Zac woke to the sound of splintering wood and the shriek of tortured metal. He jolted upright on the couch, his heart… perfectly calm. The heavy, bolted door to the office was being torn from its hinges. For a fleeting moment, he felt a pang of genuine sadness. He would never have a proper jump scare again.

  Captain Marchosias stood in the ruined doorway, a massive, ornate iron bolt clutched in one fist, which he tossed aside with a dismissive clang. He looked like he had just woken, his fur was mussed, his beard slightly askew, and the weariness in his amber eyes was a tangible thing.

  “I have let you sleep long enough, Avatar,” he rumbled, his voice thick with the gravel of a sleep not nearly deep enough. He beckoned with a sharp jerk of his head. “Come. There is a battle at dusk, and I intend for you to be ready.”

  ‘Let me sleep, right,’ Zac thought, a grin tugging at his lips as he swung his legs off the couch and stretched. The drowsy, grumpy wolf was somehow even hotter than the imperious commander. He yawned, “Morning.”

  Marchosias did not look amused. He turned and strode out of the office, expecting Zac to follow. Zac scrambled to keep up, his ill-fitting, corpse-scavenged pants suddenly feeling incredibly tight and restrictive. Waking up to the very subject of his dreams was apparently not conducive to a comfortable morning stroll.

  They walked through the castle’s silent, pre-dawn corridors. The design was relentlessly spartan and beautiful. The walls were unadorned black stone, but the floors were a mosaic of polished obsidian and what looked like fractured starlight, arranged in stark, geometric patterns. Tall, arched windows showed not a sky, but the swirling, red-lit abyss of the Pit. There were no portraits or frivolous decorations, only weapons of war, displayed with the reverence of holy relics in alcoves lit by single, floating silver flames.

  “The celestial host pushes at the Umbral Gates,” Marchosias explained as they descended a spiral staircase that seemed carved from a single, massive ribcage. “The assault will be… significant. I do not have weeks to train you, Avatar. I have hours. You will sit with me on the command ridge today. I need to see what your ‘gift’ is truly capable of under pressure.” He shot Zac a sidelong glance, his gaze lingering for a moment. “At least you are not a complainer.”

  Zac was only half-listening. He was too focused on the powerful swing of the Captain’s stride, the sight wag of his tail, the way his greatcoat swirled around his legs, and the impossible task of walking normally while trying to subtly adjust his pants... He was so going to die on this battlefield.

  Marchosias’s eyes flicked down, noticing Zac’s awkward shuffle. A low growl rumbled in his chest. “We will acquire a new wardrobe for you. After this.” The comment was a dismissal, a pragmatic observation, but it still made Zac’s face flush hot.

  They emerged from a door at the rear of the keep into a vast, open-air training ground. The floor was packed black earth, and the only light came from glowing red runes etched into the courtyard walls and the flickering of torches. Marchosias stood in the center of the yard, scanning the empty space, his irritation growing.

  “He’s late,” he growled, the sound echoing in the pre-battle quiet. He planted his feet, leaned back, and unleashed a sound that was pure, primal power.

  It was a howl. Not of hunger or rage, but of command. A single, resonant note that vibrated in the very air, a summons that demanded to be answered. “BUNE!” the howl resolved into a name. “GET YOUR SCALED ASS OUT HERE!”

  Zac had to physically adjust himself again. The sound had bypassed his ears and gone straight to his bones, to the base of his spine, to a place that was both terrified and desperately, deeply aroused. He imagined that howl in his ear, late at night, in the dark…

  A section of the courtyard wall seemed to ripple and fold inward, and Bune stepped through the shadow as if it were a curtain. The butler looked disheveled, his usually immaculate tailcoat rumpled and stained with soot, likely from the previous day’s office-trashing. Both of his heads looked bleary-eyed and startled.

  “Captain?” the Left Head stammered, adjusting his crooked cravat. “You’re… awake? Already? But the sun hasn’t even-”

  “-risen, or whatever passes for it down here,” the Right Head finished, blinking rapidly. “Sir, I must say, I've been feeling a bit odd...”

  “You can feel odd later,” Marchosias cut him off, his voice sharp with the impatience of a commander on a deadline. “Did any actual work get done while I was asleep, or were you too busy nursing your headache?”

  Bune straightened, his professional pride stinging enough to override his exhaustion. “Reports from the western skirmish are filed. Damage assessment for your office is pending. And,” the Left Head gestured disdainfully at Zac, “the asset’s quarters were prepared hours ago. We assumed he had attempted to flee and been eaten by a grim-hound. It would have saved a tremendous amount of paperwork.”

  “The human stays with me until further notice,” Marchosias said, his tone brooking no argument. He ignored Zac’s quiet ‘Aw, thanks,’ and continued. “He needs a wardrobe fitting. But first, we need test subjects. I need to gauge the range and potency of his gift before we deploy.”

  Bune sighed through both noses, a synchronized sound of long-suffering duty. “Very well, sir. Combat drill alpha?”

  Without waiting for an answer, the butler raised both hands. The air in the courtyard grew instantly colder, tasting of turned earth and decay. The shadows on the ground began to writhe, and the packed dirt bulged upwards as if something were trying to claw its way out. A skeletal hand, still trailing scraps of rotted flesh, punched through the soil.

  “Stop,” Marchosias barked.

  The hand froze mid-reach. Bune looked up, confused. “Sir?”

  “We need living subjects,” Marchosias said. “Thinking minds.”

  The Right Head frowned. “Living subjects? For a field test? That’s a waste of resources, Captain. Why use perfectly good fodder when we have a limitless supply of obedient, recyclable corpses right beneath our feet?”

  “Because the dead do not think,” Marchosias replied, his gaze flicking to Zac. “Undead are driven by compulsion, not reason. The Avatar’s power is deception. You cannot lie to something that has no mind to trick. He needs a consciousness to manipulate.”

  Bune’s heads looked at each other, a silent conversation passing between them. “Ah,” said the Left Head. “Psychological warfare. I see.”

  “Fine,” grumbled the Right Head. He waved his hand, and the skeletal limb sank back into the earth with a disappointed squelch. “I’ll fetch a squad of imp skirmishers. They’re expendable, stupid, and easily confused. Perfect candidates.”

  As Bune scurried off to round up the volunteers, Marchosias turned back to Zac. “Do not think for a moment,” he warned, his voice low, “that because they are small, they are harmless. An imp will pluck your eyes while you are still using them if you give it the chance. Convince them not to.”

  Bune returned a moment later, herding a dozen creatures that looked like they had been assembled from the leftover parts of a nightmare factory. They were imps, but not the mischievous, pointy-eared pranksters of cartoons. These things were squat, muscular, and covered in skin that looked like pebbled leather, weeping yellow fluid from sores and boils. And, true to the apparent fashion of Hell, they were stark naked.

  Zac grimaced. “Okay, ew,” he muttered. “Definitely not the aesthetic I was hoping for.” He tried to avert his eyes, but it was like looking at a car crash made of meat.

  “They have been instructed to eat you for breakfast,” Marchosias said, his voice devoid of comfort. He stepped back, folding his arms. “Begin.”

  “Wait, what? Now?” Zac yelped. “I’m not ready! I haven’t even had coff-”

  The imps didn’t wait for him to finish. With a chorus of shrieks that sounded like tearing metal, they swarmed.

  Zac reacted on instinct, contorting his body in a panicked twist as the first imp launched itself at his face, claws extended. He felt the wind of its passage against his cheek. He scrambled backward, his boots slipping on the packed earth.

  “Run!” his brain screamed, but the message felt muted, distant. Without the spike of adrenaline, without the hammering heart of true terror, his limbs felt heavy and sluggish, like he was moving through water. He dodged another diving red blur, stumbling over his own feet.

  He ran in a frantic circle, his mind racing faster than his body. Lies. I need a lie. What kind of lie stops a feeding frenzy?

  ‘Hey look, behind you!’ No, too cliché.

  ‘I have a bomb!’ Imps probably liked explosions.

  ‘Your shoelace is untied!’ They didn’t have shoes. Or feet, really, just claws.

  It all seemed pointless. He ducked under a swinging claw, felt a sharp sting on his shoulder as another raked his arm. He tripped over a loose stone and went down hard, the breath knocked out of him. He rolled onto his back just as the swarm descended, a wall of weeping sores and gnashing teeth.

  He threw his hands up to cover his face, bracing for the pain.

  “WHY ARE YOU ATTACKING ME?!” he screamed, desperation forcing the words out. “MARCHOSIAS SAID YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO GET ME BREAKFAST!”

  As the words left his mouth, a strange sensation washed over him. It wasn’t just sound. His tongue felt heavy and cold, coated in a layer of absolute, numbing ice. The air in front of his face seemed to ripple.

  The effect was instantaneous.

  The lead imp, mid-leap, froze in mid-air as if it had hit an invisible wall, crashing to the ground in a confused heap. The others skidded to a halt, their claws inches from Zac’s skin. They looked at Zac, then at each other, their beady eyes blinking in confusion.

  “Breakfast?” one imp croaked, its voice like grinding stones.

  “Captain said?” another squeaked, looking nervously toward Marchosias.

  “I thought we were eating him for breakfast!” a third argued, poking Zac in the ribs.

  “No, you idiot!” the first imp smacked the third. “He said get him breakfast! We’re late! The Captain will skin us!”

  Within seconds, the bloodthirsty mob had devolved into a bickering committee about what kind of breakfast a human avatar eats and who was responsible for the delay. They completely ignored the human lying on the ground beneath them.

  Zac lowered his hands, blinked, and slowly scrambled to his feet. The imps were now in a heated debate, shoving each other and gesturing wildly.

  “Yeah!” Zac added, pointing a finger at the group for good measure. “And make sure the coffee is hot! Chop chop!”

  He turned and marched back toward Marchosias and Bune, a triumphant grin plastered on his face. Behind him, the squabbling intensified.

  “What is 'cov-fee'?” one imp shrieked.

  “Is it a type of blood? I bet it’s blood.”

  “Idiot! It’s a bean! I saw a warlock eat one once!”

  Marchosias stood with one hand covering his face, slowly shaking his head. It was the universal gesture of a commander wondering where it all went wrong. Bune was already striding past Zac, shooing the imps away with frantic waves of his hands.

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  “Get out! Out!” the Left Head shouted. “You are absolutely not allowed in the kitchens! You’ll contaminate the soul-soufflé!”

  “Dismissed! Go eat a rock or something!” the Right Head added.

  Zac came to a stop next to the Captain, feeling pretty pleased with himself. He dusted off his knees. “Wow. I guess my magic is actually kinda good, isn’t it? Did you see that? Total mind control.”

  Marchosias lowered his hand and fixed Zac with a withering side-eye. “I saw you panic, trip over your own feet, and scream about breakfast.”

  “But it worked!”

  “It worked on imps,” Marchosias growled.

  “I mean… you choose them,” Zac muttered, though his grin faltered slightly.

  Marchosias sighed, a sound that rumbled deep in his chest. “It was clumsy. Crude. But… effective. The deception held.” He looked at Zac, his expression unreadable. “It is a start.”

  “Great,” Zac said, brightening immediately. He tugged at the waistband of his stolen, scavenged trousers, which were currently riding up in a way that threatened his ability to ever have children. He looked up at the bearded wolf, putting on his best ‘damsel in distress’ face. “So, that was basically a battle, right? I survived. Mission accomplished. Now, can we please get me some different pants? These are actively trying to castrate me, and I’d like to keep my options open for the future.”

  Marchosias looked down at him, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second too long on the tight leather. He cleared his throat and turned toward the keep. “Bune. Take him to the quartermaster. Get him something that fits. And burn those rags.”

  “With pleasure, sir,” Bune called back.

  “And make it fast,” Marchosias added over his shoulder as he walked away. “We ride in an hour.”

  Bune led Zac back into the cool, dark interior of the keep. The butler was muttering a rapid-fire litany of complaints, a duet of dissatisfaction.

  “-inventory counts are off in the west armory,” the Left Head grumbled.

  “-and the audacity of that owl,” the Right Head hissed. “Starting a brawl in the foyer! Who does he think cleans up the blood? The magical cleaning fairies? No! It’s the magical cleaning demons, and they charge double for hazard pay!”

  Zac followed happily, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was high on the thrill of his magical victory and distracted by a new, fascinating line of thought regarding the dragon walking in front of him. ‘Two heads,’ he mused, staring at the back of Bune’s necks. ‘Think of the efficiency. One could be kissing you deep and slow, while the other… licked his… ear. Yeah. Definitely his ear.’ He suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. ‘Hell really is the land of opportunity.’

  They climbed the grand staircase, passing the now-repaired doors to Marchosias’s office. The Captain’s influence was clearly efficient; there wasn't even a scratch to show for yesterday's chaos. Bune led him down a side corridor and stopped abruptly in front of a simple wooden door.

  “This is the room the maids prepared for you last night,” the Left Head said, gesturing with a claw. “It is modest, but functional. Do try not to stain anything.”

  Zac stepped inside. It was indeed modest, a narrow bed with grey sheets, a heavy wooden bureau, and a single, slit window overlooking the chasm. On the bed lay a neat stack of folded black fabric.

  “There are fresh clothes,” the Right Head said. “Change quickly. The Captain hates to be kept waiting.”

  Zac closed the door and practically ripped off the scavenged leathers. Peeling away the stiff, foul-smelling layers felt like shedding a second, grosser skin. He pulled on the clothes Bune had provided. They were simple black robes, woven from a soft, heavy material that felt like silk but was warm as wool.

  “Oh, thank god,” Zac sighed, doing a little twirl. The robes were loose, flowing, and most importantly, had no waistband to dig into his hips. He grinned, running his hands down the front. ‘Easy access,’ he thought wickedly. ‘I can just bunch these up in the front the next time I see Nock. That lion man could do such crazy things to me…’

  He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, the silence of the room pressing in. He tried to take stock of his existence. Dead. Reincarnated. In Hell. Surrounded by hot demons. About to go to war. It was a lot.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Bune’s sharp rapping shattered his moment of reflection. “Avatar! We do not have all day!”

  Zac opened the door. “Ready! And feeling much more aerodynamic.”

  Bune looked him up and down, both heads nodding in approval. “Acceptable. At least you no longer smell like a crypt.”

  As they walked back down the corridor towards the stairs, Bune gestured to the pile of old leathers Zac had left in a heap by the door. With a casual huff, the Right Head exhaled a short, controlled burst of violet fire. The clothes incinerated instantly, vanishing in a flash of heat and ash, leaving not even a scorch mark on the stone floor.

  “Efficient,” Zac noted, impressed.

  “We try,” the Left Head sniffed. “Come. We are meeting the Captain in the stables. He is preparing the mounts.”

  “Stables?” Zac perked up. “Does this mean I get a pony?”

  “You get a war-beast,” the Right Head corrected grimly.

  As they descended into the bowels of the keep, Zac let his imagination run wild. ‘War-beast,’ he thought. ‘Please let it be a velociraptor. Riding a dinosaur into battle would be the single coolest thing to ever happen to anyone, living or dead. Are dinosaurs demonic? They’re basically dragons without wings. Surely they made the cut.’

  Bune was a whirlwind of efficiency as they walked. The butler didn’t just walk; he managed. With casual flicks of his claws and muttered incantations, he summoned wisps of necromantic energy that coalesced into spectral servants.

  “You there, Shade 402,” the Left Head commanded a translucent, moaning figure that drifted out of a wall. “The sconces in the east hallway need polishing. Use the ectoplasm polish, not the blood wax.”

  “And stop moaning!” the Right Head added. “It’s depressing the gargoyles.”

  Zac watched as the ghost floated away with a spectral duster. He wondered briefly how an intangible being could polish anything, but decided it wasn’t worth the brain power. He was too busy admiring Bune’s command presence. ‘He’s so authoritative,’ Zac mused, watching the sway of the butler’s tails. ‘Once you get past the whole hydra situation, you realize it’s just… options. The Left Head for serious conversations, the Right Head for fun, and both for… well. Variety is the spice of the afterlife, right?’

  Bune pushed open a massive set of reinforced wooden doors, and the smell of sulfur, musk, and raw meat washed over them.

  The Captain’s stables were a cavernous, subterranean cathedral dedicated to beasts of war. The ceiling was lost in shadow, high above iron rafters where bat-winged creatures roosted. The stalls were made of black iron bars thick enough to contain elephants.

  And the occupants were terrifying. There were horses with scales like obsidian armor and eyes that burned with green fire. There were boar-like monstrosities the size of rhinos, tusks dripping with venom. In the corner, curled around a pile of bloody ribs that used to belong to something large, slept a massive black warg, twitching in a dream of violence.

  But Marchosias stole the show.

  The Captain was waiting by a center pen, and he was dressed for war. He had traded his greatcoat for a suit of plate armor that was both magnificent and unsettling. The design was intricate, almost delicate, the kind of armor an angel might wear in a Renaissance painting. But instead of gleaming silver or gold, the metal was stained a deep, matte black, as if it had been dipped in shadow. The pauldrons were shaped like howling wolves, and a cape of tattered grey fur hung from his shoulders. He held his helmet under one arm, his scarred muzzle set in a grim line.

  Zac had to audibly swallow his spit. The wolf looked like the villain in a dark fantasy romance novel cover, the kind where the hero gets captured and thoroughly enjoyed. ‘Oh god,’ Zac thought, his knees weakening. ‘If he came over here and tied me up right now, I would just melt into a puddle. I would thank him.’

  Marchosias did not come over and tie him up. Instead, he turned, his amber eyes sharp and impatient.

  “What are you waiting for, Avatar?” he barked, his voice echoing in the vast space. “We are losing daylight. Get a saddle from the rack and choose your mount.”

  Zac blinked, shaking off the fantasy. He looked around at the nightmare zoo, then back at the Captain. “Uh, minor technical difficulty, sir.”

  Marchosias raised an eyebrow. “Speak.”

  “I’ve never ridden a horse before,” Zac admitted. “My primary mode of transport was a Honda Civic.”

  Marchosias snorted, a derisive sound. “Horse? These are not horses, boy. These are Bicorns.” He gestured to a row of particularly vicious-looking steeds. “And you don’t ride them. You survive them.”

  Marchosias moved with practiced ease, throwing a heavy saddle over the back of a massive Bicorn whose coat was the color of dried blood. He swung himself up, the armor clinking softly, and looked down at Zac from his lofty perch. He looked like a king of the apocalypse, ready to ride out and conquer.

  Zac, meanwhile, was looking around like a headless chicken in a fox den. “So… do they have keys? Or a start button?”

  Bune sighed, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. “Honestly.” The butler grabbed a saddle blanket and a heavy leather saddle, moving toward a neighboring stall. “Here. This one is relatively docile. It only ate one groom last month.”

  “Docile. Great. Love that,” Zac muttered.

  Bune saddled a sleek, jet-black Bicorn that watched them with burning orange eyes. The butler coughed politely. “Avatar, if I may suggest haste? The Captain loathes tardiness more than he loathes angels.”

  “I thought we had an hour just ten minutes ago!” Zac protested, eyeing the height of the stirrup. It was at his chest level. “Do I need a ladder?”

  “Just get on the beast!” Marchosias growled from above.

  Zac approached the steed. “Okay, nice demonic horsey. Nice Bicorn. Please don’t eat me.”

  He reached out. The moment his hand brushed the animal’s flank, the world exploded into motion.

  The Bicorn shrieked, a sound like tearing metal, and bucked violently, a convulsion of pure revulsion. A massive hind leg lashed out, catching Zac in the chest and sending him flying backward. He skidded across the stone floor, breath knocked from his lungs.

  He looked up from the floor, blinking. ‘Oh yeah,’ he thought calmly. ‘I almost just died. Fuck. That would have been embarrassing.’

  Bune grabbed the Bicorn’s reins, wrestling the thrashing beast. “Easy! What in the nine hells has gotten into you?” The creature was foaming at the mouth, eyes rolling back in its head, desperate to put distance between itself and Zac.

  “Hurry up!” Marchosias roared, his patience snapping. “We are wasting time!”

  Zac scrambled to his feet, dusting off his new robes. “Okay, okay! Maybe it just doesn’t like the smell of the new detergent!”

  He tried again, approaching more cautiously this time. He was ready to dodge. Even without fear, he had a healthy respect for physics, and he didn't want to be squished by some horse before he had a chance to be properly squished by Skarg.

  He reached out.

  The reaction was instantaneous. The Bicorn didn't just buck; it threw itself against the stall bars in a frenzy, shrieking in terror as if Zac were made of liquid fire.

  Marchosias barked, “Enough.”

  A stream of silver fire erupted from his mouth. It wasn't a chaotic blast, but a focused lance of annihilation. It struck the Bicorn mid-thrash. There was no scream, no blood. Where the silver flame touched, matter simply ceased to exist. In a blink, the Bicorn was gone, erased from reality. All that remained were four smoking hooves standing in the straw and the smell of ozone.

  Silence fell over the stable.

  Bune stared at the empty space where a horse used to be. He sighed, a long, mournful sound from both heads. “Sir… that was one of the good saddles.”

  “I do not care,” Marchosias snapped, lowering his hand. Smoke curled from his fingertips. “Get a non-defective steed. This is taking far too long. Bring out the mare in stall four. She’s old, she shouldn’t be jumpy.”

  Zac was still processing the fact that Marchosias had just kaiju-blasted a heavily armored demon horse into absolute nothingness when Bune returned leading a heavy, grey mare. The butler didn’t wait for Zac to try mounting on his own. He scooped the human up with four clawed hands and unceremoniously dumped him into the saddle.

  “Apologies for the delay, Captain,” the Left Head called out. “Just a minor glitch.”

  The moment Zac’s butt hit the leather, the ‘glitch’ became a catastrophe.

  The mare shrieked, a sound that vibrated in Zac’s teeth, and launched herself into the air. Zac grabbed the pommel, holding on for dear life as the beast bucked with the force of a tectonic shift.

  “Whoa! Easy, girl! Easy!” Zac yelled, which was about as effective as asking a hurricane to calm down.

  Bune tried to grab the bridle, but a flailing hoof caught him square in the chest, sending the two-headed butler flying backward into a pile of hay. Around them, the other stalls erupted into chaos, bicorns stomping and snorting, infected by the panic radiating from the mare.

  “What are you doing, Avatar?!” Marchosias roared over the din.

  “NOTHING!” Zac screamed back, his knuckles white as he clung to the saddle horn. “I AM ACTIVELY DOING NOTHING!”

  In the corner, the massive black warg, woke up. The scent of panic and prey triggered an instinct deeper than sleep. With a snarl, it launched itself across the stable, a black blur of muscle and teeth. It slammed into the bucking mare, jaws clamping onto its throat.

  The impact sent Zac flying. He hit the stone floor hard, rolling to a stop just in time to watch Goremaw tear the bicorn’s throat out in a spray of black ichor. The warg didn’t hesitate; it began to feast immediately, the sounds of tearing meat echoing in the suddenly silent stable.

  Zac looked up, panting. Marchosias sat frozen atop his own steed, his expression one of stunned silence. The Captain looked completely baffled.

  Bune picked himself up from the hay, dusting off his tailcoat. He marched over to the carnage. “Goremaw! Stop eating that bicorn! Bad warg! Shoo! You’ve already got your food!” He pointed imperiously at the pile of ribs in the corner.

  The mini coup-sized wolf gave a defiant huff, licked its bloody muzzle, and slunk back to its corner, though it kept a hungry eye on the fresh kill.

  Bune turned to Marchosias, wringing his hands. “Captain, I am mortified. I will get another. The chances of two being skittish in a row… I will have strong words with the breeder. Unacceptable.”

  Marchosias didn’t answer. He swung his leg over his saddle and slid to the ground with a heavy clank of armor. He walked slowly toward Zac, his eyes narrow, calculating.

  Zac looked up at the looming wolf. ‘Oh my hero,’ he thought, a little thrill running through him despite the carnage. ‘Save me, wolf daddy. Pick me up and carry me away from the scary horses.’

  Marchosias reached down, grabbed Zac by the scruff of his robes, and lifted him effortlessly. But instead of carrying him away, he marched over to his own mount, a massive, battle-hardened stallion that had stood rock-steady through the whole ordeal, and plopped Zac into the saddle.

  Zac frowned. “Uh, wait, I don’t thi-”

  The third bicorn lost its mind.

  It didn’t even have time to scream. It reared, eyes rolling back in pure terror, muscles bunching to throw the human.

  Schwing.

  Marchosias’s longsword moved faster than thought. The blade was a blur of silver. It passed an inch from Zac’s nose.

  There was a wet thud.

  The bicorn’s head hit the floor. A split second later, the body collapsed, legs folding, with Zac still sitting in the saddle. He rode the dead beast down to the ground, landing with a jarring impact. A fine spray of black blood splattered across his cheek.

  Silence. Absolute, heavy silence.

  Zac sat on the dead horse, blinking. He looked at the severed head a few feet away, then up at Marchosias. The wolf stood with his sword extended, the blade dripping. He wasn't looking at the dead horse. He was looking at Zac with an expression of dawn-breaking revelation.

  “Bune,” Marchosias said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “Lock the keep down. Right now.”

  Bune’s heads looked at each other, then at the Captain. “But… why, sir? There is a battle. The front lines…”

  Marchosias turned to glare at the dragon, his eyes burning with a fierce, possessive light.

  “The battle can wait,” he growled. “Ose didn’t just send us a liar. He sent us a treasure.”