Zac sat on the cold stone floor of a random corridor, chewing on something that claimed to be "Jalapeño Cheese Tortilla" but tasted like spicy cardboard. With no microwave in sight, he had attempted to heat the MRE pouch over a wall torch. The result was a lukewarm, rubbery disappointment.
"This shit tastes like it was made by someone who goes to taco bell on Cinco de Mayo," he muttered, tossing the half-eaten pouch aside.
He stood up, intending to head back to his room. He needed some alone time. Badly. Just the memory of Skarg's musky scent, before it was overlaid with the smell of burning fur and whiskey, was making his legs feel dangerously wobbly. He needed to lock his door and… meditate. Yes. Meditate on the mysteries of the universe. Specifically, the subject of wendigo anatomy.
The problem was, he was completely lost.
The keep was a gothic labyrinth designed by someone who hated guests. Corridors stretched into infinity, lined with towering arches and suits of armor that seemed to watch him pass. Shadows pooled in corners, whispering secrets he couldn't quite hear. Every turn looked identical. The silence was heavy, oppressive. It felt like the castle itself was shifting, rearranging its layout to keep him trapped.
Then, a voice cut through the gloom. It was distant, but distinct.
"-absolutely unacceptable! The velvet must be crushed, not folded!"
Zac perked up. He didn't recognize the specific complaint, but the tone was familiar: high-drama dissatisfaction. Without anything else to do, and feeling a creeping unease at the castle's malevolent silence, he decided to walk toward the angry shouting.
As he got closer, other voices joined in.
"And that's final! If I hear of even one more incident while things are being moved, amputations might be necessary!" a deep, smooth voice declared. It was Nock.
"Yes, yes, yes! Of course, Master! Of course!" a jolly, wheezing voice laughed.
"These incompetents will be reconstructed after this, sir," a third, more serious voice clipped. "A ten… no, a fifteen percent fire rate for the poorest performers. Encourage the others."
Zac turned a final corner and emerged onto a balcony overlooking the Grand Entryway. He vaguely remembered this space from his upside-down arrival, but it had changed. It was no longer empty.
It was a sea of steel and motion.
Hundreds of soldiers in full, black plate armor were marching in perfect lockstep, carrying an endless procession of boxes, trunks, weapon racks, and furniture. They moved with mechanical precision, a single organism of labor. They carried a massive, floor-to-ceiling mirror with a frame of gilded bones, treating it with more reverence than a holy relic.
'Wow,' Zac thought, watching the synchronized lifting. 'They must do a lot of team building exercises. Or fear building exercises.'
In the center of this river of steel stood Sir Nock. The lion was out of his armor, wearing a crimson silk robe open to the waist, revealing a sculpted golden chest. He was directing traffic like a maestro conducting a symphony, pointing a manicured claw at various crates.
"Careful with that! That is the silk from the weavers of Arachne! It bruises if you look at it wrong!"
Trailing behind the courtly feline were two lesser demons. One was a hulking, porcine creature, maybe an orc, maybe an anthropomorphic warthog, wearing a leather apron and carrying a clipboard he clearly wasn't reading. He was laughing, a wet, snorting sound, seemingly delighted by Nock's stress.
The second was much smaller, barely taller than Zac. It was a scrawny, rodent-like thing with twitchy ears and nervous energy. It held its spindly arms in front of itself like a begging dog, barking furious orders at the massive, armored soldiers who completely ignored it.
"Timon and Pumbaa from Hell," Zac whispered, suppressing a giggle.
He scanned the hall. No Marchosias. No Bune. No furious wendigo on fire. Just Nock and his lackeys.
Zac's heart didn't race, but his breath hitched. Nock looked glorious. The silk robe, the commanding presence, the hint of danger beneath the fussiness.
'Okay,' Zac decided, smoothing his own robes. 'Maybe I can get swept away by the current. Maybe I can accidentally bump into the Knight-Captain and find out if a lion's tongue really feels like sandpaper.'
He started down the stairs, putting on his best 'lost and helpless' face.
Zac reached the bottom of the stairs, perfectly positioned to intercept the lion. He cleared his throat, preparing a cough that was equal parts "damsel in distress" and "come hither."
Cough-cough-
CRASH.
A sound like a collapsing building echoed from the hallway where the procession of armor was headed. A massive plume of dust and grey smoke billowed out into the Grand Entryway, engulfing the rear guard of the movers.
Nock spun around, his mane bristling. "NO!" he screamed, clutching his chest. "That better not have been the lavender bath bombs! They are discontinued!"
With a swirl of crimson silk, Nock sprinted toward the disaster. The warthog and the rodent scrambled after him, the rodent screeching, "Prepare the reconstruction vats!"
"Wait!" Zac called out, reaching a hand toward the retreating lion. But Nock was gone, vanished into the dust cloud.
Zac was left standing alone in the middle of the Grand Entryway, surrounded by the silent, marching soldiers. They continued their work as if nothing had happened, carrying crates past him with eerie, mechanical rhythm.
"Excuse me?" Zac said to a passing soldier carrying a hat rack. The soldier didn't even turn its helmet.
"Hey, buddy?" He waved a hand in front of another one hauling a chest. Nothing.
"Hello? Can anyone tell me where the bathroom is? Or maybe the exit? Or where the hot lion went?"
Frustrated, Zac stepped directly into the path of a soldier carrying a small, velvet-lined box. "Hey! I'm talking to y-"
The soldier didn't stop. It plowed right into him.
Zac stumbled back, his foot catching on the edge of the rug. He flailed, grabbing the soldier's pauldron for balance. The armor, surprisingly light, tipped. With a clatter of metal, the soldier fell over.
But it didn't grunt. It didn't yell.
Instead, the helmet rolled off, and the breastplate split open.
There was no body inside. No demon, no ghost. The suit was filled to the brim with writhing, glistening earthworms, beetles, and centipedes. The mass of bugs spilled out onto the obsidian floor, squirming in a collective, mindless pile.
Zac stared. He frowned deeply.
"Gross," he stated.
He didn't like bugs very much. It wasn't like he was on a crusade against them or anything. He respected their place in the ecosystem. But he wasn't the type of person to save a bee under a cup and walk it all the way outside, just for it to fly back in his face. And then you're jumping back, closing your eyes, and smacking the little bastard you just saved out of the air. You tried to do a good deed, and it just flew right at you with hate in its little insect heart. You had no choice. You stood your ground. It wasn't your fault it attacked you out of nowhere. You were justified.