The Castle of Eternal Night did not sleep, but it certainly drooled.
Marcus stood on the windswept western parapet, staring deadpan at a granite gargoyle that was currently leaking a viscous, neon-green sludge from its open maw. The substance hit the obsidian floor with a hiss, releasing a plume of steam that smelled violently of sulfur and curdled milk.
"Acid reflux," Marcus diagnosed, leaning his weight against the handle of a heavy-duty bristle broom. "Poor bastard probably ate a Paladin's shield during the Third Crusade and still hasn't passed the buckles."
Beside him, Implet Four—who had recently filed paperwork to be legally recognized as 'Kevin'—nodded with the solemnity of a structural engineer. He scribbled something on a clipboard that was nearly as tall as he was.
"Occupational hazard," Kevin squeaked, adjusting a tiny yellow hard hat that sat askew between his ears. "That's Class-4 Corrosive Bile. We're going to need the industrial solvent and a chisel. Chop, chop, New Guy. Efficiency is key."
Marcus sighed, the sound snatched away by the howling wasteland wind of the wasteland.
It had been three days since his failed escape attempt. Three days since he had bounced off High Inquisitor Valerius's Holy Barrier like a pigeon flying into a glass door. Three days since he had been formally demoted from "Hero of the Dawn, Wielder of Lightbringer" to "Junior Sanitation Associate, Class C."
His days of slaying dragons and rescuing maidens were a distant memory. Now, his mortal enemies were dust bunnies the size of actual wolves—and unlike wolves, these things had allergies and bit harder.
"I used to lead armies," Marcus muttered, dipping his brush into a bucket of bubbling purple solvent. "I used to dine with kings. I was the Chosen One."
"And now you're the guy scrubbing gargoyle vomit," Kevin pointed out, entirely unhelpfully. "Upward mobility is tough in this economy. Less existential dread, more scrubbing. General Grognak does a white-glove inspection at noon, and if he finds a smudge, it comes out of my paycheck."
Marcus attacked the stain with a ferocity he usually reserved for dungeon bosses. Surprisingly, his swordsmanship translated remarkably well to janitorial work. The rhythmic motion of scrubbing was not unlike parrying a flurry of blows. Wax on, wax off. It was meditative, in a soul-crushing sort of way.
As he worked, he observed the castle life unfolding below him. When he was a Hero, he had viewed this place as a monolithic dungeon of horrors. But from the perspective of a janitor, the veil of terror was lifted to reveal something far more terrifying: a workplace.
In the courtyard below, a platoon of Skeleton Soldiers was marching. They weren't plotting the destruction of humanity; they were doing morning calisthenics.
"One, two! Rattle those tibias!" the Sergeant shouted, his jawbone clacking with every order. "Private Jenkins, reattach your left arm! No excuses! We are the undead, not the uncoordinated!"
A Succubus flew past the ramparts, clutching a stack of paperwork and looking visibly sleep-deprived. She was nursing a mug of coffee that bore the slogan 'Don't Talk To Me Until I've Had My Soul'. It was all terrifyingly mundane.
"Break time," Kevin announced, checking a sundial made of bleached knucklebones. "Union rules. Fifteen minutes."
Marcus slumped against the cold stone of the parapet, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. The sanitation squad of Implets gathered around, pulling strange snacks out of their aprons—pickled newt eyes, dried bat wings, and one very confused-looking frog.
"Hey, Marcus," Kevin offered him a skewer. "Want a roasted beetle? Crunchy on the outside, gooey on the inside. High protein."
"I'll stick to my bread, thanks," Marcus said, pulling a rock-hard crust from his pocket. It was leftover from breakfast. Chef Gorlock was still holding a grudge about the stolen chicken leg incident and had served him "Gruel Surprise" for three days straight. The surprise was usually gravel.
"Suit yourself," Kevin said, crunching loudly on the beetle. "So, heard you had another session with the Boss Lady yesterday."
The other Implets leaned in, their oversized ears twitching with gossip hunger.
"It wasn't a 'session'," Marcus corrected, his face heating up despite the cold wind. "It was a check-up. She was... recalibrating my mana flow."
"Uh-huh," Kevin winked, a gesture that looked disturbing on a face with no eyelids. "Is that what they call it now? Recalibrating? She came out of that room looking positively glowing. You must have a lot of... mana."
"Drop it, Kevin."
"I'm just saying," the imp shrugged. "Most humans don't last a week here. They usually end up as throw rugs or appetizers. But you? You get the VIP treatment. You get the Royal Wardrobe. You get the mop."
"The mop is a privilege?"
"The mop is a responsibility!" Kevin declared, waving a claw. "It means she trusts you with the hygiene of the castle. That's big. Trust is the currency of the underworld, my friend."
Before Marcus could argue the prestige of the custodial arts, the heavy iron door to the ramparts burst open with a clang.
General Grognak stormed out. The massive Orc was wearing a high-visibility vest over his tuxedo, looking flustered and checking a pocket watch.
"Human!" Grognak roared, pointing a finger the thickness of a sausage at Marcus. "Drop the broom. You are reassigned."
Marcus stood up, dusting off his trousers. "Reassigned? To what? Latrine duty? Because I draw the line at sludge demons."
"Worse," Grognak grimaced, adjusting his monocle. "The Infirmary. The Mistress requires an assistant immediately. Her usual nurse, a Banshee named Sharon, is on medical leave. Vocal node surgery. Too much screaming."
Marcus felt a jolt in his chest that had nothing to do with magic. The Infirmary. That meant Elena. He hadn't seen her since she had locked him in the castle with a smile and a sarcastic wave. She had been buried in meetings, leaving him to rot in the janitorial department.
"I have zero medical training," Marcus argued, backing away. "Unless you count cauterizing arrow wounds with a hot dagger in a muddy trench."
"Perfect," Grognak grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and hoisted him up like a stray cat. "You're hired. Try not to faint. Blood makes the floor slippery, and Kevin just waxed it."
The Royal Infirmary smelled of antiseptic and lavender—Elena's signature scent. But unlike a human hospital, which was usually white and sterile, this place looked like a Gothic cathedral crossed with a mad scientist's laboratory.
Black marble tables were lined up in neat rows. Floating magical lights cast a clinical blue glow over jars of preserved organs, racks of terrifyingly sharp silver instruments, and shelves of potions that bubbled with ominous vitality.
"Hold him down!" Elena's voice rang out from behind a heavy velvet curtain in the corner.
"I'm trying, Your Majesty! He's slippery!" a goblin nurse squealed in panic.
Grognak shoved Marcus through the curtain. "Here is the replacement. Good luck." The Orc saluted briskly and fled the room before the curtain even settled.
Marcus stumbled into chaos.
Elena was wrestling with a patient. She was wearing her pristine white lab coat over a crimson corset, her hair tied back in a messy bun, strands sticking to her forehead with sweat.
The patient was a Werewolf. A massive, hairy beast the size of a draft horse, currently thrashing on the reinforced operating table, foaming at the mouth, and snapping at the air.
"Marcus!" Elena snapped, not looking up as she pinned the creature's shoulder. "Don't just stand there! Grab his legs!"
"Whoa!" Marcus ducked a flailing claw that would have disemboweled him. "What's wrong with him? Rabies?"
"Anxiety attack!" Elena shouted, dodging a snap of jaws that clicked shut inches from her nose. "He ate a postman who was carrying a Cursed Letter of Foreclosure! The bad news is literally poisoning his system! Hold him!"
Marcus didn't think. Instinct took over. He lunged forward, grabbing the werewolf's massive hind legs. The beast kicked with the force of a siege engine, but Marcus—fortified by the Dark Mana coursing through his veins—held fast. His new strength surged, anchoring him to the floor.
"Sorry, buddy," Marcus grunted, digging his heels into the marble. "Bad mail day, huh? I get it. I got a 'Wanted: Dead or Alive' poster recently. It sucks."
The werewolf whined, his struggles weakening slightly at the empathetic tone. The beast turned a bloodshot eye toward Marcus, sensing a kindred spirit in misery.
"Status," Elena commanded, her hands glowing with soothing green magic as she pressed them against the wolf's heaving chest.
"Legs secured," Marcus reported, straining his muscles as the wolf gave another jerk. "He's heavy."
"Good. Keep him steady. I need to extract the curse before it reaches his heart."
Elena reached for a long, silver syringe that looked more like a harpoon. "This is going to sting," she whispered to the wolf, her voice dropping to a soothing hum.
She plunged the needle into the beast's chest. The wolf howled—a sound of pure, mournful agony that rattled the jars on the shelves. Dark, inky smoke began to flow from the wolf's fur, sucked into the glass chamber of the syringe.
Marcus watched, fascinated. He had spent his life believing demons delighted in suffering. But Elena's face was a mask of intense concentration and genuine concern. She wasn't a torturer; she was a healer fighting a different kind of darkness.
"Shh, it's okay," she murmured, stroking the wolf's matted fur with her free hand. "It's leaving. You're a good boy. Who's a good boy? You are."
The wolf's thrashing subsided into whimpers. His red eyes rolled back, and his tongue lolled out in relief.
"Extraction complete," Elena exhaled, pulling the syringe out. It was filled with swirling black sludge that screamed faintly. "Nurse, dispose of this in the Holy Fire Incinerator. Don't read the smoke, or you'll have an existential crisis."
The goblin nurse scurried away with the syringe, holding it like a bomb.
Elena slumped against the table, wiping her forehead with her sleeve. She looked exhausted, her usual regal composure frayed at the edges.
"You're late," she said to Marcus, though there was no real bite in her voice.
"I was scrubbing gargoyle vomit," Marcus defended himself, letting go of the sleeping wolf's legs and shaking the cramps from his hands. "I didn't know I was on call."
Elena looked at him. Really looked at him. She took in the smudge of dirt on his cheek, the smell of industrial solvent clinging to his clothes, and the way he was patting the werewolf's paw not with disgust, but with curiosity.
"You have a surprisingly good bedside manner for a butcher," she commented, walking over to a silver basin to wash the fur and curse residue from her hands.
"I'm a Paladin. We're trained to calm civilians," Marcus said, leaning against an instrument trolley. "Though usually, we don't treat monsters. We put them down."
"Well, here, we fix them," Elena said, drying her hands on a towel. She turned to face him. "Everyone in this castle is broken, Marcus. The skeletons have phantom pains. The vampires have anemia. The werewolves have severe social anxiety."
She stepped closer, invading his personal space as casually as she invaded his thoughts. She reached out and picked a speck of green gargoyle slime off his shoulder.
"And the Heroes have a martyr complex."
Marcus swatted her hand away, but his heart rate spiked with betrayal. "I don't have a complex."
"Sure," Elena smirked, her energy returning. "That's why you tried to headbutt a Holy Barrier three days ago. How's the nose?"
"It builds character," Marcus muttered, looking away.
Elena chuckled. She reached into the pocket of her lab coat and pulled out a small, bright red apple. It looked remarkably fresh compared to the gruel he'd been surviving on.
"Here," she tossed it to him. Marcus caught it reflexively.
"What's this? Payment?"
"A bonus," Elena said, walking toward her office door. "You handled the wolf well. Keep it up, and I might promote you from 'Janitor' to 'Orderly'."
She paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder. The clinical lights reflected in her crimson eyes, making them look like polished rubies.
"And Marcus? Take a shower. You smell like sulfur and resentment."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Marcus stood alone in the dim infirmary, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the sleeping werewolf. He looked at the apple in his hand. It was red, shiny, and undoubtedly delicious. He took a bite. It was sweet, crisp, and didn't taste like ash or gravel.
"Orderly," Marcus whispered, chewing thoughtfully. "It's a step up."
He looked at the werewolf, then patted the beast's giant paw one last time.
"Get well soon, furball."
Marcus walked out of the infirmary. He still felt like a prisoner. He still missed the sun. But for the first time in days, he didn't feel like running. He felt... employed.
And in the Castle of Eternal Night, that was a dangerous first step toward belonging.