The infernal stables were exactly as Zac remembered them: a subterranean cathedral of iron and musk. High above, bat-winged creatures shuffled in the rafters, their leathery wings sounding like turning pages in a book. The air was a thick soup of sulfur, old blood, and the raw, primal scent of beasts that had never known a leash.
Without Marchosias there, dressed in that unfair, heart-stopping battle armor, Zac found he could actually focus on the architecture. The stalls were made of black-iron bars thick enough to hold an elephant, etched with glowing runes that hummed with a low, vibrating power.
"Since the Bicorns seem to have a... violent allergy to your presence," Bune's Left Head explained, gesturing toward the empty, blood-stained stall where the previous horse had met its end, "the Captain has suggested a more... robust mount. Something with a nervous system less prone to spontaneous combustion."
Zac wasn't really listening. He was busy admiring the way his leopard-print tail trailed behind him on the obsidian floor. Suddenly, the shadows in the corner of the room didn't just move; they exploded.
A massive, motorcycle-sized weight slammed into Zac's chest, driving the air from his lungs with a sharp oof. He hit the floor hard, pinned by paws the size of dinner plates. Above him, a face straight out of a heavy metal album cover loomed. Goremaw, the Great Warg of the Broken Antler, looked down at him with eyes like glowing embers. His muzzle was wrinkled back, revealing rows of yellowed, needle-sharp teeth dripping with a thick, viscous saliva that sizzled slightly as it hit the stone next to Zac's head.
A low, bone-shaking growl vibrated through Zac's entire body.
"Down, boy," an amused, hooting voice drifted from the gloom.
"AHHHH!" Bune's Right Head shrieked, all four of the butler's hands flying to his faces. "The Avatar! He's being eaten! Bad dog!"
But Goremaw didn't bite.
Animal instincts are a strange thing, and the instincts of a demonic predator are stranger still. Most creatures sense fear like a physical scent, a cocktail of pheromones and frantic electromagnetic signals that tell a hunter This is prey. Goremaw was a creature built to feast on terror. He knew when a man was bluffing, and he knew when a soul was ripe for the crushing.
But as he looked down at the strange, leopard-print human, he felt... nothing. No spike of adrenaline. No sour tang of fear. Instead, Zac just smelled like blueberry waffles and a very specific, concentrated brand of horniness.
Goremaw's ears gave a confused flick. He tilted his massive head, his growl turning into a puzzled whine.
Zac, far from being terrified, reached up. His small, human hand looked ridiculous against the coarse, obsidian fur of the warg's neck, but he didn't hesitate. He began to scratch right behind the beast's ear.
"Aren't you the good boy who saved me from the mean horsie the other day?" Zac cooed, his voice a soft, adoring melody.
"DON'T TOUCH HIM!" Andras shouted, bursting from the shadows. The owlman's usual cool was gone, replaced by a frantic, hooting panic as he rushed toward the scene.
"BAD DOG!" Bune yelled, scrambling forward with a heavy iron poker. "No chewing on the Avatar! He's in mint condition!"
But as the two demons reached them, they skidded to a halt.
Goremaw wasn't attacking. He had let out a long, high-pitched whine of pure, unadulterated pleasure. The terrifying warg, whose bark was designed to send the most devout paladin into a state of permanent cardiac arrest, suddenly slumped. He fell over on his side with a heavy thud, his massive tail beginning to thump against the floor like a rhythmic sledgehammer.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The warg let out a short, demonic bark, a sound that usually meant I am about to feast on your family tree, but here, it sounded suspiciously like a happy yip.
Zac laughed, rolling over in the straw and fleece to scratch Goremaw's massive, scarred belly. "Oh, you are a good boy, aren't you? Huh? Huh? Whosagoodboy? Is it you? Is it the big, scary puppy?"
The room fell into a stunned silence, broken only by the rhythmic thumping of the warg's tail and the sound of Goremaw's happy, wet panting. The beast's tongue lolled out of his mouth, dripping saliva onto the floor as he squirmed under Zac's touch, begging for more.
Andras and Bune looked at each other, then back at the floor. The great Marquis and the Duke were standing over a human in a onesie who was currently spooning the warband's most lethal tracker.
"HEY! STOP THAT!" Andras finally hooted, his feathers ruffling with a sudden, sharp spike of jealousy. He stomped his foot, his golden eyes narrowing. "You're... you're upsetting him! He's a soldier! A killer! He's not a... a lapdog!"
Goremaw and Zac both froze. They turned their heads in perfect synchronization, looking up at the huffing owl demon with identical expressions of "Why are you ruining this for us?"
Goremaw let out a low, disapproving huff and tucked his chin back into Zac's chest, clearly choosing his side. Zac just grinned, his hand still buried in the warg's fur.