Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as a snapped rubber band. One moment, there was the screech of tires, a flash of blinding light, and the absurdly specific regret of not clearing his browser history. Next, there was heat.

  It was a suffocating, ancient heat that felt like being sealed inside the lungs of a dying star. Zac's own lungs burned, and he gasped, the air thick and gritty, tasting of ozone and something vaguely like burnt sugar. He was lying on a floor of polished obsidian that seemed to drink the oppressive, crimson light that bled from cracks in the unseen ceiling.

  He pushed himself up. His head throbbed with the dull, percussive rhythm of a cosmic hangover. He was in a vast, empty space, a throne room for a god of nothing. And he was not alone.

  In the center of the chamber, upon a throne carved from a single, massive bone, a figure sat cloaked in shadow. Zac could only make out a silhouette, a colossal shape that defied easy categorization. It was humanoid, yes, but too broad in the shoulder, too powerful in the thigh. Two pointed shapes atop its head, too animated to be horns, twitched with faint irritation. It radiated an aura of bored, absolute authority. A low, rumbling snarl, more a vibration than a sound, rolled through the chamber, seeming to emanate from the very stone around him.

  This was it. This was the part where he was supposed to scream, to bargain, to weep. The terror was a cold knot in his stomach, a frantic bird beating against his ribs.

  The figure's voice wasn't sound, it was pressure inside Zac's skull, a velvet roar that resonated behind his eyes.

  "Zachary Michael Torres. Dead at twenty-six. Cause... scrolling erotic stories involving... men and monsters while crossing the street. Truly pathetic."

  Zac flinched, the sheer, blunt accuracy of the statement cutting through his rising panic.

  The silhouette shifted, leaning forward. Two points of molten gold ignited in the darkness, eyes that had witnessed the birth and death of galaxies. "I am Ose, President of Hell, Duke of Deception. And you, Zachary, are a statistical anomaly of such profound mediocrity that you have become interesting. As such, you have been selected for a limited-time offer. An alternative to the standard eternal torment package."

  The knot of fear in Zac's stomach tightened. "I feel like there's a catch."

  "There is always a catch," the voice purred, dripping with amusement. "But it is a rather exciting one. You see, the great war is... eternal. An endless, glorious meat grinder between our legions and the glittering bores of the celestial plane. We are always in need of new avatars, fresh perspectives."

  Zac hesitated, his mind racing. This was a deal. A deal with a literal devil. He had to be smart. "And what would I have to do? What kind of avatar?"

  "An agent of chaos. A whisper of doubt in the halls of the holy. You will be sent to a distant world, a key battlefront. There, you will join one of my most effective, if somewhat... eccentric, warbands. You will help them tear down a kingdom so righteous it makes angels vomit glitter."

  A scroll of living flame unrolled in the air, its light illuminating the chamber, casting Ose's shadow long and monstrous yet keeping the demon's appearance just out of the ring of light. It was covered in runes that writhed and pulsed with malevolent energy. "Succeed, and you earn your ascension. A pass. A chance to climb out of this pit. Fail... and I get creative."

  Zac stared at the contract, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was his one shot. A lottery ticket when the only other option was the woodchipper. But he had to be careful. He took a hesitant step closer, trying to focus on the arcane text. The runes swam before his eyes, shifting, their meaning just beyond his grasp. He squinted, leaning in, tracing the first line with a trembling finger...

  And that's when Ose decided to stand up.

  He moved out of the throne's deep shadow and into the full, fiery light of the scroll, and Zac's train of thought didn't just derail; it flew off a cliff and exploded in a fireball of pure, distilled horniness.

  The President of Hell was a magnificent, fifteen-foot-tall anthro leopard. He was also gloriously, unashamedly naked. Every inch of spotted golden fur gleamed with sweat, muscles shifting like living steel under velvet. His mane was a river of black fire, and his... presentation was both a statement of power and a flagrant disregard for workplace decorum.

  Zac's brain blue-screened. The intricate, world-altering runes on the contract blurred, the letters rearranging themselves into obscene, illustrated dick jokes. All thoughts of caution, of fine print and legal loopholes, evaporated in a cloud of steam.

  Ose saw the exact moment Zac's focus shattered. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. "I should also mention," he purred, his voice a low, seductive rumble, "that the warband is composed of some of my finest. Powerful specimens. They have a certain... ferocious aesthetic, like me. I have a feeling you will find their company quite... stimulating."

  That was it. That was the final nail in the coffin of Zac's good judgment. The only other option was Hell, and this was a chance, a slim, insane, probably-a-trick chance, to spend his afterlife surrounded by the very subject of the smut that had gotten him killed in the first place.

  "Where do I sign?" Zac asked, his voice a strangled squeak.

  Ose's grin could have lit Las Vegas. He tapped a single, wickedly sharp claw at the bottom of the scroll. Zac, his eyes still glued to the masterpiece of demonic anatomy before him, stumbled forward and pressed his thumb to the searing heat.

  Pain, power, and the scent of brimstone. The world began to dissolve into white light. As reality unspooled around him, Ose's voice echoed one last time in his mind, not as a roar, but as a whisper.

  "A gift, to help you on your way, little liar. Your words will now carry the weight of truth. And your heart... your heart will never betray you with a fearful beat."

  Two distinct sensations shot through him in the final moment. One was liquid silver, coating his tongue and settling in his throat. The other was a shard of absolute ice, plunging into his chest and caging the frantic bird of his fear.

  Then the world flashed white. The deal was done. He'd bought his lottery ticket. Now he just had to survive long enough to see if he'd won.

  The white-hot agony of reincarnation faded into a cold so profound it felt like a physical assault. Zac gasped, his breath pluming in a thick, white cloud. He was lying naked on stone that leeched the warmth from his skin with a greedy, parasitic hunger. This wasn't just cold; it was the absolute, soul-deep cold of the grave. Getting dressed was no longer a matter of dignity, but of survival.

  He scrambled to his feet, teeth chattering so hard his jaw ached. The room was a mausoleum, vast and echoing, the walls lined with stone sarcophagi carved with faces twisted in eternal agony. Frost glittered on everything, a cruel and beautiful blanket of crystals.

  Somewhere deeper in the dark, a beast howled. It was a long, mournful sound, thick with a guttural hunger. The howl of a predator that had cornered its prey. The sound vibrated through the stone, up Zac's bare feet, and into his bones. It was a sound designed by evolution to trigger a primal, pants-wetting terror.

  Zac waited for the shiver of fear, the ice in his veins. Nothing. The sound registered, was cataloged as 'threatening,' and was then dismissed. His body was freezing, but his mind was a placid lake. Ose's 'gift' was a strange and hollow thing.

  He began his search, hugging himself for warmth. In a recessed alcove, he found a body. An adventurer, by the look of him, impaled on a spike of ice that had erupted from the floor. His leather armor was stiff with frost and mostly intact, though a significant portion of the back was shredded and stained a dark, frozen brown. Zac looked from the corpse's vacant, staring eyes to the silent, watching sarcophagi, and the sheer, macabre horror of his situation attempted to butt in.

  He recoiled, stumbling back with a gasp. "Holy shit, dead body!" he yelped, his heart... beating at a perfectly normal resting rate. The reaction was pure performance. He felt a wave of foolishness wash over him. He wasn't actually scared. He was just acting like he should be.

  He sighed, a fresh plume of steam in the frigid air. "Right," he muttered to himself. "If I'm going to be a professional liar, I guess I need to work on my method acting."

  He returned to the corpse, his movements now deliberate. He apologized the whole time he was stripping the body, his words puffs of white. "Sorry bro, really. But you're not using these anymore, and my balls are trying to crawl up into my chest cavity." The leather was cracked and stiff, the under-tunic little more than rags, but it was a barrier against the killing cold.

  A deep, guttural bellow echoed from a nearby corridor, much closer this time. It was a roar of frustration and hunger. Something was hunting. And it was getting closer.

  Zac, now smelling faintly of death and lavender-scented despair, began to move. He crept through the maze-like crypt, the cold blue torchlight casting long, dancing shadows. He wasn't running in a panic; he was moving with a purpose, trying to find an exit. But every corridor seemed to loop back on itself. The bellows grew louder, closer, sometimes seeming to come from the passage right behind him, then echoing from the one just ahead. It was toying with him.

  He rounded a corner and skidded into a dead-end chamber. The roaring stopped. A heavy, predatory silence fell. Zac spun around, back hitting the wall, as a colossal shadow filled the entrance.

  A... massive, antlered... Windago stepped into the torchlight, and Zac's placid mind finally understood the meaning of awe. He was a creature of winter and violence, a god of the frozen north. The bipedal caribou stalked forward, moving with a deliberate, terrifying strength. He stopped a few feet from Zac, lowered his massive, antlered head, and unleashed a deafening, full-throated roar directly in his face.

  The wave of sound washed over Zac, fluttering the rags of his new tunic. Zac's mind screamed at him, 'Be scared! Cower! This is a ten-foot-tall murder-deer! You should be terrified!' But the feeling just wouldn't come. The disconnect was dizzying.

  The furry monster straightened up, a look of profound frustration on his monstrous features. The human wasn't screaming. He wasn't crying. He was just... blinking, a strange, thoughtful look on his face.

  "Are you broken?" the wendigo rumbled, his voice thick with annoyance. "You're supposed to be terrified."

  "I think my fear response is on backorder," Zac said, the words coming out before he could stop them.

  The wendigo's eyes narrowed. He drew himself up to his full, imposing height, his antlers scraping the ceiling. "You will show respect, mortal. You stand before Skarg! Great Earl of the Frozen Waste, Commander of Storms and Tempests!" He took a heavy step forward. "And you will be my next meal."

  Still nothing. Skarg's frustration began to curdle into a strange curiosity. He took another step, leaning in, his nostrils flaring as he took in Zac's scent. Underneath the stench of corpse and fear-sweat that wasn't his own, there was something else. Something clean. Untouched. It was a scent that spoke to the deepest, most primal parts of his demonic nature, a scent of something pure and ripe for the claiming. A low growl, this one not of aggression but of possessive interest, rumbled in his chest.

  "Tempting offer," Zac said, trying to break the sudden, charged silence. "But I have to decline. President Ose sent me. I'm his new Avatar."

  Skarg barked a harsh, disbelieving laugh, the spell broken. "Ose doesn't send hairless runts who smell like they slept in a tomb. He sends killers." He grabbed the back of Zac's tunic, lifting him effortlessly off the ground, intending to shake some sense into him. "Now, let's see what-" He stopped. His nostrils flared again as he saw it. The tattered tunic had ridden up.

  On the skin of Zac's lower back, a complex, swirling rune glowed with a faint, crimson light. The President's Seal. Unmistakable. The demon of deception had given Zac an infernal tramp-stamp.

  Skarg's grip loosened, and he dropped Zac to the floor with a grunt. The wendigo's entire demeanor shifted from frustrated predator to disgruntled employee. All thoughts of the alluring scent were shoved aside by the cold, hard reality of official business.

  He let out a long, aggrieved sigh. "Unbelievable. I was halfway through a very promising evening with a surprisingly flexible incubus, and now I have to babysit for the President's new toy." He glared down at Zac, the earlier fire in his eyes replaced with pure irritation. "Get up, Avatar. You're with me. I have to take you to the Captain."

  He grabbed Zac by the scruff of his collar and began dragging him out of the chamber, muttering to himself. "First I have to find it, then I have to haul it back... so much paperwork..."

  Zac stumbled along behind him, his mind racing. He was struck by the fact that the ten-foot-tall murder-deer, just like Ose, was completely naked. Maybe all the demons were naked... Ose was too! More importantly, though, was the other revelation... incubus.

  Zac thought, a spark of hope igniting in the cold, hollow space in his chest. 'So they're gay. Or at least, demonically bisexual. Ose was right, this afterlife might have some perks after all.' The allure was undeniable. Even grumpy, Skarg was a magnificent beast, a raw, primal force of nature. Zac found himself wondering just how flexible that incubus had been.

  Skarg dragged Zac out of the mausoleum's rusted gates and into the night. The cold was still a physical presence, but out here, under an open sky, it felt cleaner. The graveyard stretched in every direction, a city of the dead under a bruised violet moon that dripped blood-colored light. In the distance, a faint, angry red glow pulsed against the horizon, a wound in the fabric of the world. Faintly, carried on the wind, Zac could hear screams, not of terror, but of rage and exertion, the sound of a distant, endless battle.

  Skarg kept a punishing pace, his massive hooves crunching frozen bones underfoot. Zac, practically jogging to keep up, found his thoughts drifting back to the wendigo's raw power and... short fluffy tail. His heart, which had remained stubbornly placid in the face of mortal terror, had given a distinct, enthusiastic thump. 'Right,' he thought with a flicker of satisfaction. 'So the fear-blocker works, but the horny-inducer is still fully operational. Good to know.'

  They were passing between two toppled mausoleums, their marble angels weeping frozen tears, when a new sound cut through the night, the slow, deliberate clop of iron-shod hooves.

  A rider emerged from the violet gloom, and the scene transformed from a horror movie into a dark fairy tale. He sat atop a pale destrier whose eyes glowed corpse-green, its mane a tangle of what looked suspiciously like funeral shrouds. Hanging from the war-saddle in neat, murderous rows was an arsenal that could equip a small army: a gleaming longsword, a heavy, flanged mace, a pair of matched pistols with mother-of-pearl grips, and a wickedly curved saber.

  The lion headed man astride the beast was magnificent. Broad-shouldered and golden-furred, he wore a three-piece suit of mirror-bright plate armor, the breastplate shaped like a tailored waistcoat, the pauldrons flared like lapels. His own mane was braided with silver rings and tiny, screaming souls that provided a faint, melodic chime. He was every dashing, dangerous prince from every storybook Zac had ever secretly read.

  He reined in, his gaze sweeping over the scene with aristocratic disdain. His eyes, the color of molten gold, lingered on Skarg with contempt before flicking to Zac. A sneer curled his lip.

  "Skarg," he said, his voice deep and diction pronounced. "Still playing with your food, I see. Do try to clean up after yourself. Your last meal left stains all over the western necropolis." He looked Zac up and down, his expression one of utter dismissal. "And you've chosen a scrawny one this time. Barely a mouthful."

  Zac barely registered the insult. His brain was too busy cataloging the perfect fit of the lion's armor, the regal set of his shoulders, the sheer, breathtaking fantasy of it all. This was a demon, a soul-eating monster from the pits of Hell... who looked like he'd walked off the cover of the hottest romance novel ever written. The internal struggle was brief and brutally one-sided.

  Skarg's growl was a low rumble of thunder. "He is not food, you preening housecat. He is a... package. For the Captain."

  "A package?" Nock raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "It looks more like a stray you found in a dumpster. If you're not going to eat it, at least put it out of its misery."

  The sheer, casual cruelty of the remark was chilling. But Skarg had finally had enough of the taunts.

  "He is the President's new AVATAR, you arrogant fool!" he roared, the word echoing off the tombstones. "And he is MY responsibility!"

  The change in Nock was instantaneous and absolute. The sneer vanished, replaced by a dazzling smile. The contempt in his eyes was instantly supplanted by a warm, charming light. He swung down from his saddle with a liquid grace that made his heavy armor seem weightless. The Prince Charming mask snapped perfectly into place.

  "The Avatar!" he exclaimed, his voice now filled with delighted surprise. He strode forward, completely ignoring Skarg. "My deepest apologies, little champion! I did not realize... Skarg's brutish company must have been so terribly distressing for you." He bowed low, a perfect, courtly gesture. "I am Sir Nock, Great Marquis."

  Zac, who had a memory like a steel trap for insults, decided at that moment that his new lying ability might come in handy for social situations as well. He smiled back as if he hadn't just been called a dumpster stray.

  Before Skarg could react, Nock moved with a fencer's speed. A gauntleted hand closed around Zac's waist, hauling him from Skarg's grasp and settling him sideways across the saddle. Zac's back was pressed to an armored chest, Nock's mane tickling his ear. The heat radiating from the lion was a welcome furnace against the cold.

  "Hold tight, pet," the lion's voice purred directly against his throat. "Allow me to escort you. A person of your station deserves a far more civilized welcome."

  Skarg's roar of pure, possessive outrage shook snow from the tombstones.

  Nock just laughed, a low, delighted sound. He spurred the pale horse, which launched itself forward with unnatural speed, leaving Skarg in a cloud of dust. Zac, plastered against the lion's chest, told himself to be wary. He told himself this was a performance, a cynical ploy for favor. But it was hard to focus on cynicism when he was being held in the arms of a literal fantasy knight, the vibration of his purring laugh rumbling right through him. He decided, for the moment, to simply enjoy the ride.

  The pale horse carried them out of the graveyard's rusted gates, and the world fell away. The ground simply ended, plunging into a jagged canyon of red-black light. The air rushed up to meet them, tasting of hot iron and sex. Without hesitation, Nock spurred the horse over the edge.

  Zac yelped, a sound that was half shock, half exhilaration, as they plunged into the abyss. The wind screamed past them, but Nock's arm was an iron bar around his waist. Then, a furious roar echoed from above. Skarg had leaped after them.

  The massive caribou landed on the sheer obsidian wall of the chasm, his hooves finding impossible purchase, and began to run, dropping onto all fours. He was a terrifying, bounding beast of muscle and frost, his antlers cutting through the air as he gave chase.

  The descent became a chaotic, breathtaking race into a vertical city. The Pit wasn't a hole... it was a wound, and its inhabitants had built their metropolis in the scar tissue. Forges carved into the chasm walls belched green fire, their hammer-falls echoing like a giant's heartbeat. Brothels beckoned with neon-red runes that spelled out acts Zac couldn't read but the signs showed things he didn't know were anatomically possible. They thundered down the spiraling, city-block-wide steps, weaving through the Pit's brutal industry.

  Nock expertly guided his destrier around a massive, iron-bound mine cart overflowing with freshly forged, still-glowing swords. Skarg, relentless, used the cart as a ramp, launching himself into the air, antlers aimed directly at them.

  Nock, with Zac still held securely in one arm, drew his longsword with his free hand. With a graceful, almost contemptuous ease, he parried the tip of Skarg's antler with his blade. The shriek of enchanted steel on demonic bone was deafening. The impact sent a shudder through the horse, but Nock held firm.

  "Your form is as crude as your manners, you brute!" Nock yelled over the wind.

  "I'll show you crude when I'm wearing your mane as a loincloth!" Skarg roared back, landing on the wall and resuming his four-legged pursuit.

  The sheer speed and vertigo should have sent his heart into overdrive, but it remained stubbornly calm. 'Well,' Zac thought with a pang of disappointment, 'there go amusement park rides for the rest of my afterlife.' He sighed and decided if he couldn't have the thrill of fear, he'd take the thrill of the fantasy. He relaxed, leaning back into the solid warmth of Nock's armored chest, the vibration of the lion's purring laugh rumbling through him.

  "You see, you brute?" Nock called back over his shoulder, his voice triumphant. "The little avatar prefers to be rescued! He melts in my arms!"

  "I will tear those arms off and beat you with them!" Skarg roared back, his voice echoing up and down the chasm.

  Ahead, a massive iron gate, studded with skulls, loomed, blocking their path. Nock, seeing it, began to rein in his steed, pulling back with a curse. Skarg, seeing his chance, put on a final burst of speed, launching himself from the wall to intercept them. Both Knight and Beast were forced to scramble to a halt, their momentum screeching against the stone, as they came face to face with a gate, and its silent, waiting guardian.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  A single torch, jammed into an iron sconce, sputtered and spat, casting long, dancing shadows. Its light did little to pierce the oppressive gloom, but it did illuminate the figure standing before the gate.

  An owlman.

  He was tall and lean, his posture a study in relaxed lethality. His feathers were the muted colors of a predator, driftwood and dried blood, and a tattered greatcoat that had once been Royal Navy blue hung from his shoulders. A tricorn hat was perched between his prominent ear-tufts, one lens of his spectacles cracked. He held a cutlass with the casual ease of a man who used it for everything from prying open treasure chests to slitting throats. His huge, golden eyes, unblinking and ancient, fixed on Zac, sizing him up with unnerving intelligence.

  "Well, well," the owlman said, his voice a low baritone like rum and smoke. "Look what the cat and the deer dragged in. Causing a hell of a scene, aren't we?"

  Nock dismounted smoothly. "Andras. The gate is sealed. Explain yourself."

  "Orders from the Captain," Andras replied, his tone deceptively light. He took a half-step forward, into the flickering torchlight, and Zac could see the scars that cross-hatched his chest feathers where his coat hung open. "He was very specific. He said, 'Andras, my most trusted and handsome lieutenant, the moment the President's chosen avatar arrives, you are to personally escort him to me. Do not let the bickering children get their grubby paws on him.'" He gave a theatrical sigh. "A heavy burden, to be so trusted, but one I must bear."

  Skarg snorted, a plume of frost steaming in the hot air. "You've never followed an order in your life, you feathered liar."

  "Details, details," Andras waved a dismissive, taloned hand. "The point is, the avatar comes with me. You two can go back to comparing cock sizes or polishing each other's codpieces." He winked at Zac. "Come along, little avatar. I'll keep you safe from the simpletons."

  This was a blatant power play, and everyone knew it. Nock's hand went to the hilt of his longsword. "You are a skilled duelist, Andras, but you cannot take both of us."

  Andras's smile never faltered, but it lost all its warmth. "Then I suppose you'll have to make me"

  What followed was not a brawl, but a deadly dance. Andras moved first, his cutlass a blur of silver. He didn't lunge; he flowed, his movements economical and precise. Nock met him with the rigid, perfect form of a master swordsman, their blades ringing in the cavernous space. Skarg, seeing them occupied, tried to circle around to get behind the owl, but Andras was always aware, a quick feint and a sidestep forcing the wendigo back. The owlman was magnificent, using his wings for balance and sudden bursts of movement, his cutlass weaving a web of steel that held both behemoths at bay.

  But Nock was right. He was outnumbered. Slowly, inexorably, they forced him back. His back was to the gate now, the sputtering torch just inches from his shoulder. He was trapped.

  "It seems I am outmatched," Andras said, though he didn't sound the least bit concerned. He parried a heavy blow from Nock, his blade groaning under the force. "It has been a pleasure dancing with you both."

  With a final, almost lazy-looking flourish, he reached back, plucked the torch from its sconce, and crushed the flame in his taloned fist.

  The world plunged into absolute, suffocating darkness.

  Before Zac could even gasp, he felt a rush of air, silent as a grave. A powerful, firm grip closed around his waist, lifting him effortlessly from the horse's back. He felt a dizzying sensation of weightless, upward movement. By the time he remembered to try and act scared, his feet were already back on solid ground.

  A familiar, acrid smell of burning pitch filled the air. Light flared. Nock had managed to reignite the torch. He and Skarg stood staring, bewildered, at the now-empty saddle.

  Zac was on the other side of the gate. Andras stood beside him, calmly using the relit torch, now held by a bewildered Nock on the other side of the bars, to light a fresh cigarillo.

  The owlman took a puff and then draped a wing over Zac's shoulders, guiding him away from the enraged sputtering at the gate. "Apologies for the dramatics," he said smoothly, his voice a low conspiratorial murmur. "Those two can be so frightfully loud. Terribly childish." He leaned in, his golden eyes glinting with mischief. "Andras, Great Marquis, at your service. Don't mind them. Their barks are far, far worse than their bites."

  Behind them, the sounds of two apex predators roaring in pure, impotent fury echoed off the chasm walls as they began scrambling to find a way to open the massive, sealed gate. Andras didn't even look back.

  Andras led Zac away from the gate at a leisurely pace. They strolled down a wide, black stone causeway that led to the central keep, and Andras's wing remained a casual, possessive weight on Zac's shoulders. The roguish demon seemed completely unbothered by the fact he had just cheated and enraged two of the most powerful beings Zac had ever met.

  "Don't you worry about them catching up?" Zac asked, glancing back at the gate.

  "Oh, they'll catch up," Andras said with a smoky chuckle. "It's the principle of the thing. But it'll take them a few minutes to bully the gate controls, and that gives us time for a civilized conversation. A rare treat in these parts." He slowed his pace, his golden eyes scanning Zac with genuine curiosity. "So, the President's new Avatar. Tell me, what great sin did you commit to earn such a prestigious transfer? Defile a temple? Assassinate a king?"

  "I, uh, jaywalked with poor situational awareness," Zac admitted.

  Andras stopped and stared at him for a long moment. Then he threw his head back and let out a hooting laugh that was surprisingly warm. "Magnificent! Ose has a sense of humor after all. I like you, kid."

  As they walked, Zac's attention was drawn to the keep. It was different from the garish, chaotic architecture of the Pit city. The Captain's castle was a masterpiece of brutalist austerity. It wasn't adorned with lewd gargoyles or carved with scenes of torment. Instead, its towers were clean, sharp spires of obsidian that clawed at the chasm's gloom, more like the lances of a fallen army than a fortress. The windows were tall and arched, reminiscent of a cathedral, but paned with smoked, unbreakable glass that reflected the red light from below, making it look like the entire structure was filled with blood. It was a place of order, of discipline, and of a profound, lonely majesty.

  "Impressive, isn't it?" Andras murmured, taking a puff of his cigarillo. "The Captain has a very... specific aesthetic. All straight lines and quiet judgment. A bit boring, if you ask me, but it keeps the riff-raff out."

  Zac found himself nodding absent mindedly as he daydreamed about the owlman beside him. The easy confidence, the sharp wit, the hidden lethality... it was an intoxicating combination. He imagined the owl winking at him from across a smokey bar... pulling him into a dark alleyway because they were too eager to make it back to his luxury criminal hideout.

  They were nearly at the main doors, two towering slabs of petrified wood, intricately carved with abstract, swirling patterns rather than scenes of violence, when the sound of thundering hooves and clawed feet echoed up the causeway.

  "LIAR!" Nock's voice boomed, full of righteous indignation. He and Skarg, having finally forced the gate, were charging towards them at full speed.

  Andras sighed. "And the children have caught up." He turned, not drawing his cutlass this time, but simply waiting. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"

  "Your lie about the Captain's orders was pathetic, even for you!" Skarg roared.

  "Lie?" Andras said, raising a feathered eyebrow. "My dear caribou, I never said it was our Captain that gave me orders. I imagined he said he wanted me to escort the Avatar. And he will." He tapped the side of his head. "Owl's ears. I heard you two screaming the boy's title all the way down the chasm. I simply made the logical deduction that the Captain would prefer his vital new asset to arrive in one piece, and not as the prize in a brutish tug-of-war."

  Before they could argue the semantics, the heavy wooden doors were thrown open from the inside with a concussive boom. One of them caught Zac, who had been wisely trying to make himself scarce, sending him flying into a large, meticulously pruned thorn bush that sat in an ornate planter.

  "Ow. Rude."

  A figure stepped out of the doorway, and Zac's breath caught in his throat. It was a two-headed dragonman, and he was, against all odds, breathtakingly elegant. He wore a butler's tailcoat stretched taut over midnight-blue scales, so perfectly pressed it could have cut glass. But it was his heads that were so captivatingly strange.

  The Left Head was noble and sharp, reminiscent of a heraldic dragon from a coat of arms. Its horns were straight and proud, its snout finely tapered, and its golden eyes held a cold, analytical intelligence. The Right Head was more predatory and wild. Its horns curved back like a ram's, its jaw was stronger, and a crest of darker, tougher scales ran down its neck like a hawk's hood. Both were undeniably draconic, yet they were as different as a king and a hunter.

  'Well hello there,' Zac thought, momentarily forgetting his aches. 'Dragon in a butlers uniform, yes please.'

  The dragon butler hadn't noticed him yet. His full, twin-headed attention was focused on the brawling lieutenants in the courtyard.

  "Cease this barbarism at once!" cried the Left Head, his voice clipped and precise. "This is the Captain's personal ward! Not a common sparring pit! The sheer lack of decorum is appalling!"

  "And you're scaring the Captain's prized Doom Roses!" added the Right Head, gesturing with his snout to the very bush Zac was currently embedded in. "He spent three decades cultivating that shade of arterial red!"

  It was only then, as the Right Head gestured, that both pairs of golden eyes fell upon the disheveled human picking thorns out of his tunic. The dragon butler froze.

  "A... human?" the Right Head whispered, his voice full of disbelief.

  The Left Head's eyes widened in dawning horror. "In the prize bush?!"

  Then both heads inhaled in a horrifying, synchronous gasp. "HUMAN!"

  Twin jets of violet fire erupted from their mouths, not at Zac, but straight up into the air like a distress flare of pure panic. Zac, startled from his daydream, yelped and scrambled further into the foliage.

  Nock, ever the dramatic hero, saw his chance. With a cry of "Have no fear, little one!", he vaulted over the brawling Skarg and Andras, landing in a perfect three-point stance between Zac and the now-panicked butler, shielding him with his own body.

  Skarg, however, had had enough. With a final roar of frustration, he shoved both Nock and Andras aside. "That's it! I'm done!" He stomped over, reached into the thorn bush, and hoisted Zac out by his collar, completely ignoring the thorns that scraped his tough hide. "I left a perfectly good crypt fucking naked to drag this asset here! He is MY find and MINE to commend! All of you cunts can fuck right off!"

  He turned and barged through the open doorway, carrying a dangling and slightly bleeding Zac with him.

  Bune, finally snapping out of his panic trotted after them, his tails lashing in agitation.

  "Halt! Halt at once!" cried the Left Head. "The Captain is in a delicate strategic session!"

  "He's out right now, you mean!" countered the Right Head. "If you damage anything i'll use your antler velvet to polish the silverwhere!"

  Zac's perspective was a jarring, upside-down view of polished obsidian floors and soaring archways as Skarg stormed into the keep. He was held aloft in the wendigo's grip as easily as a sack of potatoes. The sheer, effortless strength was terrifying... or it should have been. Instead, Zac's traitorous mind was busy cataloging the way Skarg's biceps bulged, the power evident in his every stride. The lack of fear, he realized with a jolt, was going to get him killed. Or worse. A small, inconvenient part of him didn't seem to mind the 'or worse' part.

  "He is my responsibility!" Skarg bellowed, his voice echoing in the vast space as he started up a grand staircase that seemed carved from a single, colossal bone. The interior of the castle was austere and imposing, lit by glowing silver braziers that cast stark shadows on captured angelic banners hanging like mournful tapestries.

  "Your responsibility ended when you lost him to me, you brute!" Nock's armored boots rang on the stairs behind them.

  Bune, trotting to keep up, his clipboard now in hand, finally got a clear look at the glowing crimson rune on Zac's lower back. Both of the butler's heads blinked.

  "Wait!" the Right Head called out, a note of dawning comprehension in his voice. "That mark... is that the President's Seal?"

  "Of course it is, you glorified lizard!" Skarg roared over his shoulder. "Now get out of my way!"

  "But that changes the logistics entirely!" the Left Head insisted, already scribbling furiously. "Asset acquisition forms will need to be triple-signed! He requires a full security detail! And a dietary plan! Does anyone know if he has allergies?"

  At the top of the stairs stood double doors of petrified wood. Skarg, ignoring everyone, kicked them open so hard they embedded in the stone walls.

  And there, lounged in the Captain's high-backed throne, was an eagle.

  A harpy eagle man, to be precise, and the first word that popped into Zac's mind was 'dense.' He was packed with the thick, functional muscle of a soldier who lived in the gym. His ranger leathers were stretched taut across a chest and shoulders that seemed impossibly broad for a creature meant for flight. 'Pecs on a bird,' Zac's mind boggled. 'Holy shit. That's a thing. And it is a very, very good thing.'

  His face was streaked with fresh camo paint, and his golden eyes were bright with a cocky, challenging light. A massive crossbow was slung across his back. This wasn't a knight or a rogue; this was a special forces operator, a demonic Rambo.

  "What are you doing here, Halphas," Skarg growled. "Shouldn't you be out flying around and stocking your nests or something."

  "Waiting," the eagle replied, his voice rough. "Word travels fast when a new recruit drops out of the sky." He flashed a talon in a lazy salute. "Name's Halphas. Earl of Violence. Looks like you're the FNG, Fucking New Guy."

  He kicked his feet off the desk and stood. "Alright, you lot can fall out. I'll take charge of the recruit, get him debriefed and squared away."

  Skarg finally set Zac down, planting himself between Zac and the eagle. "You'll do nothing, bird-brain. I'm turning him over to the Captain."

  "That's not how the chain of command works, herbivore," Halphas smirked.

  The air crackled with tension. Andras, ever the agent of chaos, stepped forward with a charming smile. "Now, now, lads. How about a little game? First one to lay a hand on the little avatar gets to keep him until the Captain returns." He didn't wait for an answer. "Ready? Three... two... one... Go."

  Andras then took two steps back, leaned against the doorframe, and calmly lit a cigarillo, a spectator at the chaos he had just unleashed.

  For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Skarg lunged.

  Zac yelped and dove sideways. A crossbow bolt slammed into the floor, blocking Skarg's path. The room exploded. Nock drew his longsword, placing himself dramatically in front of Zac. "Have no fear, sweet Zachary! I shall be your shield!"

  "Get out of my way!" Skarg roared, clashing with Nock. "You have the manners of a beast and the soul of a love-sick poet, Furfur!" Nock taunted.

  Skarg's roar of fury at the name was so profound it shook the very foundations of the castle. While they were occupied, Halphas took aim again. Zac scrambled behind a large, ornate desk as a bolt shattered a priceless-looking vase.

  Bune's heads were in a full-blown panic. "Not the Ming Dynasty Soul-Urn! That's irreplaceable!" the Left Head shrieked.

  "The floor! The drapes! The bookshelf!" wailed the Right Head as Skarg body-slammed Nock into it, sending books flying.

  The chaos was reaching its peak. Bune, watching his master's sanctum get systematically destroyed, began to tremble. A low growl emanated from his chest, a sound deeper and more guttural than either of his heads could produce.

  "That's... quite... enough," the two heads stammered in unison as Bune's body began to contort, his tailcoat ripping at the seams as his frame swelled. The scales on his back cracked and split, and a ridge of jagged bone erupted along his spine.

  "THAT IS A TWELFTH-CENTURY DEMONIC WEAVE!" both heads roared as the tapestry was torn. "WE HAVE HAD ENOUGH!"

  With a wet, tearing sound, a third head erupted from between his shoulders. It was a dragon's head, but a degenerate, brutish version of the other two. Its scales were rough, its horns broken, and its snout was blunt and canine, lined with jagged teeth. It slobbered acidic drool that sizzled on the priceless rug.

  "SHUT YOUR FUCKING CAKE-HOLES!" the new head bellowed, its voice a vulgar atrocity. It glared at the fighting lieutenants, its red eyes burning with manic rage. "YOU! LION BOY! YOU SWOON AGAIN AND I'M GONNA MAKE YOU DECALW YOURSELF BY HAND!"

  It then swiveled to Skarg. "AND YOU, DEER-ON-STEROIDS! YOU BREAK ONE MORE PIECE OF FURNITURE, AND I'LL TURN YOUR ANTLERS INTO A FUCKING HAT-RACK... AND FUCK YOU WITH IT!"

  The fight shuddered to a halt. All four lieutenants stared at the transformed, three-headed Bune. The third head panted, its gaze promising horrific, unsanitary violence. It was into this sudden, terrified silence that the main doors, already hanging crooked on their hinges, were blasted inward into a shower of bone-dust and splinters.

  A grey wolf stepped through the haze, he was tall, broader in the shoulder than even Nock, and moved with a silence that was more terrifying than any roar. He wore a high-collared black greatcoat, stitched from what looked like midnight and old battle flags, the silver embroidery on the chest like claw marks made of starlight. It was unbuttoned, revealing a simple black tunic underneath, and a crimson sash was cinched at his waist, a longsword with a wolf-head pommel hanging at his hip.

  His fur was the color of a gathering storm, iron-grey shot through with threads of black and silver. And he had a beard. It wasn't long, but it was thick and neatly cropped, framing a muzzle that looked like it had been carved from granite, scarred and stern. How a wolf had a beard, Zac's brain didn't know and didn't care; it was just profoundly, unfairly hot.

  But it was his eyes that held Zac captive. They were the color of ancient amber, and they held the weariness of a thousand campaigns, the sharp intelligence of a master strategist, and a deep, bottomless well of sorrow.

  Zac felt his heart, his real, lustfilled, human heart, give a powerful, frantic thud. The caged fear remained silent, but this... this was something else entirely. This was awe, the WOLF... the WDILF.

  The lieutenants snapped to attention so fast it was almost comical. Skarg looked like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Halphas had the decency to look slightly sheepish. Andras, for the first time, lost his smirk. Bune's third head gave a final, wet snarl before retracting back into his body with a grotesque squelching sound, leaving the two remaining heads looking flustered and mortified, his butler's coat now in tatters.

  Bune was the first to speak, his two heads stammering in unison. "Captain Marchosias! Sir! My deepest apologies for the... disturbance. These... these idiots will be disciplined, but the human-"

  "My paladin hunt," Marchosias said, his voice a low, deadly rumble that vibrated in Zac's very soul, "was called off because of a priority alert. I was told my new, vital strategic avatar had arrived."

  His gaze swept over the scene: the trashed office, the splintered furniture, his brawling lieutenants, his butler having a psychotic episode, and finally, the small human huddled behind his ruined desk.

  "Explain to me," he growled, his hand resting on the pommel of his longsword, "how this... is a priority."

  "He is the one, Captain!" Bune's Right Head insisted, pointing a claw at Zac. "He bears the President's Seal!"

  Marchosias's gaze sharpened, his eyes locking onto Zac with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.

  "Out," he said, the single word carrying the weight of a death sentence. "All of you."

  The lieutenants, who moments before had been ready to murder each other, practically tripped over themselves to exit. Nock gave a final, formal bow. Halphas just nodded curtly. Andras offered a lazy salute. Bune scurried out, already muttering about damages. But Skarg hesitated at the door.

  He turned back, his jaw set stubbornly. "Captain. I found him. In my own territory. I brought him in." He thumped his chest with a massive fist. "The commendation for securing Ose's chosen is mine."

  Marchosias didn't even look at him. His amber eyes were still fixed on Zac. "You are naked, Skarg."

  Skarg's ears flattened. "That's not the point! This is important! We haven't had direct word from the President in over a month, and then this one just appears out of nowhere! It means something."

  Marchosias finally turned his head, just enough to pin the wendigo with a cold, dismissive glare. "Your observations are noted. Now it is none of your concern, Furfur. I will discuss the matter with the avatar."

  The name hit Skarg like a physical blow. A low, wounded growl rumbled in his chest, but the fight went out of him. He gave Zac one last, long, possessive look before turning and stalking out of the room. The ruined doors slammed shut behind him.

  The silence that descended was thick enough to choke on. It was just Zac and the wolf.

  The Captain of the Broken Antler warband, the weary wolf with the impossibly hot beard, turned his full, undivided attention to Zac. And Zac, for his part, could do nothing but stare back, his mind a blank slate, his newly-pacified heart now hammering out a frantic, unfamiliar rhythm against his ribs.

  The silence stretched, heavy and absolute. Marchosias walked over to his desk, nudging a shattered decanter aside with the toe of his boot. He moved with a quiet, deliberate grace that spoke of immense power held in perfect check. He righted his heavy, high-backed chair, the legs scraping loudly on the stone, before sinking into it with a weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.

  He steepled his fingers, his massive, claw-tipped hands looking strangely elegant. He stared at Zac, his amber eyes analytical, searching. For a long moment, he didn't speak, simply observing. Zac felt like a strange new specimen under a microscope.

  "The President's Seal," Marchosias said finally, his voice a low rumble. "And the power of Deception itself. Ose has not granted such a gift in a millennium." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "He must have great expectations for you. Tell me, little avatar... do you even know the nature of the weapon you now wield?"

  Zac, still feeling the phantom thrill of his heart's frantic rhythm, pushed back against the wave of intimidation. "He said my lies would ring true. I'm guessing it's some kind of super-charisma?"

  Marchosias offered the barest hint of a smile, a slight twitch of the scarred muzzle. "It is more than that. You do not merely make others believe a lie. You weave the lie into the fabric of the moment. For a time, your words become a kind of truth, at least, for the person you've lied to. A powerful, and exceptionally dangerous, tool." His gaze sharpened. "And the calm... the stillness in your heart. You feel it, yes?"

  "I'm not scared, if that's what you mean," Zac admitted. "It's... weird."

  "It appears Ose thought it a necessary shield." He sounded less like a general and more like a weary scholar. The sympathy Zac had glimpsed earlier was back, a softness in his tired eyes. "Ose has made you a perfect instrument of deceit. I wonder to what end."

  Zac found himself relaxing, just a fraction. This wasn't the ruthless dictator he'd expected. This was someone thoughtful, intelligent. And tragically, devastatingly handsome in a wolfman kind of way. He let his gaze wander from the intelligent eyes to the strong line of his jaw, the way the black coat framed his powerful shoulders...

  "Is there something on my face?" Marchosias asked, his voice laced with a dry, unexpected amusement.

  Zac's face flushed hot. "Just... want to remember who's in charge, sir." The lie was smooth and nearly automatic but he felt something cold on his tongue as it passed.

  A low chuckle, rumbled from the wolf's chest. He rubbed a hand over his face, a gesture of profound exhaustion. He seemed to find Zac's presence... disarming. A strange novelty in a life of brutal routine. It was in that moment, as his guard lowered, that he seemed almost sweet. A gruff, tired, but fundamentally decent man burdened by command.

  "The chaos you've brought," Marchosias murmured, more to himself than to Zac, "it is... a complication."

  It was then that he reached out and rang a small, ornate silver bell on his desk. The chime was unnaturally clear. An impish creature with skin like cracked leather immediately scurried into the room, bowing low.

  "The paladin prisoners from the morning's skirmish," Marchosias said, his voice suddenly flat, all traces of warmth gone. "Execute them. Have the quartermaster process the meat for the troops' evening rations. Their souls are to be rendered for the forge. We are running low on holy temper."

  "Yes, Captain!" the imp squeaked, and vanished.

  Zac's stomach turned to ice. The sweet, tired wolf was gone. The ruthless monster was back. He had almost forgotten. He had let the handsome face and the weary eyes fool him. They were demons. All of them. And he was in Hell.

  Marchosias seemed not to notice Zac's internal crisis. The order given, he slumped slightly in his chair, the brief flicker of energy he'd shown now gone, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. He gestured vaguely toward the door. "The maids will see to your quarters. You will be tested and you will be utilized. While you are under my roof, you are my asset. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Captain," Zac said, his voice hollow.

  "Good." Marchosias picked up a pen, trying to focus on a map, but his movements were slow, sluggish even. His head began to droop before the demonic house keepers could lead Zac off. The massive wolf caught himself once, twice, but the battle was lost. His head dropped onto one massive forearm with a soft thump. He was asleep.

  Zac stood there for a long time, his mind reeling from the whiplash. The handsome, thoughtful commander. The casual, brutal butcher. The exhausted man, asleep at his desk. They were all the same person.

  The heavy door was a wreck, but the iron bolt was still visible. He heard someone, probably the maids, slide it home from the outside after a brief, horrified assessment of the damage. He was locked in. With the Captain.

  He was bone-tired. He tiptoed over to the couch against the wall, its worn leather looking like a slice of heaven. He carefully lay down, the cushions sighing as they took his weight. He curled on his side, watching the sleeping wolf.

  'This is insane,' he thought, his head spinning. One day in this place and he'd already mentally undressed a caribou, a lion, an owl, an eagle, and now a wolf. A two-headed dragon was waiting in the wings. His libido was apparently the one part of him that had died and gone to heaven. He couldn't wait to get his own room, lock the door, and have a very long, very thorough... debriefing....

  No wonder he'd ended up here.

  His last coherent thought before sleep took him, as he listened to the quiet, rumbly snores from the desk: 'This is going to be the best afterlife ever.'

  -

  The dream came in hard and fast, like a blizzard that forgot to knock.

  Whiteout. Ice in his lungs. Snow up to his knees and climbing.

  A bellow rolled across the tundra and Zac looked up.

  Skarg stood thirty yards away, monstrous, beautiful, antlers crusted with frost, breath steaming like dragon fire. His eyes glowed arctic blue.

  "Run, little fool," the wendigo rumbled, voice echoing inside Zac's ribs. "If you want to be chased."

  Zac's grin was all teeth. Hell yes he wanted to be chased... and for what came after the chase... he had read that kind of story countless times.

  He bolted.

  The snow barely slowed him (dream physics were kind). Wind screamed past his ears. Behind him, hooves thundered, closing the gap with terrifying speed.

  Then arms like frozen steel bands wrapped around his waist and lifted him clean off the ground. Skarg's body was a furnace against his back, fur coarse and perfect, heartbeat pounding through both of them.

  Zac melted into it, tilting his head back against a broad chest. "Hey, handsome."

  Skarg stared down at him, intense, almost confused. The stare dragged on. Zac's pulse fluttered. He tried to play it cool, but those eyes were stripping him down to the soul.

  Skarg blinked. Shook his head like he was waking up.

  Then he dipped his muzzle for a kiss-

  A polite cough rang though the storm and Nock stepped out of the blizzard in full dress armor, holding a bouquet of black roses the size of dinner plates. "Unhand him, you oaf. The avatar deserves courtship, not caveman tactics."

  Before Skarg could snarl, Andras melted out of the shadows of snowflakes, plucked a single rose, and twirled it between his talons. "Amateurs... Why are you so enthralled with this human."

  Bune's twin heads materialized next, both holding clipboards. "I propose we decide what order we we take!"

  Halphas dropped from the sky like a meteor, wings flaring, laughing his ass off. "Fuck your alphabet, I called shotgun!"

  Zac, still dangling in Skarg's arms, raised both hands. "Guys, guys, single file, there's plenty of-"

  "THAT'S ENOUGH."

  The blizzard froze mid-snowflake.

  March stood in the center of the storm, coat whipping around him like a living shadow, eyes blazing gold. One clawed hand pointed at Zac.

  "Mine."

  The dream cracked like thin ice.