There was a department in the city of Murkstone-Snatchly that nobody talked about. It was located at the bottom of a steep stone staircase that curled like an arthritic toe between a row of tiny, down-at-heel shops that sold nothing anyone could ever want, never mind need. And to get to it you you had to go through a dilapidated green-coloured door labelled “Maintenance & Cheese Rotation. No Entry Except Licensed Mongers of Mouldering Dairy Solids.”

There was no cheese, of course, unless you counted Jeremy, the janitor, who’d been in there so long he had acquired a rind. What there _was_, however, was the **Ministry of Heroic Endings**.

The MHE, as it was known to the cognoscenti, was responsible for making sure that heroes met satisfying, narratively appropriate ends, preferably just as the orchestra hit a dramatic note and the villain shouted something that may or may not involve the profligate scattering of expletives.

“You see,” said Administrator Glibbins, a small man shaped like a rarely encountered punctuation mark, a percontation point perhaps, or an asterism, “there’s a balance to these things. If heroes _don’t_ die, you get sequels. And sequels, Reginald, are how _prophecies_ get muddled. Muddled prophecies is a slippery slope in my opinion Lad.”

Reginald Squab, Temporary Hero Grade IV (Unconfirmed), nodded with the vague enthusiasm of someone who had accidentally agreed to something during a staff meeting. He was currently strapped to a chair made of recycled plot devices, having failed the “Sword Removal from Stone” segment of his application, but doing unexpectedly well in the “Tragic Backstory” component, largely thanks to a chaotic home life.

Reginald was not a natural hero. He had feet that suggested a preference, perhaps even a commitment to odour, hair that looked like it had once offended the Guild of Tonsorial Trimmers, and a nose like an exploded sandal. But he had done _one heroic thing_, quite by accident, he had saved a small child from a burning pie shop, using only a very wet and smelly string mop and a basic understanding of thermodynamics.

His behaviour on that occasion was, unfortunately, enough to trigger **The Heroic Algorithm**, a mystical distributed network of Von Neumann engines working in a matrix bureaucracy that was housed in a cheesecloth roll that resided in the back corner of Glibbins’ office. The roll occasionally clicked, whirred, and spat out a scroll saying things like:

_“Reginald Squab now eligible for Quest Tier 1. Recommend: Goblins, betrayal, romantic subplot (doomed).”_

Which brought us to this moment.

“Do I have to _die_?” asked Reginald.

Glibbins looked affronted. “_Have to_? It’s an _honour_, dear boy. Why, I died multiple times before I got this job.”

“But I thought this was a _temporary_ posting! An apprenticeship you said. Two years you said…”

“Well, yes, but time is… quite loose in our line of work. Elastic. A bit of a grey area, in fact, like cheap underpants or royal marriages.”

At that moment, the walls shook. What’s more, it was the sort of shake that usually preceded something shouting, “Foolish mortals!” In a dark brown voice and followed by lightning.

“Ah,” said Glibbins, glancing at a large egg timer. “That’ll be your Quest kicking in. Right on schedule.” He squinted through a brass telescope aimed at a map of the Disc’s more metaphorical topography. “You’ll be escorted through the Chasm of Irregular Tubework, pass through the Hamlet of Mild Peril, and then face the Beast of Regret.”

Reginald raised a hand.

“I’m not entirely up to speed on beasts… unless… is it a metaphorical beast?”

Glibbins gave him a long look.

“Well no, obviously not,” he said. “Very literal. Made of meat and memory. Devours your happiest moments first. We had it specially bred. Cost a fortune in tragic irony. It is a quest, after all.”

Reginald sighed. He had, despite himself, started to enjoy being a hero. There was a certain smugness one could wear like a cape, even if one didn’t _own_ a cape. The occasional tavern maiden smiled at him. Someone once called him “my liege.” It had turned out to be a typo, but still, he’d liked it, even if enquiries about his cape’s mileage were a bit, well, boring really.

But now here he was, strapped into a Quest that was produced by something called an algorithm that emanated from a loosely woven roll of un-dyed cotton fabric. Not a good look, was Reginald’s take on the situation.

“Can’t I just retire?” he tried. “Live on a quiet farm with my pet ferret, Ted?”

Glibbins made a note on a clipboard.

“Ah,” he said, “the _Pastoral Evasion Loophole_. We closed that in the ‘Heroic Revisions Act’ after that unpleasant business with Sir Thwange and the pig sanctuary.” He shook his head. “No, no, far too many loose gateposts.”

Reginald was handed a sword. It hummed. A bit like a kazoo with wet tissue.

“Is this… magical?” he asked, waiving the sword around wildly.

“No,” said Glibbins, “might be everso slightly radioactive. But that’s down to budget cuts.”

Reginald trudged off into the waiting fog of Destiny, accompanied by the flat _plink_ of fate tuning its harp. His boots squelched into the mud of dramatic inevitability. Somewhere, orchestras of destiny were passing round the digital tuner.

And now, we need to know. Did Reginald face the Beast of Regret? Did he triumph? Did he use cleverness, courage, and a modicum of ripe cheese to win the day?

The answer is… yes. And no.

You see, the Beast of Regret was indeed vast, snorting clouds of sorrow and reeking mists of rancid memory. It advanced on Reginald with the weight of missed opportunities and unresolved childhood and school humiliations.

Reginald, through nothing more clever than a rather violent sneeze, managed to stab the beast somewhere vital. It howled, dissolved into a cloud of old shame, and then the clouds parted.

There was, briefly, applause. Somewhere, a prophecy groaned as its deadline swooshed by. There was the frantic sound of it and other related prophecies trying to revise themselves. Nevertheless, Reginald staggered into a clearing, victorious, bloodied, and entirely unsure how he’d done it. His ferret, Ted, squeaked approvingly from inside his jerkin.

And then he saw the carriage.

Black. Baroque. Drawn by six very tired, ephemeral-seeming horses. The creatures were best described as ‘skeletal’, but their capering assemblages of bones were definitely alive - and, worryingly, liable to kick.

Glibbins stepped out, adjusting his cravat.

“Well done, Reginald,” he said, clapping slowly. “A perfect narrative climax. You’ll be remembered in song, or possibly in a series of commemorative dairy-themed tea towels.”

Reginald smiled.

“Great,” he said. “So I _can_ go back to the farm?”

Glibbins’ face crumpled slightly.

“Oh dear,” he said. “I was rather afraid of this.”

He stepped aside to reveal a figure in a heavy black robe, carrying a scythe. He handed Reginald a small booklet titled _“Dramatic Endings: Stage Left or Right?”_

**DEATH** waved calmly, politely and although business-like and efficient, unhurriedly.

“BUT I LIVED,” Reginald protested.

“Yes,” said Glibbins, “which is entirely the point Reginald. It makes the ending all the more poignant, don’t you think? It’s the _unexpected twist_. Readers _love_ that.”

Reginald looked from Glibbins to Death and back again.

“So… I’m not going to make it out of this?”

Glibbins offered him a piece of Wensleydale cheese, apologetically.

“No,” he said gently, “not as such, I’m afraid…”