes of a young man with a mandolin strapped to his back and a rakish fringe of dark hair over his brows.

Between the sharp gray eyes, the artful stubble over medium-brown skin, and the mischievous quirk at the corner of his mouth, the whole effect was of a man who had a secret, and it was one you really wanted to know.

Oaklin grinned back reflexively, though internally, they were wholly frozen.

Social interaction! The first time they’d spoken to a person (other than Haymon) since leaving Riverdeep a week ago. What now?

“Uhh…” they mumbled.

Masterful.

The man laughed.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, lovely, everyone has that reaction the first time they smell Ryn’s bread. Makes the best of us go weak in the knees. Come on, I’ll introduce you. I’m Jules, by the way.”