FSE

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Why are the Demons HOT?

Chapter 1

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 wasn't a howl; 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 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.

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 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, unadulterated 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.

“Waiting,” Halphas said, his voice rough as gravel and twice as hot. “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! PRETTY BOY! YOU SCRATCH THAT ARMOR AGAIN, I'M GONNA SHOVE IT SO FAR UP YOUR ARSE YOU'LL BE SHITTING SWORDS FOR A WEEK!”

It then swiveled to Skarg. “AND YOU, DEER-ON-STEROIDS! YOU BREAK ONE MORE PIECE OF FURNITURE, AND I'LL USE YOUR ANTLERS AS 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 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 snarled, 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 is a necessary shield. To tell a convincing lie, one’s own heart cannot betray their fear.” 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. 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, automatic.

A low chuckle, like rocks tumbling in a deep cave, 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. His head began to droop. He 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 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-worst 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 dragonfire. 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 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, plucked a single rose, and twirled it between his talons. “Amateurs. Seduction is an art.”

Bune’s twin heads materialized next, both holding clipboards. “Consent forms first! Then line up alphabetically!”

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 the entire pack.

“Mine.”

The dream cracked like thin ice.

Chapter 2

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.

“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 snarled.

“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 in 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.”

Chapter 3

Marchosias didn’t wait for Zac to dismount the headless horse. He simply turned on his heel, his cape of tattered grey fur swirling, and strode out of the stables.

"Bune!" he barked over his shoulder, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Assemble those fucking animals who destroyed my office. I want a full war council in ten minutes."

Bune, who was currently trying to herd the warg back into its pen while simultaneously directing spectral stable hands to clean up the blood, looked up in panic. "Ten minutes? Captain, that's hardly enough time to-"

Marchosias stopped. He didn't turn around. He just inhaled deeply and let out a howl. It wasn't the summon-the-pack howl from the courtyard. This was a short, sharp, auditory slap in the face. " NOW!"

Bune yelped. "Right! Yes! Immediately!" Both heads began shouting orders at once, necromantic energy flaring as he summoned messenger spirits to hunt down the lieutenants.

Zac scrambled off the dead bicorn, his boots slipping in the gore, and jogged to catch up with the Captain’s long, purposeful strides. As they passed a corridor, a pack of imps hurried by in the other direction, arguing loudly.

“I’m telling you, ‘waffles’ are a type of shield!”

“No, you idiot, it’s a torture device!”

Zac ignored them, falling into step beside Marchosias. "Uh, Captain? Sir? What exactly is happening? Why the lockdown?"

Marchosias stopped abruptly, turning to look down at Zac. For a moment, the hunger in his amber eyes was undisguised, a raw, predatory intensity that made Zac’s breath hitch. Then the mask of command slid back into place.

"You," the wolf snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "You cost me three Bicorns."

Zac stumbled, nearly tripping over his own robes. "What? Wait, what does that mean? I didn't do anything! They just... exploded. Or died. That wasn't me!"

Marchosias didn't answer. He turned and continued his march toward the main hall. As they entered the cavernous foyer, he stopped again, his ears swiveling forward. He lifted his muzzle, sniffing the air, his nostrils flaring.

"Andras," he rumbled, his voice echoing in the vast, empty space. "Stop hiding, you shadowy fuck."

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, a shadow by the base of the grand staircase seemed to detach itself from the wall. Andras stepped into the light, leaning casually against the banister, cleaning his talons with the tip of a dagger. A smirk played on his beak.

"Oh, Captain," the owlman drawled, his golden eyes twinkling. "I wasn't hiding. Just... relaxing in the shade. Enjoying the ambiance."

Marchosias growled, a sound like grinding stones. He didn't look at Andras. Instead, he gestured sharply to the seemingly empty space of floor directly in front of the stairs.

Andras blinked, feigning innocence. "What?"

Marchosias stared straight at the owl, his gaze unblinking. Without breaking eye contact, he unhooked his heavy, black-iron helmet from his belt and tossed it underhand.

The helmet sailed through the air in a lazy arc. It landed on the exact spot Marchosias had indicated with a heavy clang.

Snap.

A tripwire, invisible to the naked eye, parted. High above, there was a groan of stressed metal.

The massive, crystal chandelier that dominated the foyer, a monstrosity of twisted iron and screaming souls, detached from the ceiling.

It fell.

It smashed into the floor with the force of a meteor, obliterating the helmet and sending a tidal wave of crystal shrapnel and twisted metal exploding outward. The sound was deafening, a cacophony of breaking glass and released souls shrieking as they dissipated.

Zac stood frozen as shards of crystal flew past him, glittering like deadly confetti. One particularly large piece whizzed by his ear, taking a lock of hair with it. He blinked.

‘Huh,’ he thought, watching the dust settle. ‘Probably should have covered my face. Stupid fear resist.’

Bune, who had just entered the hall behind them, let out a synchronized roar of outrage.

"THE CHANDELIER!" both heads screamed. "THAT WAS ORIGINAL ARCHITECTURE! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LONG IT TAKES TO TUNE THE SCREAMS ON THOSE SOULS?!"

Andras looked at the pile of wreckage where, moments ago, anyone walking up the stairs would have been standing. He whistled low. "Well. That was... structurally unsound."

Marchosias ignored the butler’s wailing. He looked at Andras with cold satisfaction. "War room. Now. Before I decide to test the structural integrity of your neck."

Andras chuckled, a low, smoky sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once. He stepped backward, melting into the shadow of the staircase. "See you there, Cap."

Zac watched, fascinated, as the owl's large, yellow eyes blinked once in the darkness, glowing like twin moons, and then simply… vanished. There was no sound of movement, no rustle of feathers. Just presence, then absence.

Marchosias growled low in his throat and resumed his walk, stepping around the twisted wreckage of the chandelier as if it were a minor inconvenience, like a puddle on the sidewalk. Zac looked from the shattered crystal to the empty shadow, then back to the retreating wolf, before scampering to catch up.

Behind them, Bune was having a meltdown of epic proportions. "Shade team six! Get the spectral brooms! Imp squad four, find the soul-shards before they dissipate! If I find one piece of crystal in the carpet, I am feeding you to the furnace!" The butler was frantically multitasking, summoning spirits with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other as he hurried to follow his master.

"So," Zac said, falling into step beside the Captain and carefully stepping over a jagged piece of iron. "Does that happen often? The whole… Looney Tunes trap attempting to crush us thing?"

"Andras is an instigator," Marchosias said flatly, his gaze fixed forward. "He sows discord. It is his nature. He tests the defenses. He tests patience. He tests… everything."

Zac raised an eyebrow. ‘Instigator,’ he thought. ‘That’s a polite way of saying attempted murderer.’ Dropping a thousand-pound pile of screaming crystal and iron onto someone wasn't exactly starting a fight; it was ending a bloodline.

He sighed, his mind drifting back to the owlman’s smirk and the way he melted into the dark. ‘Still hot though,’ he admitted to himself with a shameful lack of self-preservation. ‘Maybe someday I’ll get caught in one of his snares. Just hanging upside down while he instigates me all over…’

He adjusted his robes, giving a silent prayer of thanks to whatever dark god of fashion had designed them. Loose, flowy, non-restrictive. Perfect for hiding the sudden, inconvenient biological reactions to his near-death experiences.

Marchosias approached a set of massive steel doors at the end of the hall. They were unadorned, stark and cold, radiating a sense of serious business. He didn’t bother with handles; he simply placed a palm on the metal and shoved. The doors swung open silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing the nerve center of the warband.

The war room was the beating heart of Marchosias's command, and it looked exactly like the interior of the wolf’s mind: austere, imposing, and meticulously organized.

A massive table of dark, polished wood dominated the center, its surface a vast, magical relief map of the celestial front. Tiny, glowing markers in red and blue shifted in real-time, representing troop movements. High-backed chairs of black iron and leather surrounded it, each looking like a throne. The walls were lined with racks of weapons, not decorative, but functional, sharpened and ready, and shelves overflowing with scrolls and tactical treatises. The lighting was low, provided by crimson globe-lamps that bathed the room in the color of dried blood. It was a room built for serious men to make decisions about who lived and who died.

Zac immediately began treating it like a museum gift shop.

He wandered over to a side table, picking up a jagged obsidian dagger. “Cool letter opener,” he muttered, testing the edge against his thumb.

“Please do not touch that, Avatar,” Bune hissed, appearing at his elbow and gently but firmly removing the weapon. “That is a ritual sacrifice blade. It stains terribly.”

Zac shrugged and moved to the main table, poking at a cluster of blue lights on the map.

“Avatar!” Bune’s Left Head scolded. “Do not move those! You’ll ruin the troop positions! Do you want the Third Legion to march into a volcano?”

“Maybe?” Zac said, picking up a stack of parchment.

“Those are casualty reports!” the Right Head wailed. “Don’t shuffle them! They’re chronological by agony!”

Marchosias ignored the chaos, stalking to the head of the table. He threw himself into his chair, his fingers drumming a rapid, agitated staccato on the wood. He glared at the empty seats. “Where are they?” he snarled.

Zac looked up from spinning a large, floating globe of the world. “Uh, it’s only been like three minutes, Captain.”

“I told them to be here in ten,” Marchosias barked, his eyes narrowing.

“Right,” Zac said slowly, stopping the globe with a finger. “And three is less than ten. Math checks out.”

“I expect my officers to be ten minutes early to every meeting,” Marchosias snapped, looking furious at the concept of linear time. He slumped back, clearly stewing.

Zac opened his mouth to point out that this made absolutely no sense, but the steel doors swung open with a heavy whoosh.

Halphas strutted in, and Zac’s brain promptly forgot how to do math, logic, or basic sentence structure.

The harpy eagle had changed out of his field leathers. He was now wearing a dress uniform that looked suspiciously like something from a World War II newsreel, crisp, grey, and tailored to within an inch of its life. The fabric struggled heroically to contain him. His chest and shoulders were so broad the buttons looked like they were holding on by sheer willpower and a prayer. His biceps bulged against the sleeves, threatening to tear the seams with every movement.

‘Oh god,’ Zac thought, fumbling the globe which bobbled dangerously. ‘Military eagle daddy. Please tell me that’s not a German uniform… actually, never mind, I don’t care. I have no morals. I am a bad person. Take me to the brig.’

“Sorry I’m late, Captain,” Halphas said, his voice a gravelly drawl. He flashed a grin at Zac, a predator’s smile that was all beak and confidence, and casually flexed his pecs, causing the fabric of his uniform to strain audibly. “Got here as soon as the courier spirit dropped the new orders. Had to make myself presentable.”

He sauntered to a chair on Marchosias’s right and dropped into it, spreading his wings over the backrest and kicking his boots up onto the edge of the table.

Marchosias glared at the boots. “Get your feet off my tactical map, Halphas.”

“Relax, Cap,” Halphas chuckled, removing his feet but not looking the least bit chastised. “Just keeping the troops on their toes.”

Zac let out a giggle that was only partially faked. “Funny and buff? Save some stats for the rest of us.”

Halphas laughed, a sharp, bird-like bark. “You’re a wild one, aren’t you, Avatar? I like that.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on a fist, his golden eyes raking over Zac. “Now that the Cap’s had his turn with the new toy, maybe you and I can have some fun after the meeting. I could show you my… arsenal.”

“ Halphas. ” Marchosias’s voice was a whip-crack in the quiet room.

The eagle stiffened instantly, the playful smirk vanishing. He sat up straight, wings snapping tight against his back. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Marchosias let out a breath that was more growl than sigh. “This meeting,” the wolf said, looking pained, “concerns the Avatar. He… he is…”

The steel doors crashed open again, cutting him off. Skarg and Nock burst into the room, already mid-argument, their voices a wall of noise.

“-absolutely unacceptable behavior for an officer!” Nock was shouting. The lion looked magnificent, a perfect fusion of Aslan and King Arthur. His armor had been polished to a blinding sheen, his crimson cape flowed like liquid royalty, and his mane was braided with fresh silver rings. He radiated nobility and expensive cologne.

“I wear what I want in my own damn crypt!” Skarg roared back. The wendigo was a stark contrast, wild, primal, and nearly naked. He wore only a loincloth made of rough, dark leather that did very little to hide the impressive bulge beneath. His fur was matted with frost, and his antlers scraped the top of the doorframe.

“This is a war council with the Captain!” Nock sneered, gesturing at Skarg’s lack of attire. “And that is what you decide to wear? You look like you just crawled out of a swamp.”

“I keep getting interrupted while I’m fucking!” Skarg bellowed, slamming a fist into his palm. “First the avatar, now this! A demon has needs!”

Zac had to sit down. His knees had simply given up. He didn’t know where to look. To his left was the shining, regal lion who promised romance and power. To his right was the massive, nearly naked caribou who radiated raw, untamed lust. His brain short-circuited, opting for the diplomatic solution: ‘Both. Both is good. Both jumping on me at the same time would be… acceptable. Highly acceptable.’

“ Stop your bitching! ” Marchosias barked, slamming his hand onto the table. The sound echoed like a gunshot. “Take your seats. Now.”

The caribou and lion snarled at each other one last time, a final exchange of hate before compliance. Skarg stalked past the table, but instead of sitting, he veered toward Zac. He loomed over the chair, inhaling deeply, his nostrils flaring as he took in Zac’s scent.

“You,” Skarg rumbled, leaning down until his face was inches from Zac’s. His icy blue eyes bore into him. “You are lucky the Captain kept you last night. If I had taken you to my den… you would not be walking right now.”

Zac swallowed, his mouth dry. “Is… is that a promise?”

Nock shoved Skarg aside with a clatter of armor. “Step back, brute. You’ll frighten him.” He offered Zac a dazzling, reassuring smile. “Of course the Avatar wants me. Who would choose a base ruffian when they could have a knight?”

“He wants a real man, not a tin can!” Skarg roared, grabbing Nock by the breastplate.

In seconds, they were wrestling, crashing into the side of the war table. Maps slid to the floor.

“Stop! Stop it this instant!” Bune shrieked, rushing over and trying to pull the two behemoths apart with all four hands. “You’re wrinkling the topographic overlays! Do you know how hard it is to iron a mountain range?!”

Marchosias groaned, burying his face in his hands. He looked like he was questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment. He peeked through his fingers, scanning the room.

“Where is Andras?” he growled, his voice tight with suppressed rage. “He should have been the first one here.”

Zac blinked, and there was Andras.

The owlman materialized from the shadow behind Marchosias’s chair as if he’d always been there. He was already smoking a fresh cigarillo, a gentle, smoky laugh escaping his beak. “Those fools,” Andras murmured, shaking his head. “Getting all worked up over one little human.” His large, golden eyes drifted to Zac and lingered for a few seconds too long, a heat in them that belied his dismissive words. “Well, what’s the meeting for, Cap? I could be doing so many other important things right now. There’s a card game in the barracks I’m currently winning.”

Marchosias ground his teeth, the sound audible in the room. “ Everyone. Sit down. And shut the fuck up. ”

The command was absolute. Skarg released Nock instantly. Bune scuttled back to his corner. Halphas dropped his feet from the table. Even Andras slid into a chair with uncharacteristic obedience.

Marchosias remained standing, leaning over the table, his knuckles white. His eyes were hard, scanning each of his lieutenants. “None of the other high-ranking demons have interacted with the Avatar yet, have they?”

Skarg growled, crossing his massive arms. “I told you, I brought him to you as fast as I could. These idiots just slowed me down.”

Nock laughed deeply, smoothing his ruffled mane. “Stupid deer. The Avatar was dying of disgust with you. I saved him and brought him here on my horse. A far more noble arrival.”

Andras blew out a perfect smoke ring. “You idiots had a chase right through the Pit for everyone to see. I plucked that fragile little thing up and got him to the keep safely. Shadow travel is discreet.”

The group began to argue again, voices rising, but Marchosias slammed a fist onto the table. “I don’t give a fuck about that! Just tell me, did Shax or Gamigin catch wind of this?”

The demons looked at each other, confused by the Captain’s intensity.

Marchosias continued, his voice tight. “Please tell me Amdusias doesn’t know.”

Skarg sneered. “Why? You want to keep this little whore as your personal knot-holder? Afraid we’ll spoil him?”

Marchosias stood up fully, his chair screeching backward across the stone. He took a breath, and when he spoke, his voice changed. It wasn't the gravelly growl of a commander anymore. It became smooth, melodic, and horrifyingly beautiful. It resonated with a power that felt like gravity itself.

“ I compel you, ” the voice washed over the room like a wave of pure energy, “ tell me who else you have told. ”

Zac felt the words vibrate in his chest, a compulsion to speak the truth so strong it was dizzying.

Bune sat up straight, his heads snapping to attention.

Left Head: “He has been in the keep the whole time!”

Right Head: “I haven't spoken to a soul outside the staff!”

Marchosias nodded once.

Halphas rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “Been busy on supply runs. Basically forgot that little human existed… well, I might have thought about how he might look down in the trenches, getting a little dirty. But I’ve told not a soul.”

Nock held a hand up dramatically, his eyes glazed. “The Avatar… his gentle aesthetic would be tarnished with more suitors. He will quickly learn that there is none better to feed grapes to than I. My secret to keep.”

Marchosias rolled his eyes but accepted the answer.

Andras hissed, stubbing out his smoke with unnecessary force. “I only told Goremaw. And I hate when you use the fucking Voice.”

“Too bad,” Marchosias snapped, his own voice returning to normal. “This is important.”

Finally, they all looked at Skarg. The wendigo was grinding his teeth, sweat beading on his brow, shifting in his seat as he fought the compulsion.

“Skarg,” Marchosias said.

The caribou grunted, the words fighting their way out. “I told… all the whores I’ve been fucking…” He made a strangled noise, grabbing his own throat as the lie turned to ash in his mouth.

Marchosias sighed. “Every time, Furfur. You have to fight it? Just speak.”

Skarg bellowed, slamming his fists onto the table. “ FINE! I was alone last night jerking off and that little human interrupted me! Fuck! I haven’t told anyone! ”

Marchosias nodded, satisfied. “Thank you, Skarg.”

Skarg stewed in his seat, radiating humiliation. Nock laughed, a cruel, musical sound. “Why lie about whores, brute? If you’re going to make something up, you should have said some young virgin maiden came down to pleasure you. At least that would be a classic fantasy.”

The table erupted in laughter. Even Bune hid a snicker behind a clawed hand.

“A virgin? Down here?” Andras wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. “Good luck with that.”

“Like they would fall for any of you ruffians anyway,” Bune added.

Halphas laughed, leaning back. “You all wouldn’t know a virgin unless they had a chastity belt on with a user manual.”

“Like you would either!” Nock declared, standing to make a speech. “Even if it has been thousands of years, I would never forget that purity! Oh, to defile something so holy… it would be the highlight of this war.”

Skarg chuckled darkly. “No virgin wants you, you pompous pussy. They want to be claimed. They want to pretend they don’t want it.”

Andras nodded sagely. “They want a bone and then to be alone, just like anyone else. Cynicism is universal.”

Halphas elbowed Andras. “Just because you leave them unsatisfied doesn’t mean the rest of us do.”

Nock scoffed. “Romance is what everyone wants! To lay siege to their heart so their innards are ready for the walls to come down!”

“ Quiet! ” Marchosias yelled, cutting off the barrage of unwitting irony.

Zac sat there, eyes wide, a frown on his face.

Marchosias stood tall at the head of the table, his amber eyes glowing with the remnants of his Compelling Voice. “What passes in this room,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument, “stays in this room. I am enacting a Level One security protocol. Total silence. Understood?”

The lieutenants grumbled, shifting in their seats, but they nodded.

“Understood,” Andras muttered.

“Aye,” Skarg grunted.

“Upon my honor,” Nock said.

“Copy that,” Halphas agreed.

Marchosias began to pace, his boots heavy on the stone floor. “Secrecy is the bedrock of victory,” he lectured, his voice taking on the cadence of a professor of war. “Not only hiding our movements from the enemy, but compartmentalizing information within our own ranks. To ensure that a plan unfolds without interference, the truth must be guarded like a flame in a storm.”

“Oh, get on with it, Cap!” Halphas groaned, throwing his head back. “We get it. Loose lips sink ships. What’s the big secret?”

Marchosias stopped pacing. He turned to face them. “The Avatar was rejected by the Bicorns.”

Skarg let out a harsh bark of laughter. “So what? A skittish mount isn’t anything to call a war council for. The little runt probably smells weird. Just give him Nock’s horse. It’s practically a sofa with legs anyway.”

“Sir Hoofington is a noble steed!” Nock protested, affronted. “I would of course be willing to ferry the avatar wherever he needs to be!”

“Not just one Bicorn,” Marchosias snarled, cutting through the bickering. “Three. Three war-beasts, bred for slaughter and sin, rejected him violently.”

The men laughed again, a raucous, mocking sound. “The Avatar has already cost you three war horses?” Andras chuckled. “That’s an expensive morning, even for you.”

Marchosias slammed his hand on the table. “ Three Bicorns! Do you idiots not know what this means?! ”

The laughter died. Slowly, painfully slowly, the silence crept back into the room. The realization dawned on them one by one, like dominoes falling.

Andras was the first. The cigarillo fell from his beak, forgotten. He stared at Zac, his golden eyes widening. “Fuck,” he whispered.

“Wait,” Halphas said, leaning forward, his brow furrowed. “Do you mean…”

Bune was silent, but with a wet tearing sound, his Third Head popped out of his shoulder not to scream, but simply to stare at Zac, licking its chops with a long, slobbering tongue.

Nock looked over at Zac, and for a second, Zac swore the lion’s eyes turned into giant, pulsing cartoon hearts. He looked like he was about to compose a sonnet on the spot.

Skarg was the last to stop laughing. He wiped a tear from his eye, looking down at Zac with a grin. “What? There’s no way this horny little slut is a virgin. I smelled the lust on him in the crypt!”

Zac tried to disappear into his chair, wishing he could fold himself into a pocket dimension. “No, haha,” he said, his voice pitching up an octave. “I’m totally not a virgin, guys. That’s hilarious though. Good joke.”

As he spoke, his tongue went silver. The magic of Ose coated his words, making them sound reasonable, plausible. He mentally thanked the hells for his gift.

But no one laughed.

The magic hung in the air, thin and brittle against the ancient, powerful auras of the demon lords.

Marchosias growled, a low, disappointed sound. “The deception of an Avatar won’t work on High Demons when the evidence is this stark. You are a virgin, are you not?”

“No!” Zac squeaked, trying to force the silver tongue to work again. It felt cold and heavy, useless against their collective scrutiny.

Marchosias looked angrily at the human. He took a breath, and the Voice returned, horrifying, beautiful, and irresistible.

“ Zachary, Avatar of Ose. Are you a pure virgin who has never been deflowered? ”

“ Yes! ”

The word tore itself from Zac’s throat before he could even move his hands to cover his mouth.

Silence. Absolute, heavy, suffocating silence.

Zac looked around the table. The teasing, the mockery, the casual dismissal, it was all gone.

Skarg was staring at him like a starving man looking at a banquet.

Nock looked like he had found the Holy Grail.

Andras looked like a cat that had just realized the canary cage was unlocked.

Halphas looked like he was recalculating his armaments.

Even Bune’s three heads were fixed on him with a terrifying, unified intensity.

They weren't looking at him like a toy anymore. They were looking at him with full blown, unadulterated, predatory lust.

Chapter 4

Zac sat frozen in his chair, his mind doing a victory lap while the room around him descended into a predator’s silent standoff.

‘Was this it?’ he thought, practically vibrating. ‘Did I actually win the lottery? Virginity, my lifelong curse, my badge of shame in the mortal world… is my golden ticket in Hell?’

He let his gaze wander, drinking them in. Each demon was a perfectly crafted archetype of his deepest, most questionable fantasies.

There was Skarg, the primal brute who promised to break him in half.

Nock, the gleaming Prince Charming who would sweep him off his feet.

Andras, the dangerous bad boy who would ruin his life in the best way possible.

Bune, the stern butler who would probably make the bed while they were in it.

Halphas, the cocky buff jock who knew he was sexy.

And finally… Marchosias. The No Daddy. The bearded wolf with the weight of the world on his shoulders. ‘Oh god,’ Zac thought, staring at the Captain’s ears. ‘If he used that Voice to command me… I would scratch the hell out of that spot behind his ears. I would be such a good boy.’

He was so lost in a fantasy involving Marchosias, a collar, and very specific instructions, that he didn’t notice the shift in the room. The predatory stillness broke.

Skarg moved first. It was a blur of motion, a sudden displacement of air. Zac barely had time to grunt before he was yanked from his seat, the world tilting crazily as he was tossed over a massive, furry shoulder. The cold radiating from the wendigo was intense, but Skarg’s grip was surprisingly careful.

“Mine,” Skarg rumbled, turning to bolt for the door.

Schwing.

Nock’s longsword cleared its scabbard with a song of steel. He flourished it high, the blade catching the red light of the war room. “Unhand the maiden, you beast!”

‘Maiden?’ Zac thought, dangling upside down. ‘Okay, we can workshop the title later. And please don’t fight, guys. Just form an orderly queue. Take a number. There’s plenty to go around.’

Suddenly, the world went dark for a split second. Skarg stumbled as a shadow seemed to peel itself off the floor. Andras materialized from the darkness right next to them, his hand darting out to snatch Zac from Skarg’s unsuspecting grip.

“Yoink,” the owlman said with a smirk.

Skarg roared in fury and whirled, slamming a fist into the ground. A jagged spike of ice erupted from the floor where Andras had been standing a microsecond before. Zac, caught in the handoff, dropped onto the stone floor with a yelp.

The war room spiraled into absolute chaos.

Bune, still transformed in his three-headed hydra form, roared, “YOU’RE GOING TO DAMAGE THE GOODS, YOU CRETINS!” He waded into the fray, four arms flailing, trying to peel the owl and the caribou off each other while simultaneously shielding Zac with his bulk.

Halphas was squawking directly into Marchosias’s ear, ignoring the brawl entirely. “Military protocol, sir! Rank has privileges! You wasted your night sleeping, so as Second-in-Command, I have right of first refusal! It’s in the handbook!”

Nock, ignoring the melee happening inches from his head, dropped to one knee in front of Zac. He clasped his gauntleted hands together and began to recite, his voice trembling with emotion. “Oh, pure vessel of unblemished snow! Like a lamb to the slaughter, your innocence cries out for the blade of my-”

“HEEL!”

The Voice slammed into the room like a physical shockwave. It wasn't just loud; it was command made manifest.

Every spine in the room snapped straight. Skarg froze mid-punch. Andras froze mid-stab. Nock choked on his poetry. Halphas snapped his beak shut. They all turned, compelled by an irresistible force, to face the head of the table.

Zac, also caught in the spell, found his head whipping around. He didn't mind. Being forced to look at that ruggedly handsome, furious muzzle? ‘Woof,’ he thought. ‘Yes, sir.’

“SIT.”

The demons scrambled back to their chairs like scolded puppies, though their eyes kept darting back to Zac with hungry desperation.

Marchosias stood there, chest heaving, his amber eyes blazing. He took a deep breath, visibly composing himself, letting the magical resonance fade from his voice.

“Now,” he began, his tone deadly serious. “I know this is unprecedented. The chances that Ose procured such an asset… that he was able to form a contract with a soul of this nature… it changes the entire trajectory of the war.”

The lieutenants tried to focus on their Captain. They really did. But the primal, overwhelming awareness of the human sitting at the table, the human who was practically screaming to be deflowered, was a constant, distracting hum in their brains.

Marchosias looked around the table, seeing their struggle. He sighed.

“And that,” he growled, “is exactly the problem.”

“What?” Skarg grunted, his eyes darting back to Zac’s neck, then his thighs, then back to his neck. “You’re in command. Just fuck the slut or whatever so we can stop smelling it. Stop wasting our time.”

“No,” Marchosias growled, leaning over the table. “The Avatar is important. Just think for a-”

“Oh, you don’t want to fuck him?” Andras drawled, leaning back in his chair with a smirk that didn't reach his hungry eyes. “Even a virgin isn’t pure enough for you, huh, Cap? So tragic. Holding out for an angel?”

“Hey.” Marchosias’s voice dropped an octave, a warning rumble. “Watch your-”

“I VOLUNTEER!” Nock shot out of his chair, waving his arm frantically like a student who knew the answer. “The virgin is a mythical creature down in these parts! None of you brutes have the skill set required to help him blossom into a true lover! It requires finesse! Poetry! Lubricant!”

“Shut up, Nock!” Marchosias rubbed his temples, feeling a migraine building behind his eyes that could rival a geological event. “We need to keep him so-”

“But the protocol!” Halphas squawked, slamming his hand on the table. “Senior officer rights!”

“I FOUND HIM FIRST!” Skarg bellowed, standing up and knocking his chair over.

“THE VIRGIN IS MINE!” Bune’s middle head roared, drowning out everyone else. The butler had transformed again without anyone noticing, his massive dragon head snapping at the air. “FOR MY HOARD! HE IS RARE! HE IS MINT CONDITION! YOU WILL NOT TOUCH THE COLLECTIBLE!”

Everyone stopped to stare at the butler.

Zac sat in the middle of the storm, on the literal Hell version of cloud nine. He had been a bit embarrassed about dying as a virgin… okay, mortified… but look who got the last laugh now! He was surrounded by the monsters of his dreams, and apparently, his lack of experience made him the most desirable bachelor in the Pit.

‘Thank you so much, Ose,’ he thought, tears of joy nearly streaming down his face. ‘All of my patience. All the times I said “no” to awkward fumbles in the back of a Honda Civic because I was waiting for “the one.” It has paid off. It has paid off so hard. If you want me to burn dead animals, or light candles in a circle, or dance naked in the woods under a blood moon, just let me know. I got you, you sexy, awesome, naked leopard friend.’

“HOW MANY TIMES DO I NEED TO SAY SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR YOU TROGLODYTES TO SHUT THE FUCK UP?!”

The howl tore through the room, shattering a glass globe lamp and plunging one corner into darkness. Marchosias stood at the head of the table, chest heaving. His fur was standing on end, making him look twice his size. His teeth were bared in a snarl that promised immediate, lethal violence. His amber eyes burned with a mixture of rage and desperation. He looked around the room, challenging anyone to speak, to breathe, to even think about interrupting him.

He was terrifying. He was magnificent.

Zac adjusted his robes, biting his lip. ‘God, the wolf is so hot when he’s angry.’

The problem was, the intimidation wasn’t working. Or rather, it was working, but it was fighting a losing battle against biology. The demons cowered slightly, yes, but their eyes… their eyes kept sliding away from the terrifying Alpha and back to the small, virgin human sitting at the table. They were moths, and Zac was the only lightbulb in the universe.

Marchosias saw it. He saw the glaze in their eyes. He realized, with a sinking feeling, that shouting wasn't going to fix this.

“This is unprecedented,” Marchosias said, forcing his fur to lie flat through sheer force of will. “Something our deceptive President seems to toss our way often.” He paused, waiting for a chuckle at the wordplay.

The room was silent, save for the sound of Skarg heavy breathing and Bune’s middle head making a low thrumming noise like a purring chainsaw.

Marchosias sighed, a long, weary exhalation. “Tough crowd. As I was saying… the Royal City. Intelligence indicates they have been developing a new magical detection system. A tool to root out corruption.”

“Sounds like a Halphas problem,” Andras yawned loudly, examining his talons. “Scouts and spies and all that boring nonsense.”

Marchosias glared at the owl. “As I was saying, this tool has been kept secret. Even our most persuasive tempters have failed to bring back any reliable information. They get close, and then… silence.”

“So you’re sending in the virgin to fuck the inventor?” Skarg asked earnestly. “I thought the Holy City had plenty of virgins. If they’re running low, they can just shift the marriage age down a few years. Humans are gross like that.”

Marchosias looked at the caribou with profound exasperation. “Why in the nine hells would we send the Avatar to fuck a human inventor, Skarg? Use your brain for one second.”

Skarg shrugged massive shoulders. “People say all sorts of things to each other when they screw. Best way to get info. Everyone knows that.”

Marchosias pinched the bridge of his muzzle. “No, Furfur. Just… shut up.”

“Hey, fuck you!” the buff deer-man bellowed, half-rising from his chair.

“Sit down!” Marchosias groaned. He turned back to the table, his expression grave. “The detection system relies on spiritual resonance. It detects the stain of sin. The mark of demonic congress.” He pointed a claw at Zac. “The Avatar’s greatest asset is not his magic, nor his lies. It is his state. The power of the President’s Seal seems to be… dampened, masked by his holy purity. To the wards of the city, he reads as completely human. Completely innocent.”

Zac felt a strange chill trickle down his spine. While his conscious mind was currently busy undressing Bune… Did the scales continue all the way down or if there was a softer underbelly… his subconscious finally picked up on what the wolf was saying. The words floated in the air, ominous and heavy.

Marchosias gestured to Zac. “Look at him. I thought it was just one of Ose’s tricks, a joke for when the Avatar arrived. You know how that tree-cat likes to disguise things.”

The group nodded in agreement.

“I thought he was some escaped feed stock when I first saw him,” Skarg admitted. “If I hadn’t seen the mark, I would have eaten him. Never would have known he was a demon-sworn asset.”

Nock nodded sagely. “Yes, but this delicate form is much better. People might be confused if there were two majestic felines running the warband.” The lion’s eyes suddenly lit up with a thought. He looked over at Zac, beaming. “My dear Zac! Did you contract with Ose because you are a cat person, not a dog person? Is that it?”

Zac opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Dogs are humanity’s closest companion!” Andras shouted, slamming his hand on the table. “Loyal! Trustworthy! Unlike you overgrown house cats!”

“Canines are the backbone of civilization!” Marchosias barked, seemingly offended on a personal level.

While the demons argued about pet preferences, Zac’s mind was walking down a very dark, very upsetting logical path.

Wait, he thought. If the wards detect demonic congress… and I’m the only one who can get past them because I haven’t had demonic congress…

The implications crashed into him like a freight train.

My virginity… is the mission asset.

My virginity… is... important.

Before Zac could voice his dawning horror, Skarg beat him to it with a wail of pure, unadulterated grief.

“NOOOO!” the wendigo roared, clutching his head. “YOU’RE SAYING WE CAN’T SLAM-FUCK THIS LITTLE WHORE UNTIL HIS HIPS BREAK?!” He pointed an accusing finger at Zac. “THIS LITTLE TWINK BITCH STARED AT MY COCK THE WHOLE WAY HERE YESTERDAY! THERE’S NO WAY YOU’RE STOPPING ME!”

Zac stood up, slamming his hands on the table. “Yeah!” he yelled, desperation overriding all sense of shame. “I could have pretended to be scared when he chased me! He would have caught up! He would have grabbed me, held me up against one of those stone sarcophaguses, and ripped off my clothes!”

The room went silent, save for the heavy breathing of several demons. Zac closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around himself, caught in the vivid memory of a fantasy that was slipping through his fingers.

“I could have let him slowly breathe his hot, sexy breath on my lower back,” Zac whispered, swaying slightly. “Before he bit my earlobe and growled that I was soft… and weak… and that as prey, he had the right to rut me and fill me with his…”

He trailed off, a soft whimper escaping his throat. He opened his eyes.

The demons were staring. Transfixed.

Nock looked like he was about to faint.

Andras had snapped his cigarillo in half.

Bune’s middle head was making a sound like a kettle boiling over.

Skarg, in particular, was literally drooling, a string of saliva hanging from his lip as he stared at Zac with the intensity of a collapsing star.

“Avatar,” Marchosias said. His voice was flat, tired. He seemed to be the only creature in the room capable of resisting the siren call of Zac’s frustrated libido, though his knuckles were white where he gripped the table. “You were sent here to be used for the war. And you will become our spy.”

Zac glared at him. “Fine! Whatever! I’ll spy! As long as I get to-”

“Our VIRGIN spy,” Marchosias barked, cutting him off. “The moment you are deflowered, by demon… or man… your aura changes. You will light up the city’s wards like a bonfire. You will be detected, captured, and executed before you can even zip your pants back up.”

“Fuck the Holy City!” Zac shouted, pointing a trembling finger at the door. “I don’t care about the war! I’m gonna let the deer guy bring me back to the crypt right now, and I’m gonna finally get the dick I was promised!”

Skarg made a hopeful noise and took a step forward.

“No one in this room is going anywhere,” Marchosias growled quietly.

The temperature in the room dropped. Shadows seemed to lengthen, crawling out from the corners. The Captain didn’t shout. He didn’t use the Voice. He simply spoke with the absolute, terrifying authority of a creature that commanded armies of the damned.

“This is not a request, Avatar. This is your mission.” Marchosias’s amber eyes burned into Zac’s. “You signed the contract. You belong to Ose. And right now, Ose needs a virgin. Which means you are staying exactly as you are.”

He turned his gaze to his lieutenants, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

“And if any of you touch him… if you so much as graze him with an intent to defile… I will personally strip the flesh from your bones and feed it to the lower legions. Am I understood?”

The room was silent for all of five seconds. It was the silence of a dam about to burst.

“How much flesh?” Skarg bellowed, slamming his fists on the table. “Like, all of it? Or just the non-essential bits? I can regrow skin!”

“What if we make eye contact and the heavens cry?” Nock asked, clutching his chest dramatically. “How could you deny true romance, Captain? It is cruelty beyond measure!”

“What if I accidentally defiled him?” Andras mused aloud, his eyes tracking Zac’s movements as he seemingly mapped out a series of highly improbable ‘accidental’ maneuvers involving shadows and slippery floors. “Just a slip, a trip… oops.”

“Can he still touch me then?” Halphas asked, perking up. “He can defile me, right? That doesn’t count against the wards, does it? I’m fine with being the objectified one here.”

Bune looked around, seemingly furious. “NO! HE IS MINE!” the Middle Head howled, acidic spit flying across the tactical map.

Right Head: “The Captain’s orders, everyone! I will ensure he is kept virgin and under strict control!”

Left Head: “Not on the maps! You’re getting slobber everywhere! That’s the supply line to the southern front!”

Middle Head: “THE VIRGIN IS MAKING ME LEAK! THE HOARD IS FINALLY COMPLETE!”

“YES!” Zac yelled, leaping onto his chair and joining the chaos. “Nock first! To open me up a bit! He has the manners! And then whatever order you want! Take a number! Form a line!”

Nock let out a strangled sound of pure ecstasy. “He chose me!” he cried, pressing a hand to his forehead. Then, with the grace of a swooning maiden, the armored lion collapsed backward in a dead faint, hitting the floor with a deafening crash of plate mail.

Andras and Skarg didn’t hesitate. They lunged.

Skarg roared, charging like a freight train. Andras dissolved into shadow and reappeared mid-air, diving for Zac. They collided in a tangle of fur, feathers, and cursing, grappling mere feet from the prize.

Bune’s three heads were now arguing violently with each other, four arms flailing as the butler tried to simultaneously protect the maps, enforce order, and claim the virgin for his hoard.

Marchosias didn’t shout. He didn’t use the Voice. He simply sat down heavily in his chair and slowly, deliberately, placed his forehead on the cool wood of the table. He stayed there, motionless, a monument to despair.

Zac sat back on his chair, grinning like a maniac. ‘Any second now,’ he thought, watching the brawl. ‘Any second now, one of them will break through. I will be captured. I will be ravaged. It’s finally happening. My tragic backstory ends here.’

However, before anyone could claim the victory, the war room doors, which had suffered enough abuse for one lifetime, blew open again.

A swarm of angry little puss covered bodies poured into the room.

“LIAR!” shrieked the lead imp, pointing a jagged claw at Zac. “HE LIED ABOUT BREAKFAST!”

“HE TRICKED US!” another yelled. “THERE WAS NO COFFEE!.. OR WAFFELS!”

“THE CAPTAIN SAID TO EAT HIM!” a third screamed, frothing at the mouth. “HE SAID WE COULD EAT HIM!”

The pack of imps, humiliated and hungry, surged forward, a wave of pebbled skin and gnashing teeth. They ignored the brawling lieutenants. They ignored the unconscious lion. They had one target.

Zac’s eyes shot open, his grin vanishing. “Oh, shit.”

The method acting was over. This wasn’t a sexy wrestling match with a hot demon daddy. This was a horde of naked, boil-covered goblins intent on chewing his face off.

“Wait!” Zac yelled, scrambling backward over the table, scattering troop markers everywhere. “I meant… lunch! I meant get me lunch!”

As the first imp’s claw snagged the hem of Zac’s robe, he yelped, a sound devoid of fear but rich in annoyance. “Hey! These are my only clothes!”

Skarg reacted instantly. With a roar, he shoved Andras aside and lunged, slamming his fist onto the stone floor. A jagged spike of glacial ice erupted from the ground, encasing the lead imp mid-leap. The creature froze in a pose of eternal, toothy aggression.

Zac rolled off the table, scattering wooden battalions across the floor, but two more imps were already airborne.

“MINE!” Bune roared. The butler moved with terrifying speed. Two of his clawed hands snatched the first imp out of the air, crushing it with a wet crunch. His Middle Head lunged forward like a striking cobra, jaws snapping shut around the second imp with a sickening chomp. He shook his head like a dog with a chew toy.

Zac scrambled across the floor, having no time to breathe as the rest of the swarm poured into the room, pointing and screaming accusations of breakfast betrayal. He rolled under the heavy war table, crawling over discarded maps and boots, emerging on the other side to jump over Nock just as the lion knight began to stir.

The lion blinked open his golden eyes, only to find himself staring directly up Zac’s robes. A dreamy, dazed smile spread across his muzzle. “Oh,” he purred, “I am in heaven again, aren’t I? What a view…”

The imps chasing Zac didn’t pause for romance. They trampled over the prone lion, their claws scrabbling on his armor.

Zac turned back just in time to see a gruesome miracle. The imps that had touched Nock’s armor collapsed, shrieking. Their legs were bleeding profusely, the flesh turning necrotic and filling with pus instantly. He was just as fascinated as he was disgusted but there were still a pack of imps trying to disembowel him.

Zac backed away, but the remaining imps fanned out, surrounding him against the wall. He felt the cold stone against his back. There was nowhere to go.

Suddenly, the world went black and cold. He felt a wrenching sensation in his gut, like being pulled through a straw.

He stumbled, gasping, and found himself on the opposite side of the room. He blinked, dizzy. Where he had been standing a second ago, Andras now stood, wreathed in shadow and surrounded by confused lesser demons. The owlman winked at zac from across the room, his cutlass flashing. With a single, fluid swing, five imps were decapitated before they even realized their prey had swapped places.

Zac staggered, trying to regain his balance, his head spinning from the shadow-swap. He scrambled away from the carnage, but the lack of fear-adrenaline made his movements sluggish and clumsy. It was, he decided, really, really shitty to be running for your life while feeling as calm as a monk on sedatives.

The final three imps rushed at him with jagged shanks.

BANG-BANG-BANG.

The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. The three imps were laying on the floor, motionless, smoking holes blown clean through their chests. Zac stared, shocked. A gun? Who the hell brought a gun to a sword fight?

He looked over to see Halphas standing by the window, blowing smoke from the barrel of a massive, wooden-handled pistol. The eagle smirked, holstering the weapon and flexing a bicep that threatened to tear his uniform.

‘Okay,’ Zac thought, dazed. ‘Guns feel like cheating when everyone else has swords and horses. But buff eagle in a military outfit with a hand-cannon? I’ll allow it. I will definitely allow it.’

He started to walk toward the eagle, intending to offer a very personal thank you involving gun oil and fraternal bonding, when a high-pitched shriek made him turn.

An imp, half-crushed but still alive, had crawled out from under the table. It launched itself at Zac, a rusty dagger clutched in its hand, plunging toward his face.

‘Oh no,’ was all Zac’s fear-castrated mind could muster. ‘That’s going to leave a mark.’

He didn’t feel the blade. Instead, he felt a sudden, radiant warmth, like stepping out of a dark room directly into the noon sun.

A massive arm hooked around his waist from behind, lifting him effortlessly into the air. There was a shink of steel, a flash of silver light, and a wet thud.

Zac looked down. The imp lay on the floor in two perfectly symmetrical halves, severed cleanly down the middle.

He looked up. Marchosias was holding him, his other hand gripping his longsword, the blade glowing faintly with holy fire that was quickly fading to black. The wolf was breathing hard, his amber eyes wide.

“Did… did you just save me?” Zac asked, breathless.

Marchosias nodded, his voice rough. “You are… important.”

Zac blushed, his heart doing that frantic, wonderful thing again. He leaned back against the solid wall of the Captain’s chest, letting his head rest on the wolf’s shoulder. “My hero,” he whispered. “I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Anything.”

Marchosias’s fur stood on end. He stiffened, every muscle going rigid. He leaned in, burying his nose in the crook of Zac’s neck, inhaling deeply of the clean, untouched scent that was driving him mad.

“You do not mean that,” the wolf growled, the sound vibrating against Zac’s spine.

Zac reached up, boldly stroking the side of the wolf’s muzzle. “I mean it,” he murmured. “You can totally knot me if you want. Right here. On the table.”

Marchosias made a strangled noise. He dropped Zac.

Zac hit the floor with a grunt. “Ow.”

He looked up to see Marchosias walking quickly and stiffly back to his seat, his tail sticking straight out behind him, his gait awkward and pained, and oddly enough some smoke was wafting off his shoulders. The Captain practically threw himself into his chair and buried his face in his hands again.

“Bune,” he mumbled through his paws. “Clean up this mess. And get the Avatar a chair. A high chair. With straps.”

Chapter 5

Zac was on his knees in the hallway outside the war room, tears streaming down his face in rivulets of pure despair. He wasn't crying because of the near-death experience with the imps. He wasn't crying because he was overwhelmed by the demonic war. He was crying because he had just been offered a buffet of prime, A-grade monster meat and told he was allergic to protein.

“NO!” he wailed, pounding his fist against the cold stone floor. “OSE FUCKED ME!”

Bune hovered over him, wringing all four of his hands in distress. The butler had reverted to his two-headed form, his third, vulgar head having retreated in the face of such raw, confusing emotion.

“There, there, little avatar,” the Left Head cooed, patting Zac awkwardly on the shoulder with a claw. “It’s not so bad. The imps are gone. The Captain saved you.”

“THERE’S ALWAYS A CATCH!” Zac sobbed, snot bubbling unglamorously. “AND THIS IS HELL! HE SENT ME TO HELL!”

The Right Head tilted, looking genuinely perplexed. “Well… yes. This is Hell. What did you expect? Did the brochure mislead you?”

“Should we turn the temperature up?” the Left Head asked solicitously. “Is it too cold? Humans are fragile. Do you require a specific humidity level for optimal emotional regulation?”

Zac sniffed loudly, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his nice black robes. His eyes burned with a righteous fury. “I don’t care about the humidity! I care about the fact that I am surrounded by six of the hottest, most dangerous, most incredibly specific demonic archetypes in existence, and I can’t touch any of them!”

He stood up, pacing frantically in a small circle. “If I ever see that leopard again, I am going to wring that kitty’s neck! And not in a sexual way! I mean actual, non-erotic violence! To send me on a mission where I can’t get busy with the physical incarnations of my dark and questionable sexual fantasies is literally the most asshole thing anyone has ever done, ever! It’s a war crime! It’s cruel and unusual punishment!”

Bune’s heads exchanged a look.

“I believe,” the Right Head whispered, “he is suffering from acute reproductive frustration.”

“Fascinating,” the Left Head murmured, taking notes on a mental clipboard. “Is this common in virgins? The volatile emotional state?”

“I can hear you!” Zac shouted, turning on them. “And yes! It is common! Especially when the virginity is enforced by a hot wolf who can hyper-beam things into atomic particles!” He slumped against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor again, hugging his knees. “I just wanted to be knotted,” he whispered miserably. “Is that so much to ask?”

Bune sighed, a twin-stream of sympathetic smoke. “Come now, Avatar. The Captain has a plan. And surely, serving the war effort is its own reward?”

Zac looked up at the dragon with dead eyes. “Bune. Look at me. Do I look like I care about the war effort? I came here for the benefits package.”

“Well,” the Right Head said brightly, trying to pivot. “The kitchen has prepared lunch. We have… food?”

Zac’s stomach gave a treacherous rumble. He sniffed again. “Waffles?”

“Edible food,” the Left Head corrected. “You eat it, and then you are full.”

Zac sighed, a long, rattling sound of defeat. “Fine. I’ll eat waffles. But I’m going to be bitter about it.”

Much to Zac's dismay, and despite Bune’s promises, there were no waffles.

Bune led him into the formal dining room, a space that felt less like a place to eat and more like a place to hold a seance for a murdered king. The room was vast, the ceiling lost in shadow. Tall, arched windows lined one wall, looking out onto a swirling grey mist that pressed against the glass. Zac frowned. ‘We walked deep into the castle,’ he thought, disoriented. ‘Like, subterranean deep. How are there windows? And why is it foggy? Is the castle haunted by weather?’

The room was lit by hundreds of tall, white candles in heavy silver candelabras that dripped wax onto the black tablecloth. At the very center of the impossibly long table, next to the Captain’s imposing high-backed chair, a single place was set.

On a fine silver platter sat a severed Bicorn head.

It was roasted, the skin glazed and crackling, but unmistakably a head. Its eyes were closed, its lips pulled back to reveal teeth, and its spiral horns had been polished to a shine. A garnish of what looked like blood-parsley was tucked behind one ear.

Zac stared at the head. He looked up at Bune. He looked back at the head.

“Nope,” Zac said, turning on his heel.

“But Avatar!” Bune’s Left Head protested, hurrying after him. “It is a delicacy! The cheeks are quite flavorful! Tender as butter!”

“Where’s the kitchen?” Zac demanded, striding back out into the hallway. “I’m finding the waffles. Or cereal. Or dry toast. Anything that doesn't have a face.”

“I can cut it for you!” the Right Head offered helpfully. “You won’t even have to look him in the eye!”

Zac ignored him, beginning his own impromptu inspection of the corridor. He was hungry, caffeine-deprived, and emotionally compromised. How was he supposed to have a proper breakdown without coffee?

He threw open the first door on his left. Inside was a collection of wooden and cast-iron devices. Racks, wheels, iron maidens, that looked profoundly uncomfortable and stained with things Zac didn't want to identify. ‘Nope. Torture gym. Moving on.’

He tried the next door. A room filled with cages suspended from chains, the floor slick with fluids. Something in a cage growled wetly. ‘Nope. Petting zoo from hell. Pass.’

He opened the third door. It opened into nothingness. A pit, circular and smooth-walled, dropping away into absolute darkness. Zac leaned over the edge, squinting. He couldn’t see the bottom. Curious, he kicked a small pebble into the void.

One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten… elev-

SCREEEEEEEEEEEE!

An eldritch shriek, a sound of pure, alien hunger, exploded from the depths, echoing up the shaft with enough force to ruffle Zac’s hair.

Zac was yanked backward by his collar as Bune slammed the door shut with all four hands, leaning his weight against it.

“Please do not be rude!” the Left Head scolded, dusting off Zac’s robes with frantic motions. “You could have been hurt! Or worse, eaten by a Void-Leech! They stain terribly!”

Zac looked back at the door, unphased. “Whatever made that sound probably wasn’t a hunk like you, Bune. Sorry, new roomie!” he yelled at the wood. “Just be glad I didn’t think that was the toilet!”

He started back down the hall, a bounce in his step. The near-death encounter faded instantly, his fear-suppressed brain treating it as nothing more than a mild surprise.

Bune finally broke. The butler looked exhausted. “The kitchen,” the Right Head sighed, pointing down a perpendicular corridor, “is this way. Please. Do not wake anything else up. This place is dangerous for a human. You cannot just open doors willy-nilly.”

Zac beamed, turning to the dragon. “Thank you, Bune! You know, I’m so glad you volunteered to help me get settled in. It’s nice to have a friendly face. Or two.”

The dragon man straightened, preening slightly under the praise. Both heads nodded vigorously, fangs gleaming in toothy smiles. “Of course, Zac! You are such a unique avatar. Yes, yes, whatever you need. Since we will be keeping you here until the Captain finalizes his plans, we must ensure you remain… pristine.”

“Pristine,” Zac repeated dryly. “Like a collectible action figure in its original packaging.”

“Exactly!” the Right Head beamed. “Mint condition!”

“Even though I made you leak?” Zac said casually over his shoulder as he turned toward the kitchen corridor.

Bune choked. Both heads sputtered, cheeks darkening to a deep, embarrassed violet. “I- that- it is complicated! Dragon physiology is complex! It was a hoarding response!”

The butler quickly accelerated into his fast-walk shuffle, his larger frame allowing him to easily outpace the human and hide his flustered expression. “Let’s get you something to eat!” the Left Head declared loudly. “You look a bit scrawny. Much smaller than the normal paladins we receive. No meat on your bones at all.”

“Are they buff?” Zac asked, jogging slightly to keep up. “Like Halphas? Ugh, do you know where he works out? Is it somewhere up in the Pit? I bet he has a gym membership in Hell.”

“No, no,” Bune coughed, regaining his composure. “Unfortunately, it sounds like that sky-rat will be making his nests here for the foreseeable future. He didn't even pick up his bullet casings!”

Zac stopped dead in the hallway. “Oh, fuck.”

He had been too emotionally compromised after Marchosias had kicked him out of the war room... something about rolling around on the tactical map table and cry-yelling about his celibacy and not caring about anything but getting his back blown out by a demon... to fully process the Captain’s orders.

Lockdown.

The wolf had told the other demons they were grounded. Whatever duties they could complete were to be done from the keep. Everything else was curtailed.

“Does that mean…” Zac whispered, eyes widening. “He will be working out here? They’re all moving in?”

Bune stopped and looked back. “Yes. The Captain insisted. To keep an eye on everyone. It’s going to be a logistical nightmare.... Skarg eats enough for a platoon, and Nock requires a humidity-controlled armory for his capes.”

Zac looked around the austere, gothic hallway as if seeing it for the first time. The shadows seemed deeper, the alcoves more inviting.

They would be here. In the massive keep. The evil, tempting, incredibly stacked demons would be sleeping under the same roof. Eating in the same dining hall. Walking these same dark corridors at night.

Hope blossomed in his chest like a nuclear mushroom cloud.

‘I can do this,’ he thought, a thrill running through him. ‘The game isn’t over. It’s just moved to a smaller arena.’

A ping of guilt blipped through his mind. Whoever found him alone in a corridor at night first might get punished by Marchosias. The Captain had been very clear about flaying flesh from bones.

‘But that’s okay,’ Zac rationalized instantly. ‘It wouldn’t be my fault. It wouldn’t be their fault, really. It’s totally natural. It’s meant to be. I am the irresistible force, and they are the moveable objects. Fate will find a way. And if Fate needs me to “accidentally” leave my door unlocked and wear nothing but a smile, then who am I to argue with the cosmos?’

He grinned, a wicked, predatory expression that mirrored the monsters he was lusting after.

“Bune,” Zac said sweetly, starting to walk again. “Where did you say Halphas was going to be staying? I should probably… inspect the area. For... personal reasons.”

Bune’s heads dismissed Halphas with synchronized sniffs of disdain. “That bird will likely roost in the highest tower he can find. He likes drafty places.”

The butler pushed open one of the massive double doors and gestured grandly for Zac to enter.

The Hell Kitchen was a cathedral of culinary violence. It was vast, echoing, and relentlessly gothic. The ceiling was lost in soot-stained shadows high above. Massive black-iron fire pits lined the walls, large enough to roast a bull whole. Rows of rotisseries, bristling with spikes, hung silent and cold. Tables made of butcher-block thick enough to stop a cannonball stretched down the center of the room.

It was also completely empty.

Zac wandered in, his footsteps echoing on the stone. “Where is everyone? Where’s the food? Where are the cooks? Don’t you guys feed an army?”

Bune walked in, his claws clicking on the floor. He laughed, a dry, rasping sound. “We do not take care of the lesser demons or the fodder here. The barracks have their own mess halls. This,” he gestured to the cavernous space, “is the Captain’s personal kitchen.”

Zac looked at the industrial-scale equipment. “This place is a party house! Did he throw killer ragers back in the day? Why else would one person need the capacity to cook the whole farm at once? Was he a frat wolf?”

“Party? Captain Marchosias?” Bune snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils. “You are quite the funny one, little virgin. If the wolf heard you starting rumors about him attending parties, he would be most upset. He considers ‘fun’ to be a tactical error.”

“Don’t call me that,” Zac snapped. “You’re the real virgin here, hoarding me like a mint-condition comic book you’re afraid to open.” He spun around, facing the dragon. “Why don’t you want to fuck me, too? I’m totally scale-positive! Losing my V-card to a dragon would be so fucking awesome! Think of the bragging rights!”

Bune froze. He looked around the empty kitchen nervously, his four hands pulling together and wringing anxiously. His cheeks flushed a deep violet.

“I… I… you…” the Right Head stammered.

“It is not a matter of want,” the Left Head whispered, eyes wide. “It is a matter of… preservation.”

With a wet, tearing sound, the Third Head erupted from Bune’s shoulder, scattering scraps of the butler’s shirt.

“YES!” the Middle Head roared, its red eyes locking onto Zac with manic intensity. “LET US CONSUME THE VIRGIN! GET INSIDE OF ME, YOU PERFECT LITTLE HARLOT!”

“No!” the left head shouted, head-butting the Middle Head. “The Hoard! He must be kept pristine!”

“If you eat him, when will we find another?!” the righ head cried. “They don’t make them like this anymore!”

The Middle Head shook off the blow, its ripped ears flicking back. “BUT HE SMELLS LIKE HE WANTS IT! LOOK AT HIM! HE’S PRACTICALLY MARINATED IN NEED!”

“I do want it!” Zac shouted, throwing his arms wide. “Soft vore can be hot if done tastefully! I’m open to experimentation!”

“It is exciting, yes,” the Left Head admitted breathlessly. “The lust for the virgin is intoxicating… much better than the gleaming of gold…”

“IT WOULDN’T BE SOFT VORE!” the Middle Head licked his chops, drool sizzling on the stone floor. “HARD VORE! CRUNCHY! YOU’RE GETTING SWALLOWED WHOLE AND SCREAMING!”

Zac frowned, his enthusiasm dampening slightly. “Okay, wow... surprisingly hardcore. Maybe we meet in the middle at ‘firm vore’?”

“The Captain would be upset with us!” the Right Head wailed, practically in tears. “Not only would the virgin be no more, but the wolf might force us to leave! He’ll banish us!”

The Middle Head growled, a deep, frustrated rumble that shook Bune’s entire frame. “FINE!” it bellowed. With a final, resentful snarl, it retracted back into Bune’s body.

The Right Head looked down at his ruined clothes and sighed. “This is my third shirt in two days. The budget for uniforms is going to be ruinous.”

The Left Head looked at Zac, his golden eyes filled with a mix of hunger and fear. “Please do not tempt me, Zac. You are indeed a stunning and alluring specimen. But I have some impulse control issues that the Captian has been helping me with for a long time.”

Zac sighed, slumping against the butcher block. “So medium vore is off the table then? That’s disappointing. I was willing to negotiate on the chewing.”

Bune turned away, frantically trying to pin the tatters of his shirt together with his claws. “Yes, it is off the table! Now, please, focus. What do you want to eat? A light snack? Something less rich than Bicorn brain? Perhaps a nice soul-salad?”

Zac looked around the empty kitchen. “Where’s the freezer? You’ve got to be keeping those waffles somewhere. You promised me blueberry.”

“There are no waffles in Hell,” Bune said solemnly. “We do have crepes, though. The Succubus Guild makes them.”

“FUCK CREPES!” Zac wailed, tossing himself dramatically onto the pristine butcher block table. “Crepes are just weak-ass pancakes with an identity crisis! Anyone who says they are healthier is just lying to themselves! Of course eating one slice of cake is healthier than eating the whole thing! Hell blows so much! No sex, no waffles, just thin, French disappointment!”

He began to kick and flail, throwing a temper tantrum that would have made a toddler in a toy store blush. He was mid-wail about maple syrup when a bellow ripped through the kitchen, shaking dust from the rafters.

“I FOUND YOU!”

Zac blinked as a massive, furry blur slammed into Bune. Skarg tackled the butler with the force of a battering ram, sending them both crashing into a rack of iron pots.

“Trying to claim the virgin for yourself, you scaled hoarder?!” Skarg yelled, trying to pin down the dragon’s arms. But Bune had four arms, two heads, and a very active tail, making him a logistical nightmare to wrestle. “He’s mine! If anyone’s fucking him, it’s me! I saw him first!”

Zac slid off the table, watching the brawl with interest. He smiled wickedly. “Yeah! Get him, Skarg! If you knock him out, no one will be around to stop you from feeding me your… demon meat… for lunch.”

Skarg froze. He looked over at Zac, his icy blue eyes wide with a lustful expression that was equal parts hunger and hope. “Demon… meat?”

Approximately one second later, the deer demon’s head was engulfed in a torrent of violet fire.

“DON’T YOU IGNORE ME!” Bune’s Right Head roared, exhaling the blast point-blank.

Skarg shrieked, rolling away and flailing on the ground, slapping at his smoldering face. “MY EYES! YOU GOT IT IN MY EYES, YOU BASTARD!”

Bune stood up, dusting soot from his already ruined clothes. He looked remarkably unruffled for someone who had just been tackled by a wendigo. “That will teach you to interrupt a culinary consultation! We were discussing breakfast foods!”

Zac frowned, crossing his arms. “I thought you were the rough one, Skarg. You couldn’t even knock out a butler to get inside a virgin? I’m disappointed.” He shook his head theatrically. “I guess Bune really is the hunk around here. Look at him handle that firepower.”

Bune sputtered, cheeks darkening again. “I… well… I simply… it is my duty to maintain order!”

“He’s just a butler!” Skarg groaned from the floor, rubbing his singed muzzle.

“I am Duke Bune!” the Left Head snapped, drawing himself up to his full, impressive height. “Great and Strong Duke of Hell! Commander of Thirty Legions! Master of Necromancy and Wealth!”

Zac blinked. “Wait. A Duke?” He looked from the dragon to the caribou. “Why is a Duke working for Marchosias? Isn’t March just a Marquis? Doesn’t a Duke outrank a Marquis?”

Bune’s heads looked at each other, a silent communication passing between them. The Right Head cleared his throat. “Technically, yes. A Duke is considered a higher-ranking demon in the infernal hierarchy.”

“However,” the Left Head continued smoothly, “rank is… fluid in the Pit. I am in a position that works for me. Taking care of the Captain’s affairs is quite fulfilling. He allows me certain… liberties with my hoard. And his castle is the safest place for my… collection.”

“Plus,” the Right Head whispered, “Marchosias is scary. We don’t want to make him upset.”

“So you’re a submissive Duke?” Zac asked, grinning. “Working for a dominant Marquis? That is… incredibly hot. Please continue.”

“He’s not submissive,” Skarg grunted, shoving Bune hard as he stood up. The butler stumbled back into a prep table with a clatter of silverware. “He’s a pussy. There’s a difference.”

Zac considered this, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “So, a dominant Duke working for an even more dominant Marquis? That works for me on a lot of levels. The power dynamics in this house are delicious.”

Skarg ignored the commentary, looming over Zac until his shadow swallowed the human whole. He smelled of tundra, burnt hair, and raw musk. “Those lady-boys wouldn’t know the first thing to do with you,” the wendigo rumbled. “They don’t even feed you when you’re hungry.”

He reached out, his massive hand encompassing Zac’s entire bicep. He lifted Zac’s arm as if inspecting a cut of meat, bringing it to his nose for a deep sniff. He frowned, dropping the arm. “You must be freezing. No muscle. No fur. Just soft, fragile skin.”

“That is why we are here, you oaf!” Bune snapped, straightening his cravat. “He needs sustenance. He is a picky eater. He rejected the Bicorn head.”

“Picky eater?” Skarg snorted. “He said he’s willing to eat all varieties of meat earlier.”

Without warning, Skarg grabbed the back of Zac’s robes and began dragging him towards the massive walk-in larder at the back of the kitchen. “Come on. If you won’t eat bicorn, we’ll find you a haunch.”

“I want your meat, not dead horse brain!” Zac protested, stumbling along. But then Bune, refusing to be left out or outpaced, grabbed Zac’s other arm. Zac’s train of thought derailed as he found himself suspended between the two behemoths, feet barely touching the ground. He felt a giddy thrill run through him. ‘Manhandled by monster men. Check. Another item off the bucket list.’

“If he is hungry, he will eat what is provided,” Skarg stated with primal certainty. “It is a fundamental law of nature. Starvation cures pickiness.”

“I ate a lot of frozen waffles and chicken nuggets in my past life,” Zac murmured, his head lolling slightly as they marched him forward. “I’d be okay with nuggets, since waffles sound like a no-go in this dimension.”

“Do you hear that, Skarg?” Bune’s Right Head asked, exasperated. “Do you hear what I am working with here? Nuggets!"

Skarg stopped abruptly, causing Zac to swing slightly between them. The wendigo turned a lecherous grin on the dragon. “Nuggets,” he growled, his voice dropping an octave. “You know all about nuggets, don’t you, hoarder?”

Bune’s reaction was instant. The Left Head looked scandalized, eyes wide with shame. The Right Head curled its lip in utter repugnance.

“Vulgar!” the Right Head hissed.

“Crude!” the Left Head agreed. “He obviously does not mean gold nuggets, Furfur!”

The air in the kitchen instantly turned ice-cold. Skarg stopped walking. Zac felt the tension ripple through the wendigo’s arm, stretching him ever so slightly as Bune kept moving for a fraction of a second longer.

“Don’t,” Skarg whispered, the word a dangerous rumble that vibrated in Zac’s chest. He turned his head slowly, his icy blue eyes locking onto Bune’s golden ones. “Don’t you use that name.”

“Or what?” Bune hissed, drawing himself up to his full height. His midnight-blue scales bristled, and both heads glared down at the wendigo. “Do you really wish to try me? All of me?” The threat of the Third Head hung heavy in the air.

Skarg released Zac and stepped into Bune’s personal space, attempting to loom over him. “You fuss over the Captain like he’s a weak baby,” he snarled, nose-to-nose with the dragon’s Left Head. “Do you think he is fragile? Should I test him like Andras does? What would happen?”

Skarg then tossed a heavy arm over Bune’s shoulder, forcefully turning the butler to face Zac. “What if I nudged March and this little Jezebel together? Just a push. Just a suggestion.”

Bune’s eyes went wide with horror. Zac’s eyes went wide with hope.

Skarg grinned, showing too many teeth. “The wolf might actually have fun. Don’t you think that would be good to see? Instead of him brooding in his tower like a tragic monk?”

“Yes! It would be totally awesome to see!” Zac blurted out, unable to help himself. “March wouldn’t flay himself, and then I’m free to get down with the rest of you! It’s a win-win! That's something you can do?!”

Zac raised his hand for a high-five with the wendigo. Instead, he was knocked flat on his ass by Bune’s massive wing as the dragon shoved himself violently away from Skarg.

“Fine!” Bune snapped, adjusting his cuffs. “You are such a baby about the name thing. When is the last time a magician even summoned you properly? Centuries? Move on!”

“Just because you can multitask with two brains doesn’t mean the rest of us like having our days wasted with bullshit summons from pimply mortals who can’t be bothered to do the summoning right,” Skarg growled. He reached down, hauled Zac to his feet, and resumed dragging him toward the back of the kitchen. “Who’s got time for some petty human bullshit anyway?”

Bune rolled all four of his eyes loudly, a sound like marbles clicking together. He grabbed two torches from the wall sconces. “Come along then. Let’s see what we can find that the avatar will put in his mouth.”

They descended a spiraling stone staircase into the cold. The air grew frigid, smelling of iron and preserved death. The Hell Pantry was less a place for food storage and more a morgue for giants. Massive slabs of meat hung on rusted iron hooks that looked strangely, disturbingly bipedal. There were barrels marked with glowing containment runes. In a damp corner, luminescent purple mushrooms grew on large, pulsating sacks. Shelves were lined with jars filled with things that looked like they belonged in an aquarium or a pet store back on Earth, pickled eyes, preserved tentacles, and what looked like a jar of fairy wings.

Zac shivered violently, his breath fogging in the air. He watched, disgusted but fascinated, as Skarg walked dutifully toward a hanging corpse, maybe some sort of monkey, hopefully, and ripped a leg free from the meat hook with a wet tearing sound.

“You don’t have nuggets either,” Zac chattered, hugging himself and standing close to Bune for warmth.

The dragon looked down at the shivering human and shook his Left Head. The Right Head yelled at Skarg, “That is for Friar Fridays! Put it back! That does not belong to you!”

“The Avatar is hungry,” Skarg grunted, ignoring him. He sat down heavily on a crate, the leg on the ground and a flint in his hnads. He began to strike the flint against the side of a large wooden barrel.

“This isn’t the cook space!” Bune shrieked. “What are you doing, you imbecile?!”

“The Avatar is cold,” Skarg said simply. He reached over with his free hand, grabbed Zac by the waist, and pulled him onto his lap. The wendigo was a furnace of body heat. He resumed striking the flint, sending showers of sparks flying directly at the old wooden barrel.

“STOP! STOP! STOP!” Bune wailed, rushing forward. “THAT IS ALCOHOL, YOU IGNORAMUS! That is 200-year-old Hellfire Whiskey! If you damage the Avatar with your incompetence, or blow up the wine cellar, I am going to have words with the higher ups!”

Zac found himself the filling in a very muscular, very aggressive demon sandwich. Bune had tackled Skarg, trying to wrest the flint away, and Zac was pinned between the dragon’s chest and the wendigo’s lap.

“Mmph!” Zac grunted, his face pressed into Bune’s cravat. ‘Okay, usually this is the dream scenario, but I prefer my internal organs on the inside.’ He tried to wiggle, but Skarg’s legs were like tree trunks and Bune was heavy as a statue.

“Are you trying to kill the Avatar?!” Bune snarled, his Right Head inches from Skarg’s muzzle.

“Are you?!” Skarg spat back, bucking his hips. “You don’t feed him and you bring him down here to freeze! Look at him! All small and cold and weak and soft and…” His voice trailed off into a low, rumbling purr.

“Hey, what’s going on down here? Are you two…” A new voice drifted down the stairs, amusement thick in every syllable.

Zac managed to crane his neck, looking up from where he was sandwiched with his legs spread rather compromisingly wide. “Do you wanna join in too?” he gasped.

Halphas stood on the stairs, holding a cardboard box under one arm. He was back in his ranger leathers, looking effortlessly cool. “Maybe you can knock out Bune so we can have some fun finally!” Zac pleaded.

Halphas laughed, shaking his head. “Slow down there, you eager flay-bait. Can a bird get moved in first? I just came down to see what was burning.”

Everyone froze. They turned to look where Halphas was pointing.

The barrel Skarg had been striking sparks against was not just smoldering; a merry little flame was dancing on the lid, licking at the resin-sealed bung. The cold, dry wood gave an ominous creak.

Bune’s heads shrieked in unison, a sound of pure panic.

Skarg looked up and smiled, a simple, happy expression. “This should warm the Avatar up.”

BOOM.

The world jerked sideways. Bune, reacting with supernatural speed, grabbed Zac and hurled him away from the blast zone.

Zac had a moment to think, ‘Wow, I’m going really fast,’ as he became a human projectile.

He slammed into Halphas with the force of a cannonball. The eagle let out a surprised squawk as they tangled together, crashing hard into the pantry wall. The box Halphas was holding flew into the air, showering them with shiny, aluminum-covered bags.

Zac groaned, disentangling himself from a dazed Halphas. He sat up, rubbing his head. The pantry was an inferno. The explosion had shattered neighboring barrels, and blue hellfire alcohol was spraying everywhere.

Skarg was rolling around on the floor, yelling, “MY FUR! NOT THE MANE! IT TAKES HOURS TO GROW THIS OUT!”

Bune stood amidst the flames, his butler’s uniform blazing. Both heads were screaming at the top of their lungs, ignoring the fire to focus on the bureaucracy of the situation.

Left Head: “I AM TELLING THE CAPTAIN!”

Right Head: “THIS IS COMING OUT OF YOUR PAYCHECK, FURFUR!”

The fire was spreading fast. Jars on the shelves began to pop from the heat, spewing pickled tentacles and fairy wings into the blaze. Thick, black, acrid smoke filled the room, choking the air.

Zac coughed a few times, waving the smoke away. He looked at the chaos: the burning wendigo, the screaming dragon, the stunned eagle covered in snack bags.

He shrugged.

“Well,” he muttered, picking up one of the aluminum bags. It read Spicy Nacho MRE - Jalapeño Cheese. “Jackpot.”

He stood up, tucked the bag into his robe, and calmly walked back up the stairs, leaving the demons to their disaster.

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.

Zac nodded to himself, vindicated by this internal monologue. “Yeah. Self-defense.”

He looked down at the writhing mass of bugs trying to reassemble into the shape of a man. “You guys are gross,” he told them. “But as long as you keep your pants on… or your helms on, I guess… we’re cool. Just… stay over there.”

He looked at what the worm-soldier had dropped. The velvet box had spilled its contents. Lying on the floor amongst the worms was a small, incredibly ornate crystal bottle. It glowed with a soft, golden light and smelled divine, like something spearfished from an endangered whale, vanilla, and pure, concentrated ego.

Zac picked it up. The label was written in elegant, flowing demonic script: Celestial Silk - Mane & Tail Rejuvenator. For the Beast Who Demands Perfection.

“Oh,” Zac whispered, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Jackpot.”

He looked down the hallway where Nock had disappeared. He had the bait. Now he just needed to find the lion.

Zac hurried down the corridor, clutching the bottle of Celestial Silk like a holy relic. He stepped carefully, giving a wide berth to the worm-soldiers marching past, eyeing their joints with deep suspicion. He did not want to know what happened if you accidentally stepped on a greave and squished the operator.

Another massive crash echoed from ahead, closer this time. A concussive blast of air and stone dust rushed down the hallway, hitting Zac full in the face.

He stood there for a moment, blinking grit out of his eyes and coughing into his sleeve. “Okay,” he wheezed. “Note to self, learn to duck when loud noises happen. The whole ‘fearless statue’ routine is bad for lung health.”

He brushed the grey dust from his black robes and rounded the corner.

The hallway ended in a scene of catastrophic structural failure. A massive section of the ceiling had collapsed, creating a wall of rubble that completely blocked the passage. The soldiers carrying the furniture were marching in place against the debris, their mindless programming unable to process the obstacle. Zac saw a few crushed gauntlets and sabatons twitching in the pile, bugs leaking out and trying to reform.

In front of the blockage, the demonic Timon and Pumbaa were having a meltdown.

“Sir Nock! Are you alright?!” the warthog shouted at the pile of rocks, wringing his meaty hands.

“We’ll get you out!” the rodent wailed, claws scrabbling at a boulder twice his size. “And we’ll find the architect responsible for this! I’ll have him decommissioned! I’ll have him composted!”

Zac walked forward, stepping over a twitching, disembodied pauldron. He grabbed a chunk of concrete and hefted it, testing the weight. “Wow,” he said casually. “This looks like it will take a while to clear. Is this the only way to the exit?”

The demon duo jumped as if electrocuted. They spun around, eyes wide with shock as they noticed the human standing between them. They both took a synchronized step back.

“Human?!” the warthog stuttered, his tusks quivering. “What the fuck?”

“What are you doing here?!” the rodent hissed, baring needle-like teeth. “Did you do this? Are you a saboteur?”

Zac looked between them, offering a friendly wave with his free hand. “Oh, hey guys. I’m Zac. Did Nock get crushed, or is he, like, on the other side? Because that robe was doing things to me, and I need closure.”

The demons’ posture shifted instantly from shock to aggression. They leaned forward, bristling.

“Why do you want to know about the Master?” the warthog grunted, snorting a cloud of angry steam.

“Why is a human even breathing the same air?” the rodent spat. “Vermin! Trespasser!”

“Whoa, easy,” Zac said, taking a step back. “I’m Ose’s Avatar. Just transferred in. I just wanted to see the lion again. Specifically in the revealing robe. For… strategic assessment.”

“Lies!” the rodent hissed. His beady eyes darted down to Zac’s hand. He pointed a trembling claw. “You thieving snake! You dare take one of Sir Nock’s treasures?!”

Zac looked down at the bottle. “What, this? I found it on the-”

“THIEF!” the warthog snorted in rage, stamping a hoof. “The Great Nock needs that to reduce tangles! His mane is his glory! You seek to sabotage his volume!”

“Hey, hey!” Zac yelped, stepping backward as the massive pig-demon lowered his head to charge. “I was bringing it back to him! I’m pro-volume! I support the mane!”

The warthog didn’t listen. With a squeal of fury, he charged.

The warthog was a freight train of muscle and fury, closing the distance in seconds. Zac didn’t flinch but he did brace for impact.

Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the high, vaulted ceiling.

Andras dropped like a stone. He landed squarely on the charging warthog’s back, driving his knees into the demon’s spine. The momentum and impact slammed the warthog face-first into the obsidian floor with a sickening crunch. The pig-demon skidded across the stone, sparks flying from his tusks, and came to a halt inches from the toes of Zac’s boots.

Andras crouched on top of his unconscious victim, perfectly balanced. His head swiveled a full 180 degrees with a soft click of bone to look directly at Zac. His golden eyes were bright with mischief.

“You might not want to be in this part of the keep for a while, darling,” the owlman drawled, lighting a cigarillo with a snap of his fingers. “I’m testing new traps on that poof lion’s soldiers.” He gave a soft, hooting laugh. “The living armor is nearly as stupid as the holy paladins, so it makes for wonderful research. Very accurate data points.”

Zac just nodded, staring. His mind was miles away from traps or data points. ‘If Nock was crushed to smithereens,’ he thought, admiring the way Andras’s coat flared around him, ‘then the owl will definitely do. Oh my hero. Swooping in from above. So dashing. So lethal.’

“Andras!” the rodent demon hissed, practically vibrating with rage. “You avian arse! Antagonizing our Master Sabnock! Sabotaging the move!”

Andras turned his head back around to face the threat, looking bored. “It’s called ‘security auditing,’ you glorified rat. You should thank me.”

The rodent let out a furious, high-pitched cheeping sound that grated on the ears. He waved his spindly arms in the air, weaving a spell of pure filth.

The air around him darkened as thousands of bugs swarmed from the cracks in the walls and the seams of the crushed armor. Beetles, centipedes, and worms coalesced into a swirling vortex. Nearby suits of living armor tore apart, their constituent insects joining the storm. Gauntlets, greaves, and sabatons floated in the air, carried by the buzzing cloud, forming a jagged, metallic tornado around the tiny mage.

Zac leaned over, peering past Andras’s shoulder. “Wow,” he whispered. “That’s… a lot of bugs. Is he going to build a mech suit out of beetles? Because that’s gross, but also kinda cool.”

Andras sighed, smoke curling from his beak. He drew his cutlass with a scrape of steel. “Bug magic. Why is it always bug magic? It’s so messy.” He glanced back at Zac, winking. “Stay close, pretty thing. This might get a little sticky.”

“Attack!” the meerkat shrieked.

A heavy iron gauntlet shot out of the swirling bug-vortex like a cannonball. Andras didn’t even flinch. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he slapped the gauntlet out of the air with the flat of his cutlass. The metal projectile careened sideways and slammed directly into the forehead of the warthog demon, who was just groggily pushing himself up. The pig-man went down again with a grunt.

“Amateurs,” Andras sighed.

The meerkat screeched in frustration and thrust both hands forward. The entire swarm surged, a chittering, crawling tidal wave of insects.

“Argh! I hate the bugs!” the warthog yelped from the floor as the wave washed over him, burying him in a mound of writhing chitin.

Andras moved. In one fluid motion, he hurled his cutlass. It spun through the air, burying itself deep in the sconce of the torch nearest the meerkat. The impact shattered the mount, and the torch fell, extinguishing instantly as it hit the bug-carpeted floor.

The meerkat squeaked in terror at the sudden darkness and leaped away, scrambling toward the light of a torch on the far wall.

But for Zac and Andras, the darkness was an open door.

Zac felt a rush of cold air and the firm, unyielding grip of the owlman. The world dissolved into shadow. He wasn't scared but the sensation of being yanked through the fabric of reality was disorienting.

Vision returned in a rush of vertigo. They were high above the hallway, perched in the deep shadows of the vaulted ceiling supports. Zac looked down at the distant floor, where the confused bug-mage was still looking for them, and made a mental note to hold on tight.

Then he realized he already was.

His legs were wrapped securely around Andras’s waist, his arms locked around the owl’s neck. ‘Totally planned that,’ Zac thought with a wicked grin. ‘Knew it would come in handy.’

Even through the thick, tattered greatcoat, he could feel the lean, corded muscle of the rogue beneath. The soft, fluffy feathers added a delightful texture to the embrace, a plushness that made Zac’s thoughts wander into dangerous territory. He tried, and failed, to stop himself from thinking about how nice that extra padding would be cushioning those slim, athletic hips during… strenuous activity.

Andras was hovering, his massive wings beating silently, keeping them aloft in the gloom. He looked down at Zac, his golden eyes burning with an intensity that made Zac’s breath hitch. The smirk on his beak was distilled trouble.

“Pure little avatar,” Andras whispered, his voice a smoky caress right against Zac’s ear. “I wondered why everyone seemed to be struck by Cupid when they saw you. But up close… the scent is intoxicating.”

The owl leaned in, running the sharp, curved edge of his beak along the sensitive cord of Zac’s neck. He inhaled deeply, a sound that vibrated through Zac’s chest.

Zac melted. His grip loosened, his body turning to liquid heat in the owl’s embrace. He tilted his head back, moving his mouth blindly toward the owl’s beak, ready to surrender absolutely everything.

Andras pulled back just an inch, his eyes glinting. “Would you scream for me if I asked you to?” he murmured softly.

Zac nodded dumbly, his eyes half-lidded. ‘Fuck yes I’ll scream for you,’ he thought, his mind a haze of lust. ‘Maybe from a bit of pain… not sure what an owl demon is packing, but at his height, I probably won’t be disappointed. Probably ribbed. Or barbed. God, I hope it’s barbed.’

“What do you want me to scream?” Zac whispered, breathless. “Your name? Or maybe you want me to call you a-”

Before he could finish the sentence, he felt the arms around him vanish.

Andras let go.

Zac hung in the air for a split second, staring at the owlman, who gave a cheerful little wave as he dissolved into the shadows of the ceiling.

“BASTARD!” Zac shouted as gravity remembered he existed. He tumbled backward into the empty air and began the long fall to the stone floor below.

Zac watched the fight unfold below him with the detached interest of someone watching a nature documentary, completely ignoring the fact that he was currently plummeting toward a terminal velocity impact.

‘So that’s what the top of a bug-tornado looks like,’ he mused calmly as the wind rushed past his ears. ‘Fascinating structure. Very vortex-y.’

Below, the meerkat mage looked up, his beady eyes widening as he saw the flailing, cursing human dropping toward him like a bomb. He opened his mouth to shout a command, but he never got the chance.

Andras rose from the floor.

He didn't step out of a doorway or drop from the ceiling this time. He rose directly out of the meerkat’s own shadow, cast long and sharp by the single torch on the wall. He materialized inside the swirling vortex of insects, the bugs parting around him as if repelled by his very presence.

The meerkat looked back, shocked, and began waving his spindly hands frantically, trying to command the swarm to attack the intruder within its midst.

Andras didn’t hesitate. His large, taloned hands shot out, wrapping around the meerkat’s scrawny neck. He began to squeeze.

The bugs rushed inward, a chittering wall of death closing in on the owlman. The meerkat, though choking, managed a twisted, victorious grin as his swarm prepared to devour his attacker.

Andras smirked back.

He sank.

In a blink, he dropped straight down into his own shadow, dragging the struggling meerkat with him into the inky void. The bugs slammed together in the empty space where they had been standing, a confused cloud of chitin and legs.

Across the room, near the extinguished torch where Andras had thrown his weapon, the shadows writhed.

Andras surged up from the darkness, still holding the meerkat by the neck. He slammed the demon backward, directly onto the blade of his own cutlass, which was still buried sideways in the stone wall.

There was a sickening shnk.

The meerkat’s head was severed cleanly from its body.

The effect was instantaneous. The swirling tornado of insects lost its cohesion. With a sound like heavy rain, thousands of bugs simply stopped flying and fell to the stone floor, a lifeless carpet of crunch.

Andras released the headless body, letting it slump to the floor. He turned just as the warthog, finally recovering from his earlier concussion, roared and charged again.

With casual grace, Andras spun and delivered a devastating side-kick to the warthog’s temple. The massive pig-demon stumbled sideways, dazed, right into the center of the hallway.

“Ooofff!”

Zac slammed into the warthog’s back with a cry of pain.

The impact knocked the wind out of both of them. The warthog collapsed under the sudden weight, cushioning Zac’s fall just enough to prevent broken bones, but not enough to prevent significant bruising. Zac rolled off the unconscious demon, gasping for air, staring up at the ceiling he had just fallen from.

“Okay,” he wheezed. “Ow. That… that hurt. A lot.”

“Good job,” Andras said, casually pulling his cutlass from the stone wall with a screech of metal.

Zac sat up, rubbing his ass. The warthog had provided a significant amount of cushion, but gravity was still a harsh mistress. “Good job for what? Being a projectile? Falling with style?”

“You…” Andras turned his head 180 degrees to look back at Zac, his expression unreadable. “Uh, you…” He trailed off, staring at Zac for a few long seconds, his golden eyes searching. He seemed to shake himself, correcting his head orientation with a click and walking over.

“You didn’t break,” the owl said simply. He looked down at the warthog demon, who had begun to roll over and moan groggily. Without breaking stride, Andras swung his cutlass in a casual arc. The warthog’s head separated from its shoulders. The moaning stopped.

“So,” Zac said slowly, watching Andras wipe the blade on the headless corpse’s leather apron. “If you’re done with your trap stuff… maybe you can show me where you’ll be staying? We can think of some funny traps together. It would be nice to know where things are trapped beforehand, too.” He laughed nervously, glancing at the pile of rubble blocking the hallway. “I don’t think I’d be laughing along with the prank on some of these. Getting crushed by a ceiling isn't really my kink. Yet.”

Andras looked from Zac to the hall full of rubble and frowned, his beak clicking shut. “I did mention you should avoid this hallway.”

“But like,” Zac pressed, getting to his feet and wincing, “what about tomorrow? Or the next hallway? I prefer my limbs attached.”

The owl’s eyes narrowed. “If I tell you, then the others might find out. Secrets are currency, little avatar.”

Zac nodded, stepping closer. “So, will you let me know before I die? Or should I just wear a helmet to breakfast?”

Andras sheathed his sword with a fluid motion. He looked contemplative, his head tilting to the side.

“A little early morning debriefing,” Zac offered, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. He stepped into the owl’s personal space again, undeterred by the earlier betrayal. “You could quietly tell me what rooms to avoid… and maybe I give you a little massage… with my tonsils.”

Andras’s feathers puffed out visibly, doubling his size for a split second. His wings twitched.

Zac pushed, sensing an opening. “Our little secrets together. Just you and me. Partners in crime.”

The change in Andras was instant. The playful smirk vanished. His shoulders stiffened, and the warmth in his golden eyes turned to ice. He took a sharp step back, putting distance between them. The rogue who had been flirting a moment ago was gone, replaced by a walled-off fortress.

“Partners,” Andras scoffed, the word tasting bitter in his mouth. He looked away, staring at the shadows in the corner of the room. “Yeah. Like I could trust someone like you with my plans. Don’t flatter yourself, kid. You’re just another asset to be managed.”

He turned his back on Zac, his greatcoat swirling around him. “Go find your lion. He’s probably crying over his conditioner somewhere.”

“I think he might be crushed to death,” Zac called out to the corsair’s back, gesturing vaguely at the rubble pile. “Just saying. Mane conditioner might be the least of his worries.”

Andras didn’t respond. He began to pull the shadows around himself like a cloak, the darkness in the room deepening and swirling at his feet. He was clearly preparing for his brooding exit.

“Anyways,” Zac continued, undeterred. “Not dying to a Wile E. Coyote style trap would be nice. I’m good with secrets. You can trust me.”

The owl stopped. His head turned 180 degrees with that unnerving click to sneer at Zac. “That remains to be seen. Someone who spreads their legs as wide as you do often spreads their lips just as easily.”

Zac nodded thoughtfully. “If you’re into that, just give me some time to make sure I clean up a bit first. Hygiene is important for ass to-.”

Andras’s feathers ruffled violently, puffing out until he looked like an angry, fluffy storm cloud. He turned his body around to match his head, abandoning his exit. “Like you could even take it like I give it,” he snarled, stepping closer. “A little virgin like you would be wailing and sobbing before I even got going.”

“Oh yeah?” Zac stepped forward, matching the owl’s energy, chest to chest. “You’d make me cry, huh? Pull my hair a bit so everyone else could hear me begging?”

“Yeah,” Andras hooted, a dangerous light in his eyes. “I’d fuck you right against Marchosias’s door. Let the whole keep hear you break.”

“Oh, hell yes,” Zac breathed, his eyes dilated. “I’d be wailing for the Captain that I was being defiled, and he would probably rip the door down to stop you.”

Andras’s hand shot out, grabbing Zac’s arm and yanking him close. His beak was inches from Zac’s face, his breath hot and smelling of smoke. “Good thing you’re a tight little thing,” he hissed. “Because I’m not concerned with your pleasure. Only mine.”

Zac felt his heart flutter, not with fear, but with pure, undiluted thrill. He leaned in, closing his eyes, tilting his head up for a kiss.

“I love you,” he whispered.

The effect was instantaneous. Andras looked like he had been shocked by a high-voltage cable. His eyes went wide, his feathers stood straight up, and his grip on Zac’s arm spasmed.

“What?!” he squawked.

Before Zac could land the kiss, the owlman vanished. He dissolved into his shadow so fast it created a vacuum.

Zac, leaning his full weight into a demon who was no longer there, fell forward. He landed face-first on the stone floor, directly into a pile of dead, crunchy insects left over from the earlier battle.

“Gross,” Zac mumbled into the bug carpet. “Worth it, though.”

Zac picked himself up off the floor and took a moment to survey the scene. The hallway was a masterpiece of carnage. To his left lay the decapitated body of the warthog demon, still twitching slightly. To his right, a headless meerkat. The floor was carpeted in a layer of dead, crunchy insects that crunched sickeningly under his boots. Further down, the corridor was blocked by tons of rubble where Andras had collapsed the ceiling on Nock’s unsuspecting movers.

His stomach rumbled, a loud, demanding growl echoing in the silent hall. But that wasn’t the only biological function he had left to wither.

A giddy smile spread across his face. He had almost kissed the dashing, dangerous demon. He had felt the heat of Andras’s body, the strength in that grip, the delightful friction of his feathers.

‘Oh, he is so playing hard to get,’ Zac thought, practically skipping over a severed demon arm. ‘The whole “we can’t be partners because I’m so bad and untrustworthy” routine? Classic bad boy defense mechanism. He’s terrified of intimacy. I can fix him. I can absolutely fix him.’

He rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘And then,’ his mind wandered into forbidden territory, ‘I finally get to see what owl dick looks like. Is it cloacal? Is there a hemipenis situation? The scientific community demands answers, and I am willing to do the field research.’

He checked his pocket, ensuring the bottle of Celestial Silk conditioner was safe. That was his ticket to Nock later. But for now, he had a more pressing engagement.

He needed to find his room.

If all the demons were busy at the moment… Marchosias brooding, Skarg on fire, Bune cleaning up, Halphas working out, Nock digging himself out of rubble, and Andras fleeing from emotional vulnerability, then Zac could be busy too. Busy thinking about getting busy with the demons.

He dusted the bug parts off his robes with a few brisk swipes, adjusted his collar, and marched off down the hallway with renewed purpose.

“Alright, Castle,” he announced to the empty, blood-stained air. “Show me the bedroom. Demon-seed dumpster needs some alone time.”

He turned a corner, leaving the carnage behind, humming a cheerful tune as he ventured deeper into the labyrinth, ready to locate his quarters and vigorously appreciate his new afterlife.

Zac was lost. Not just "took a wrong turn" lost, but "existentially adrift in a gothic nightmare" lost.

He didn't know how long he had been wandering. The keep had no clocks, no windows to the outside world other than the occasional slit revealing the eternal red gloom of the Pit. Time felt elastic here, stretching and compressing in the silence. Had it been hours? A day? His internal rhythm was gone, swallowed by the endless succession of identical black stone corridors, soaring arches, and silent, judgmental suits of armor.

His mouth was dry, his tongue feeling like a piece of sandpaper stuck to the roof of his mouth. The spicy aftertaste of the jalapeño cheese MRE lingered like a bad memory. His legs ached, the heavy black robes dragging on the floor with every step.

He slumped against a cold stone wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor.

“Okay,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “This is fine. I live here now. I am the Ghost of Corridor 47-B.”

He looked at a small, delicate side table across the hall, holding a vase of dead, black roses. He contemplated smashing it. Not out of anger, but utility. ‘If I break a few of those,’ he reasoned, ‘I could make a small fire. Get some warmth. Sleep on the floor until Bune’s cleaning crew sweeps me up with the dust bunnies.’

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the stone. The silence of the keep pressed in on his ears, a heavy, suffocating blanket.

Then, the sound tore through the quiet.

"AVATAR!"

It was a howl. A furious, resonant sound that vibrated through the stone floor, up Zac’s spine, and rattled his teeth. It was pure, distilled authority. It was Marchosias.

Zac’s eyes snapped open. His ears perked up, a phantom sensation, really, but he felt like a dog hearing its master’s whistle. The sound had bypassed his fear center and gone straight to his 'Oh thank god' center (which was located suspiciously close to his libido).

“Wolf Daddy,” he whispered, scrambling to his feet.

He looked left. He looked right. The echo of the howl bounced off the stone walls, making direction difficult to pinpoint. But a faint, lingering vibration seemed to hum from the corridor to his left.

“Eeny, meeny, miny… left,” Zac decided. He pushed off the wall and started jogging, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, drawn like a moth to the angry, howling flame.

Zac turned the corner, fully expecting to see another endless expanse of empty hallway. Instead, he nearly collided with Bune.

The butler was standing in front of a pair of double doors, clearly agitated. The Left Head was shouting into the room beyond. “You’ll eat when everyone is seated! Put that leg down!”

The Right Head spotted Zac and let out a sigh of relief that was mostly smoke. “There you are! Where did you run off to? We’ve been looking everywhere! Come, it is dinner time.”

Zac didn’t need to be told twice. He cast one last, shuddering glance back at the labyrinthine darkness of the House of Usher hallways and decided that exploring solo was officially off the itinerary. He hurried to Bune’s side.

“Sorry,” Zac said. “I got… turned around. The castle is big.”

“It is designed to confuse intruders,” the Left Head sniffed. “It works, evidently.”

Bune ushered him through the doors and into the dining room.

The room was exactly as Zac remembered it from his earlier lunch quest… long table, gothic windows, dripping candles, but now it was occupied. And it was chaos.

At the far end of the table, Nock was weeping openly. The lion, now cleaned up but still looking disheveled, pointed a trembling, dramatic finger across the table at Andras. “You crushed my spirit!” he wailed. “And my soldiers! And my grooming vanity desk! How could you?!”

Andras sat opposite him, leaning back in his chair, casually picking his talons with a silver dinner fork. He looked bored. “Do you have any proof, poof?”

Further down, Halphas was making whoosh noises and moving his hand like an airplane, recounting a war story to a very disinterested Marchosias. “-so I banked left, dropped the payload right down the chimney, and boom! Bunker buster!”

Marchosias sat at the head of the table, staring into a goblet of wine as if wishing it were hemlock. He looked like he had heard this story a few times already.

Then, Skarg spotted Zac.

The wendigo, who had been sulking over an empty plate, perked up instantly. His ears swiveled, his nostrils flared, and a wide grin split his face.

“Avatar!” he bellowed.

Skarg rushed over, covering the distance in three massive strides. He didn't ask. He didn't hesitate. He simply scooped Zac up in his arms like someone would do to a puppy that did not have a collar on and was very cute.

Zac smiled, going instantly limp and boneless in the caribou’s embrace. He rested his head against Skarg’s broad, furry chest, inhaling the scent of musk and cold air. “Take me away,” he whispered dreamily. “To the dungeon. Or the bedroom. Dealer’s choice.”

“Put him down, Furfur!” Bune shrieked from the doorway. “That is not proper etiquette!”

Skarg ignored the dragon completely. He carried Zac over to the table and unceremoniously plopped him down in the empty chair next to his own. He then sat down heavily, pulling his chair unnecessarily close so their legs were pressed together under the table.

Zac looked over at Skarg, fluttering his eyelashes. “You could have kidnapped me, you know. Human trafficking smut is super hot right now. Very trendy.”

Skarg paused, a frown creasing his brow. He looked genuinely concerned. “Are… are humans okay?”

Before Zac could explain the nuances of dark romance tropes, a crystal clear ding cut through the noise.

Bune stood at the head of the room, holding a small silver bell. The sound silenced the table instantly. Even Nock sniffled and quieted down.

“Dinner,” the Left Head announced formally, “is served.”

The double doors to the kitchen swung open, and a procession of zombie waiters and waitresses shuffled in. They moved with the jerky, uncoordinated gait of cheap animatronics, their dead eyes staring vacantly as they carried massive silver platters.

They placed the meals with varying degrees of clumsiness.

Skarg received a raw, bloody haunch of meat that looked like it had been ripped off a centaur five minutes ago. He immediately picked it up with both hands and bit into it with a wet crunch.

Nock was served a delicate arrangement of songbird tongues and roasted grapes on a bed of gold leaf. He picked at it daintily with a silver fork, still sniffling.

Andras got a bowl of what looked like live, squirming grubs in a spicy broth. He winked at the zombie who served him.

Halphas received a literal mountain of protein. Steaks, whole roast chickens, and a pile of hard-boiled eggs…. He began inhaling it with military efficiency.

Marchosias’s plate held a perfectly seared, medium-rare steak with a side of charred vegetables. It was sensible, nutritious, and deadly serious.

A zombie shuffled up to Zac and placed a covered silver platter in front of him. Zac stared at the domed lid, his hands trembling slightly. He reached out, gripped the cool metal handle, and lifted.

Steam curled up. The sweet, artificial scent of blueberry and preservatives hit his nose.

Zac slowly grinned. Waffles.

Then, his eyes narrowed. He looked up at Bune, who was overseeing the service. “You two-faced snake,” he whispered. “You said there were no waffles in Hell. If I bite into this and find out it’s just textured crepes masquerading as breakfast perfection, I’m gonna-”

“Avatar.”

The bark cut off Zac’s angry rant instantly. His head snapped toward the head of the table, his expression shifting from rage to adoration in a nanosecond. “Yes, Captain?”

Marchosias was watching him, looking surprisingly pleased with himself. “I heard you are a picky eater. I had this meal procured for you specially. As we do not have much, uhm…” He frowned, glancing at the butler. “Bune, what Earth is this one from?”

Zac froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Which Earth?” he questioned slowly. “As in… more than one Earth?”

Bune pulled a clipboard from his coat, flipping a page with a claw. “Earth designation 3c88XT0o, Captain. A rather noisy, polluted variant. We don’t recruit from there often.”

“So, there are a few Earths then,” Zac said, his voice small. He suddenly felt very tiny in a very large, very complicated universe.

“Ah, yes,” Marchosias continued, breezing past the existential crisis. “We do not have much of that Earth’s food stock, but,” he gestured magnanimously to the plate where four very overcooked, slightly burnt frozen waffles sat sad and dry, “we are resourceful. We managed to get some sent over via courier imp.”

The wolf leaned back, crossing his arms, looking undeniably proud of his logistical triumph. He waited for the praise.

He didn't get it.

Zac had stopped listening long ago. He was already eating. Or rather, he was unhinging his jaw like a snake. He didn't bother with a knife or fork. He picked up the first waffle and shoved half of it into his mouth, chewing frantically. It was dry. It was burnt. It was the best thing he had ever tasted.

Marchosias frowned, his ears twitching. “Uh, yes. We can have another box prepared for you.”

Zac didn’t respond. He was currently licking the plate clean, chasing a crumb of blueberry with his tongue.

The wolf looked a bit upset. He had expected gratitude, perhaps a poetic declaration of thanks like Nock would offer. Instead, he was being ignored for a toaster pastry. He put his hands to his temples, rubbing away the onset of a headache.

“Halphas,” he barked. “Make another box. The Avatar looks like he hasn’t eaten in days.”

Zac immediately dropped his plate with a clatter. His attention snapped to the eagle. Make a box, he could make frozen waffles right here?

Halphas grinned, wiping grease from his beak. “You got it, Cap.” He stood up, pushing his chair back. He began to roll up the sleeves of his grey uniform.

Zac watched, mesmerized. The fabric strained and then yielded, revealing forearms that were thick, corded with muscle, and dusted with fine feathers.

‘So dense,’ Zac thought, biting his lip. ‘So thick. I bet he could crush a watermelon with those forearms. I bet he could crush my head. Please crush me.’

Halphas held his hand out over the table, grinning. “Lucky we got the crates shipped in after the pantry burned down, eh? Supply chain resilience, baby.”

“SKARG IS NO LONGER ALLOWED IN THE KITCHEN!” Bune’s Left Head shrieked, pointing an accusing fork.

The caribou man slammed his half-eaten, bloody haunch down on the table with enough force to splatter droplets of gore onto Zac’s cheek. “If you let me take care of the Avatar, I wouldn’t need to light things on fire to keep him warm!” he yelled, bits of raw meat flying.

Andras flicked a spicy grub across the table. It bounced off Skarg’s antler. “Not a bad idea,” the owl drawled. “The human would seduce you within minutes, the wards would trigger, and then the rest of us would be free of you after the Captain boils your marrow for disobeying orders.”

“Shut up, you!” Nock sniffled, dabbing his eyes with a silk napkin. “I had all of my custom boar-bristle brushes in that desk! They were imported from the Seventh Circle!”

Halphas glanced over at the tearful cat, shaking his head. “Shoulda had things checked in through inventory, bro. If it’s not logged, it’s not protected.”

As he spoke, Halphas’s hand began to glow with a dark, pulsating light. The air around his fingers warped. With a sudden puff of black smoke and whitish-grey feathers, a pristine, yellow box of Blueberry Waffles materialized in his grip.

Zac didn’t hesitate. He half-dove across the table, snatching the box right from the eagle’s grasp before the smoke had even cleared.

‘He has guns AND creation magic?’ Zac thought, hugging the box to his chest like a baby. ‘That is so cheating. He’s a walking cheat code. I love him.’

“You would ruin the market if you copied my treasures,” Nock said, blowing his nose loudly into the napkin. “If Purson or Marbas learned of my regimen, they would copy it in a heartbeat! The exclusivity is half the value!”

“No one cares about how you brush adrenochrome into your facial fur for thirty minutes every morning,” Andras muttered around a mouthful of grubs.

“It’s for wrinkles!” Nock defended hotly, his anger toward the owl momentarily breaking through his waterworks. “Stress lines are the enemy of beauty!”

“Or how you soak your paws in angel blood every week,” Bune sighed, looking pained. “Do you know how hard that is to source? And it stains the basins terribly.”

“It keeps my pads soft!” Nock declared, holding up a paw to inspect the beans. “A knight must have a firm grip but a gentle touch!”

“Your furniture was quite extensive, Nock,” Marchosias rumbled from the head of the table, cutting in. “We had to clear three storerooms just for your wardrobe.”

Nock turned to the wolf, his expression wounded. “You said ‘only the necessities,’ Captain! And on such short notice, too! I’m sure there are many vital things I forgot. My exfoliating salts! My velvet capes!” He turned his gaze to Zac, his eyes softening. “But… our new charge is so fragile. I understand why you want to keep him… kenneled for now. A prize must be guarded.”

Zac looked up. A frozen waffle was slowly disappearing into his mouth as he chewed, unheated and unrelenting. He locked eyes with the lion. “Kennel me please,” he mumbled around a mouthful of blueberry cardboard.

“Yeah,” Skarg laughed loudly, spraying more meat. “And you look like a total queermo with all those dresses, Nock. ‘Necessities,’ my ass.”

“They are post-battle garments!” Nock spat at Skarg, bristling. “Not that you’d understand the difficulties of creating a proper silhouette. Or the strain of besieging a fortress for months on end!”

Skarg scoffed, tearing another strip of flesh from the bone. “Months?... ... Slow bitch.”

“Ah!” Nock hissed in outrage, rising from his seat. “You uncultured-”

“Shut up, you ingrates!” Marchosias growled, the vibration rattling the silverware. “We are here to watch the battle. Now eat. Bune won’t start the broadcast until the table is clear.”

“Ooh, a show after a meal?” Zac grinned, waving his waffle. “Y’all classy A F, really know how to romance a guy.”

His words trailed off as a giddy chill ran up his spine. The Captain was looking at him. It was a look of profound, weary disapproval, the kind a parent gives a child who just tried to eat a battery. It was confusingly hot.

“Did you not procure a high chair yet, Bune?” Marchosias asked, finally tearing his gaze away from the radiantly pure yet somehow diabolically thirsty human. “The Avatar is… surprisingly mobile. At least restraining him would be easier than the other imbeciles...”

“I was a bit preoccupied!” Bune wailed from his spot near the door, where he was trying to supervise the zombie waiters. “The fire! The loss of inventory! The eagle crying! The caribou crying! The multiple ceiling collapses! The bug infestation! Multiple dead! Blood everywhere! Architectural instability! The lion crying! The stains! The horrible, horrible stains!”

“I didn’t ask for an itinerary of your failures,” Marchosias growled. “I asked if you got a high chair. Or at least… maybe a gag.”

Zac’s eyes went wide.

“YES! GAG ME, WOLF DADDY!”

Before his brain could catch up with his mouth, Zac found himself standing on his chair and attempting to crawl across the table toward the Captain, scattering Nock’s gold-leafed grapes.

“Hey!”

Skarg’s massive hand shot out, grabbing Zac by the back of his robes and hauling him backward. He spun Zac around until they were face-to-face, the wendigo’s icy breath washing over him.

“You don’t want that total stick in the mud!” Skarg snarled, his eyes wild with jealousy. “He fucking irons his clothes! He probably schedules his morning wood!” Skarg’s eyes hardened, a dangerous, primal light igniting in them. “Don’t you want a guy who’s gonna keep plowing your hole even when you’re crying? Huh?!”

Zac just nodded, completely mute with desire.

“Put the Avatar down, Skarg.”

Marchosias put his face in his hands. He took a deep breath. When he spoke again, the gravel was gone, replaced by the terrifying, melodious resonance of the Compelling Voice.

“NO TALKING UNTIL YOU ALL FINISH YOUR MEALS.”

The silence was instant and absolute.

Zac’s mouth snapped shut. Skarg dropped him back into his chair with a grunt. Nock choked on a grape. Andras stopped chewing a grub mid-bite.

The only sound in the cavernous dining hall was the scraping of forks, the tearing of meat, and the frantic beating of Zac’s traitorous heart. Discipline me Mr. Big Bad Wolf.

The rest of the meal went surprisingly fast without the constant side conversations and threats of violence. Zac, having finished his own surprisingly filling allotment of waffles, was now eyeing the goblet in front of him with intense curiosity. It was filled with a liquid so dark red it was almost black. It looked a little thick, viscous, but after eating eight processed breakfast food products in under five minutes, his mouth felt like a desert.

He was just about to risk it, his hand reaching for the stem of the goblet, when Bune clapped his four hands together, a sharp, echoing sound.

“Dinner is concluded!” the Left Head announced.

A zombie waiter, moving with unsettling speed, materialized at Zac’s elbow and snatched the plate and goblet away just as Zac’s fingers brushed the cool metal.

“Hey!” Zac protested, but the zombie was already shuffling away. He slumped in his chair, stewing in his thirst.

Marchosias coughed, a dry, pointed sound that drew all eyes. He looked around the table, a flicker of satisfaction in his amber eyes. “Good. You complete failures finally shut up for once.” He gestured to the far end of the room. “Now, we are here to oversee tonight’s battle, since we are not there in person to participate.”

A low grumble went around the table.

“We should have gone,” Skarg growled, slamming his fist on the table. “The Avatar would have seen how I’m the only one who does anything of value.”

This declaration did not sit well with the other demons, they all rebutted at once.

“Ha! You do something?” Nock flipped his perfectly conditioned mane. “All you do is make the paladins cry. You corrupt their pure eyes with your disproportionate, ass-faced nudity.”

“Taking care of a bunch of fodder soldiers on the front line is the simplest job,” Andras sneered, lighting a fresh cigarillo. “Any of us could do it. You just enjoy simple things, like hitting rocks with other rocks.”

“Someone must protect the home and hearth from incursions!” Bune’s Right Head huffed. His Left Head turned to the owl. “And someone has to fix all of your ‘security auditing’ before the Captain impales himself on a tripwire.”

“You may run out there and knock some paladins around, but you’re no one-man army,” Halphas squawked, puffing out his chest. “Even you’d fall with enough swords beating on you for long enough, herbivore.”

“And you hold yourself back,” Marchosias added, his voice cutting through the cacophony of indignation, silencing them all. He stared down Skarg until the wendigo looked away. “You don't even need to use your antlers...”

The Captain’s gaze swept over all of them, a silent rebuke.

“But it does not matter. We all stay here until I can be certain the Avatar’s existence has not been leaked. Is that understood?”

Zac blew a loud raspberry, slumping down in his chair. “Lame. If no one knows I’m a virgin but us, then why can’t we just pretend like I’m not? The plans wouldn’t have to change, and if you wanted to zip off to the battle, you could.” He winked at Bune. “I’d just stay here with the butler… he’s a leaker, that one.”

“No!” Bune’s Left Head said sharply. “When I said you made me leak, it was a purely physiological hoarding response triggered by your unique-”

“NO,” Marchosias barked, cutting him off. His gaze was fixed on Zac, hard and unyielding. “Why else would Ose choose you? Out of the infinity of possible choices, out of every damned soul in every hell, why you? You were sent to be used by me for this war.”

“Oh, he wants to be used, alright,” Andras murmured to his cigarillo.

“Maybe he chose me because he wanted to fulfill my wishes,” Zac said, puffing out his chest. “Like I was the infinity-and-first person to die while thinking about being mating-pressed by a minotaur, so… I win the grand prize?”

Zac looked around the table, glad to see the demons smiling at his 'joke'. He felt a little less good when they burst into full-throated, uproarious laughter.

“Contracting with a demon isn’t a door prize, you twerp!” Halphas managed to choke out, slapping Marchosias on the shoulder so hard the wolf stumbled. “A grand prize! Hah!”

Marchosias was the only one, other than Zac, who wasn’t laughing. He just looked so very, very tired. Zac flashed another smile at the wolf, his resolve hardening. ‘There’s always a white whale,’ he thought, sizing up the Captain. ‘The real grand prize. The one you take home to meet the folks and show off at the high school reunions because he’s classy and professional and drives a sick-ass convertible that somehow keeps his hair perfect. Yeah, those other losers are still paying off their student loans while I’m getting pumped full of pups in a penthouse.’

“Avatar. Pay attention.”

Zac shook his head, a heavy hand on his shoulder jostling him from his fantasy. It was Skarg.

He looked around. Everyone had stopped laughing. They were all looking up.

Zac tilted his head back, following their gaze.

The world dropped out from under him.

The high, vaulted ceiling of the dining hall was gone. In its place, swirling with impossible clarity, was a perfect, bird’s-eye view projection of the battlefield. It was a dizzying, terrifying perspective. He saw ranks of gleaming, silver-armored paladins clashing with hordes of monstrous, chittering demons on a blasted plain under a blood-red sky. He could see individual sword swings, bursts of holy fire, and the splash of black ichor.

The projection was so sharp, so real, that for a terrifying moment, Zac felt like he was falling. Vertigo seized him, and he gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white, convinced he was about to plummet a thousand feet into the very real, very high-definition battle below.

“Whoa,” he whispered, his earlier bravado completely gone, replaced by a profound, gut-wrenching sense of scale. “What the hell is that?”

“Oh, it’s just a projection,” Bune’s Left Head said calmly, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

“Using necromantic energies, I can reassemble the memories of the recently deceased,” the Right Head explained, sounding like a museum tour guide. “Think of them like a network of disposable cameras. They are a bit like goldfish, though… very short attention spans… so what we are witnessing are the memories of those who have most recently fallen, on a five-minute delay.”

Zac nodded, dumbstruck. He stared up at the impossible vista, his vertigo slowly subsiding. He could see what Bune meant. There were fuzzy patches in the celestial battle, areas of static where the memories of the fallen couldn’t fill in the gaps coherently. It was like watching a live broadcast with a few dead pixels.

His concentration was shattered by a loud screech of iron on stone.

“NO!” Marchosias barked, shooting to his feet and pointing a claw at the ceiling. “The flanking Capras commandos should be covering for each other! I said bounding overwatch, not a full-frontal charge! IDIOTS!”

Zac couldn’t help but smile. The terrifying Captain of the warband, the brooding wolf daddy, was acting like an old guy getting passionate about a football game, yelling at the players on his TV. It was absurdly, unbelievably endearing. ‘Oh,’ Zac thought, a wave of warmth spreading through his chest, ‘I would so celebrate with him if his team won. Or console him if they lost. I would console him so hard.’

The rest of the demons watched with the detached interest of jaded sports commentators.

“Sloppy,” Halphas grunted, picking his beak with a chicken bone. “They’re letting the paladins dictate the pace. I would have hit them with a pincer movement thirty seconds ago.”

“Look at that one,” Andras chuckled, pointing with his cigarillo at a particularly brutal skirmish where a massive, horrible, ape looking demon was tearing a knight in half. “Gusion’s boy. Good form. Messy, but effective.”

Nock sighed dramatically. “All brute force and no finesse. A truly elegant commander would have broken their supply lines and forced a surrender through attrition and poetry. Far more civilized.”

Skarg just grumbled. “Why are we even watching this? It’s just grunts killing other grunts. What’s the point? We should be down there.”

“The point, Furfur,” Marchosias growled, sitting back down heavily, “is to assess the enemy’s new tactics. To see what this ‘detection system’ is capable of.” He gestured up at the swirling chaos. “We are looking for anomalies. Anything that deviates from their standard doctrine.”

The demons grumbled but fell silent, their eyes once again turning to the ghostly battle unfolding above them. The only sounds in the room were the distant, spectral clash of steel and Skarg still noisily chewing on a piece of centaur gristle.

The longer Zac watched, the more uncomfortable he became. At first, it had been a spectacle, a movie, a game. But the sheer, unrelenting brutality began to wear on him.

The two tides of armies crashed against each other like waves, a roiling sea of silver and black. Where the waves broke, bodies piled up, forming gruesome new terrain that the next wave would climb over. Blasts of holy light rained down from paladin formations, lances of pure sunlight that vaporized demons where they stood. In response, shadows on the ground writhed and stretched, and gouts of hellfire erupted, swallowing knights whole.

It wasn't a battle with a clear beginning or end. It was just a continuous, grinding process of mutual annihilation. This was the eternal war Ose had spoken of, and it was horrifying.

"Is it… is it a bad thing that you all are here?" Zac asked quietly, his voice barely a whisper in the echoing room. "If the demons lose the fight… is it all over? Will we have to retreat from the Pit?"

The question was met with a ripple of confused, amused, and mocking reactions.

"This is just a skirmish," Marchosias rumbled, his eyes still glued to the battle, never once looking at Zac. "A fight over tertiary vantage points that won't even be relevant in a week. The front lines we are watching are for posturing. We cannot allow them to move without inflicting losses. It is a matter of principle."

Zac swallowed hard. He watched a demon with too many arms and a paladin with a flaming sword violently stab each other in the face, collapsing together in a tangled heap. Posturing.

"But the demons," he said, correcting himself, "I mean… we… are incurring losses too. A lot of them."

"They will lose more," Marchosias said, gritting his teeth. "They will lose more if those idiots would just follow my fucking plan!" He shot to his feet again, leaning over the table as if he could physically will the ghostly troops to obey. "You illiterate hellspawn! Go to the fucking left! PINCER! PINCER!"

Zac sighed. He didn't really know the rules of this particular game, but from where he was sitting, it looked an awful lot like Marchosias's team was losing. And losing badly. The silver tide of paladins was pushing forward, slowly but inexorably, their holy light seeming to gain ground with every wave.

The battle just seemed to continue on endlessly. ‘I guess that's why they call it the eternal war,’ Zac thought, his initial shock already fading into a profound sense of boredom. The hunky, dysfunctional demons around the table were far more interesting than some epic, large-scale battle between good and evil.

As Marchosias continued to yell tactical advice at the dead, Zac began to ship the demons together in his head. Skarg and Nock were the obvious hate-fuck couple, all repressed tension and violent foreplay. Halphas and Marchosias were the power couple, with Bune as their overworked, underappreciated polyamorous partner who did all the emotional labor. Andras was the mysterious ex who was still secretly in love with all of them and caused drama out of jealousy. Zac’s mind, he had to admit, was a dangerous and deeply degenerate place.

He was just about to cast himself as the plucky newcomer who breaks up the established couples to form a new, chaotic harem when a sharp, surprised hoot cut through the air.

“What in the hells was that?”

Andras had pulled the cigarillo from his beak and was pointing its glowing tip up at the aerial, necrotic hologram. The owl’s usual lazy amusement was gone, replaced by a look of sharp, predatory focus.

Zac and the others all looked up, trying to find what the owl had spotted amidst the swirling chaos of the battle. For a moment, there was nothing but the usual carnage.

A sharp squawk sounded out next.

“What in the hells is that?!” Halphas said, slamming his taloned hands onto the table and shooting to his feet. His eyes were fixed on a small, seemingly insignificant corner of the battlefield.

Zac’s eyes darted across the projection, trying to focus, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for. On a battlefield filled with fire-breathing demons and knights wielding swords of pure light, what could possibly be out of place?

Bune was the next to spot it. The Left Head leaned forward, its eyes narrowed in analytical focus. The Right Head gasped, a small puff of violet smoke escaping its nostrils. "But that's… that's against the rules!"

Zac looked around the table. The mood had shifted from jaded commentary to genuine alarm.

Skarg snorted out a cloud of frost. "I told you we should have been there."

“Those scallywags!” Nock roared, his chivalrous demeanor replaced with outrage. “This is a flagrant violation of the Accords of Carnage! Outrageous!”

Amidst the growing indignation, Marchosias was now utterly silent.

The Captain stood slowly, his knuckles white where he gripped the back of his chair. His amber eyes were fixed on the projection, but the anger was gone. In its place was something Zac had never seen before, a look of raw, undisguised, almost... longing.

Zac looked up one more time, his gaze following the Captain's. And then he saw it.

It was a figure, tall and serene, moving through the heart of the chaotic battle. Its skin was stark white, seeming to cast its own soft, internal light on the blood and mud around it. It carried a massive war hammer made of dark, polished wood, inlaid with what looked like gold. Zac couldn't make out the details of its face from this distance, but he knew he was looking at the anomaly when he saw the wings.

Six of them.

They weren't feathery appendages. They were vast, sharp, geometric constructs that looked like they were made of stained glass depicting scenes of divine judgment. They floated behind the white figure, not flapping, but held in a perfect, celestial array, catching the light of holy blasts and hellfire and refracting it into a thousand tiny rainbows.

The figure was not fighting. It was… proceeding. It moved in a slow, straight, inexorable line directly through the battlefield, a calm island in a sea of violence. When a demon lunged, it would swing its war hammer in a graceful, almost lazy arc. The impact was silent, but the demon would simply… cease to be, dissolving into a cloud of dispersing motes. When a paladin tried to salute, it ignored them.

It was heading directly for their side of the battlefield, a being of such profound power and alien grace that it made the war itself seem like a petty squabble.

‘Is that an angel?’ Zac thought, his mind struggling to process the serene, terrifying figure. ‘Of course there are angels if there are demons. Duh.’ But this was different from the cherubs and robed figures from Sunday school paintings. This was a weapon. A living siege engine made of light and glass.

But what did Bune and Nock mean, ‘against the rules’? Zac had assumed an eternal war between Heaven and Hell would be a no-holds-barred affair. Were there weight classes? Prohibited moves? A referee he couldn't see?

His train of thought was derailed by a sudden chorus of savage, triumphant howls from the demons at the table.

Zac looked up at the projection. The mood had shifted from shocked outrage to a kind of bloodthirsty glee.

“Get ‘em, Glasya!” Halphas squawked, slamming a fist on the table.

“Tear its wings off!” Skarg roared.

Zac scanned the battlefield, trying to see what had them so excited. He found it. Another figure, this one moving with brutal speed and purpose from the demonic side of the front lines, was cutting a path directly toward the white-winged angel.

It was a doberman pinscher man.

Tall, lean, and corded with muscle, his fur was a sleek, glossy black. Massive, leathery brown wings, more like a bat's than a bird's, beat powerfully, propelling him over the battlefield in short, brutal bursts. He wore no armor, only a complex harness of dark leather straps that crisscrossed his chest and torso, studded with silver rings. He was the picture of raw, disciplined violence.

‘Rough doggy daddy,’ Zac’s brain supplied instantly. ‘Oh god, the leather harness. That looks so good. It would look so good on…' His eyes involuntarily flicked to Marchosias. He tried to imagine the stern, dignified wolf captain strapped into a similar, suggestive outfit, all that grey fur and muscle bound in black leather… Zac felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple.

He forced his attention back to the projection. The doberman demon was working his way across the battlefield, not with a hammer, but with his bare hands and teeth, a whirlwind of claws and fury. He wasn't ignoring the battle; he was reveling in it, ripping through paladins with a savage joy that was the complete opposite of the angel's serene detachment. He was on an intercept course, a black dog of war sent to meet the pale seraph in the heart of the battle.

As Glasya-Labolas tore across the battlefield, a fine, crimson mist began to emanate from his body. It was an aura, a veil of pure bloodlust. Where it touched, order dissolved. Paladins dropped their shields, their eyes glazing over, and began manically attacking their own comrades. Demons forgot their formations, turning on each other in a frenzy of mindless violence. The doberman demon carved a trail of pure, self-sustaining chaos as he rushed toward the angel.

Zac watched, mesmerized, as the demon closed in on a phalanx of heavily armored knights. Glasya didn’t slow down. He just swung his claws in a wide arc in front of himself. The attacks didn't even seem to connect, but the paladins in his path were eviscerated nonetheless, their plate armor peeling away like fruit rind as they collapsed into bloody shreds.

“He’s just flying in a straight line,” Andras sighed, sounding unimpressed. “That mutt should at least try to be a little sneaky. No artistry.”

Skarg laughed, a harsh, guttural sound. “That mutt is too old to learn new tricks. He’s wasting time with the blood mist, if you’re asking me. He could just kill them himself in less time.”

“Yeah, he looks shorter than Marchosias, too,” Zac added, his mind obviously elsewhere as he continued to compare every demon to his new gold standard.

Zac watched as the demon and angel finally met.

As Glasya’s red mist of bloodlust washed over the angel, the stained-glass wings seemed to absorb it, the light within them glowing a fraction brighter. The chaos-inducing aura had no effect.

Glasya moved in to attack, his claws flashing in another invisible, armor-shredding arc. But this time, as they neared the angel’s wings, the invisible became visible. The air itself seemed to warp and shimmer, revealing the ghostly, shimmering outlines of wicked, three-pronged tiger claws extending from the demon’s knuckles.

Glasya’s eyes widened. He faltered for a microsecond, his forward momentum slowing just the slightest bit, surprised at having his ultimate trick revealed.

The angel didn't even try to block.

Its hands, which had been resting on the massive wooden war hammer, lifted the weapon high. It brought the gavel down in a slow, graceful, unstoppable arc.

CRACK.

The sound was not an explosion. It was the sound of something ancient and brittle breaking.

The mighty Doberman demon, the great and terrible President of Hell, shattered. He didn’t bleed. He didn’t scream. He simply broke apart like a clay pot, dissolving into a million shards of black ceramic and dust that were instantly scattered by the wind.

The projection flickered. It went dark.

The dining room was plunged into a heavy, shocked silence, the only light now coming from the flickering candles. The show was over.

Zac broke the silence, his voice a small, confused whisper.

“Did… did that angel thing just, uh… turn off the BDSM dog man’s magic powers?”

Zac found himself being led by Bune back into the winding corridors of the keep. The nightly entertainment seemed to have thoroughly dampened the spirits of the demons. They had all gone broody and quiet, which Zac didn't mind because they all looked incredibly hot when they were broody and quiet, but it did lead to him being unceremoniously hauled out from under the dining table by his ankle just as he was about to reach Marchosias’s unsuspecting lap. Bedtime, Bune had declared.

“Just because they sent in LeBron to kick your team’s ass doesn’t mean the war’s lost, right?” Zac asked curiously, trying to keep up with the butler’s brisk pace. “That was just a skirmish. Why would they cart some big shot over just to fight the leather doggy daddy?”

“Do not call President Glasya-Labolas that, Avatar,” Bune’s Left Head corrected gently.

The Right Head still seemed agitated, its voice much faster than usual. “There will be a meeting about this, I am sure! To think they would actually break the rules after all this time! I didn’t even know they were metaphysically able to break rules!”

Zac struggled to keep his bearings in the maze-like keep. Every turn looked the same. “I didn’t think war had rules,” he said. “I mean, humans like to pretend there are rules, but it’s more just like, ‘Hey, we agree not to ruin huge swaths of land for everyone forever, pinky swear.’”

“Of course there are rules!” Bune’s Left Head said, leading Zac up another grand, spiraling staircase. “If there were no rules, then the war would have ended long ago.”

His other head nodded. “How else would it be eternal if not for some guidelines? It would be chaos. Unsustainable.”

Zac tried to consider this, to wrap his head around the concept of a regulated forever-war. But then Bune’s butt was directly at his eye level as they ascended the stairs. The dragon’s tail was thick and powerful, yes, but somehow, he still had buns. Defined, muscular buns that strained against the fabric of his trousers with every step. ‘Nice,’ Zac thought, his philosophical train of thought completely derailing. ‘Very nice.’

“…and that’s where you will come in,” Bune finished, his voice echoing slightly in the stairwell.

Zac snapped back to attention. “I mean, if you insist,” he murmured, staring intently at the aforementioned buns. “But if I’m coming in, you’re coming in too.”

Bune stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back, an odd expression on both of his faces. “You must be tired after such a busy day being hounded by those ruffians. It is making you delirious.”

The butler stopped at a random, unmarked door and pushed it open, revealing a small, spartan room. It had a bed and a bureau, just like the one he’d changed in earlier, but Zac was sure this wasn’t the same place. The window was on the wrong wall.

Before he could protest, he felt a sudden, hot breath on his neck. Bune had leaned in from behind, and both heads were sniffing him with an unnerving intensity. Zac shuddered, a jolt of something that wasn't fear running down his spine.

“Still pure,” the Left Head whispered, the sound a low, possessive rumble.

“Pristine condition,” the Right Head agreed, a hint of reverence in its voice.

They both sighed in unison, a twin plume of satisfied smoke, before standing tall again.

“Please enter, Zachary,” the Left Head said, his voice once again the formal butler. “Rest well. I will make sure the door is locked.”

Zac looked left. He looked right. He looked back at Bune. “Wait, no, that’s okay. I was just gonna take a walk around for a bit after I get settled in, you know, stretch my legs.”

His mind was racing. He was trying to retrace his steps, trying to form a mental map back to the dining hall, back to where he’d last seen Marchosias. He just knew the wolf demon needed some hot and sloppy consoling after watching his war team get rocked.

He could see it now. Marchosias would be there, frustrated and grouchy, staring at a map. Zac would walk up and rub his back gently, saying something like, ‘Don’t let it get you down, champ. We’ll get ‘em next time.’ March would look up slowly with those intense, ‘I’m so a dom top’ eyes and say, ‘If they only listened to me, we would have won.’ And Zac would coo and say, ‘Those losers don’t get how big your military brain is and how totally kick-ass at positions and shit you are. If you gave me an order, I’d follow it.’

Then Marchosias would lean in, his voice a low growl. ‘Even if I ordered you to fall in love with me?’

Zac would bat his eyes, give a coy laugh, and lean into the wolf’s embrace. ‘Maybe if you show me how you win your next war-off.’

And Marchosias would get all alpha at the challenge and growl that he will win the war for Zac’s heart, and then he would finally, finally kiss him…

Bune coughed, a dry, polite sound that shattered the fantasy. “Avatar? Are you going to go to sleep?”

Zac opened his eyes. He had been hugging himself and swaying gently on the spot. He quickly dropped his arms. “Oh. Right. Uh, but why can’t I leave again? What if I have to pee?”

Bune sighed. “If you need to use the facilities, you may ring the bell on the nightstand. I will come to escort you. But otherwise, it is safest for you to be… protected.”

The Right Head nodded vigorously. “Like a shark cage! This room has been designed with necromantic wards and temporal locks. It should keep even Andras from entering and… defiling you.”

Zac, who had wandered a few steps into the room to confirm that, yes, it was definitely a different room, spun around. “Hey-!”

It was too late.

“Rest well, Avatar,” Bune said, his two heads giving a formal, unified bow. The heavy wooden door clicked shut with a sound of absolute finality. A series of heavy thunks followed as multiple bolts, both physical and magical, slid into place.

Zac stared at the door for a second, processing. Then he dashed forward, yanking uselessly on the iron handle. It didn’t budge.

“Let me out!” he yelled, rattling the door. “You can’t do this to me! I need to see what eagle dick looks like! Halphas said he was into being objectified! That’s not against the rules! That’s just being a good wingman!”

There was no answer. Only the oppressive, indifferent silence of the keep.

Zac rattled the handle one last time, a desperate, hopeless gesture. He slumped, his forehead resting against the cool, unyielding wood. The reality of his situation, the gilded cage Marchosias had described, was no longer a metaphor. It was a literal, locked room.

He slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, a prisoner in his own very specific, very frustrating hell.

Zac finally peeled himself off the floor, his grand protest having achieved nothing but sore knuckles. He let out a long, theatrical sigh and took a proper look around his new prison cell.

It was sparse. A heavy wooden bureau stood against one wall, its drawers filled with a few more identical sets of the simple black robes he was wearing. Against the other wall was a narrow bed with grey sheets and a single, surprisingly flat pillow. Zac nodded to himself. ‘Basically the same as my old apartment. It’s just lacking a few of my… ‘creature comforts.’ The ones that help a guy relax before bed. Or in the morning. Or after a particularly stressful encounter with the cashier at the gas station down the street who always judged him for buying three drinks and a single, sad hot dog at 2 AM.’

He stretched, his back popping in a dozen satisfying places. His hand brushed against something small and hard in the pocket of his robe.

He pulled it out. The crystal bottle of Celestial Silk - Mane & Tail Rejuvenator glowed with a soft, golden light in the dim room.

An evil, slow-spreading grin stretched across Zac’s face.

“Well,” he whispered to the empty room, turning the bottle over in his hands. “If I can’t get the real thing tonight, that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a bit of… high-end lubricant.” He held the bottle up as if toasting the absent lion. “Thanks, Nock. I’m sure you already know I’ll make it up to you. Generously.”

He unscrewed the ornate cap and poured a small, golden dollop into his palm. It was thick, silky, and smelled divine. He tested the viscosity between his thumb and forefinger. “Hmm,” he mused critically. “Better than coconut oil, but not quite as good as the real deal. Let’s just hope it doesn’t dry out too fast, or Nock might be mad I used the whole bottle.”

With a giddy giggle, his previous despair completely forgotten, Zac jumped onto the bed. He was finally, blessedly alone. He was locked in, yes, but that also meant no interruptions. He could finally, properly enjoy thinking about his new roommates. The feel of Skarg’s fur. The sound of Andras’s voice. The sight of Halphas’s forearms. The thought of Marchosias’s… everything.

He lay back, the bottle of conditioner clutched in one hand, ready for a long and satisfying meditation session.

His head hit the pillow.

The only thought that entered his mind was: ‘Oh… oh… ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh… so comfy.’

The sheer, bone-deep exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours hit him like a physical blow. The adrenaline he didn't know he was running on vanished. The tension, the lust, the existential dread… it all evaporated.

He was asleep in seconds.

The bottle of Nock’s prized mane conditioner, forgotten and unused, slipped from his limp fingers and rolled silently onto the floor, its golden contents glinting mockingly in the gloom.

…

Zac was wandering through a storm. Icy wind howled, whipping his thin black robes against his legs. Snow, thick and heavy, dragged at his ankles, biting at his exposed skin with a thousand tiny teeth. Around him, a forest of thin, twisted birch trees clawed at the grey sky, their branches like skeletal fingers.

“Hmm,” he muttered, shivering. “This isn’t Marchosias’s bachelor pad. Am I dreaming again?” He pulled the robes tighter around himself. “Why am I so cold? Are dreams always this cold and I just forgot? This is terrible ambiance.”

He trudged through the deep snow, looking around at the whiteout. There was nothing in any direction but more snow and more twisted, horrible trees.

Then, a bellow ripped through the blizzard. It was a deep, guttural sound, a roar of primal hunger that vibrated in Zac’s bones.

Zac froze. His head snapped around, eyes wide, trying to pierce the swirling snow.

“Wait,” he whispered, a slow grin spreading across his face. “This is the chase dream again. The one with the murder-deer. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. I’m lucid! I got in the same dream again and Skarg is here!”

He listened, cupping a hand to his ear. The bellow echoed again, closer this time, from his left. Without a second of hesitation, he started running directly toward the sound. He bumped into a few trees, his shoulder aching from the impact, but he barely noticed. His mind was set on one singular, glorious objective.

Skarg appeared through the blizzard, a colossal, magnificent silhouette of frost and muscle. He threw his head back and howled at Zac, a sound meant to instill primal terror.

“RUN, LITTLE HUMAN! THE HUNT HAS BEGUN!”

Zac ran.

Much to Skarg’s surprise, the human ran right at him, a look of ecstatic determination on his face.

Zac slowed as he got close, his eyes dropping. “Oh, he’s so naked right now,” he breathed, his own breath pluming in the frigid air. “How the hell does he stay so plump when it’s so cold out?”

He stopped directly in front of the wendigo, blew hot air into his cupped hands, and then held them out toward Skarg’s crotch as if it were a roaring campfire.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Skarg asked, more confused than angry. He took an instinctual step back.

“Shut up,” Zac said, stepping forward again to maintain hand-warming proximity. “Why aren’t you hard? In my fantasies, you’re usually all… you know.” He made a vague, enthusiastic gesture. “Neigh neigh, motherfucker, or something. Big dick monster energy.”

“What?” Skarg stammered, looking genuinely baffled. The human was supposed to be running for his life, not critiquing the presentation of his genitalia. “What are you-”

“I said shhh, my sexy dream beast,” Zac interrupted, looking up at him with a predatory grin. “We have all night, and you’re nice and warm. We’re not wasting it on cardio this time.”

Skarg took a larger step away from Zac, clearing his throat with a cough that sounded like an avalanche starting. “This… this isn’t a dream, Avatar. We are… talking. In your head.”

Zac looked up from Skarg’s semi-flaccid firewood, his grin faltering.

“Huh?”

Skarg furrowed his brow, the motion causing a small shower of frost to fall from his antlers. “It’s hard to explain,” he rumbled, clearly struggling with the concept. “But demons can… enter dreams. Cause nightmares.”

Zac nodded eagerly. ‘This is a wet dream, not a nightmare,’ he thought, ‘but continue. You have my full attention.’

“If the Captain will not let me have your body,” Skarg continued, his icy blue eyes raking over Zac’s form, a slow, possessive appraisal, “then I will still have your… mind.”

Zac fell to his knees in the snow, his hands clasped together in supplication. “YES! YES! YES!” he cried, looking up at the wendigo with tear-filled eyes. “Take it! It’s yours! Do horrible, unspeakable things to my psyche!”

Skarg looked down at the kneeling human, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. This was more like it.

“You know,” Zac began to sob, his voice thick with emotion, “I thought I was cursed or something. Living in the 21st century, with so many advancements in biotech and genetics… I was sure someone was going to figure out how to make a wolfman by now. But no. Just stupid, hairless humans as far as the eye can see.”

Skarg’s grin faltered. He looked down at the weeping human with a flicker of something that might have been pity.

“I would even have settled for a lifelike robot bull-man,” Zac continued, his voice cracking. “Or maybe a ram-man. Yeah, that would have been okay too. I would have even dressed up a human robot in a sexy fox outfit and strapped on one of my-”

“ZAC!” Skarg’s growl cut through the oversharing like a thunderclap. “I am giving you to the count of ten. To run.”

Zac looked up, his face a mess of self-loathing snot and tears. He quickly began wiping it away with the back of his hand. “Really?” he sniffled. “You mean it? A real chase?”

“And when I catch you,” Skarg’s eyes hardened, the predatory glint returning with a vengeance, “you’re going to scream for me. Whether you want to or not.”

Zac stumbled to his feet, a renewed sense of purpose shining in his eyes. “You promise?”

“One.”

Skarg began to count, his voice a low, rumbling threat. As he did, Zac noticed something. The wendigo was becoming aroused. His earlier state, impressive as it was, was apparently just the prelude. The thrill of the hunt, the promise of the catch, was having a very visible, very significant effect.

Zac’s eyes bulged. ‘Holy shit,’ he thought, his brain short-circuiting. ‘He’s a grower. Not a shower. He’s a grower and a shower. He’s a goddamn greenhouse.’

“Two.”

Zac scrambled away, his movements slow and clumsy in the deep snow. He kept looking back over his shoulder at his soon-to-be hunter, at the magnificent, terrifying promise of what was to come, a giddy, terrified laugh bubbling in his chest. This was so much better than the real world.

Zac stumbled through the twisted birch trees, Skarg’s mournful hunting howl echoing through the blizzard behind him. Every instinct he didn’t have told him to run faster, to hide, to survive. A part of him, the logical, horny part, just wanted to stop and find a comfortable-looking snowdrift to lie on and wait for the inevitable. But if the hot caribou man liked to chase, then Zac could do that much for him. He owed him for the show.

The sound of crashing branches and thundering hooves grew closer with alarming speed. Zac didn't have time to look back. A massive, furry body slammed into him from behind, and the world became a blur of white snow and dark fur.

He was tackled into a deep snowbank, the breath driven from his lungs in a sharp gasp. He landed face-down, Skarg’s immense weight pressing him into the powder. Instinct took over, and he began to flail, struggling against the antlered demon, but his movements were useless. A heavy forearm pressed down on the small of his back, pinning him completely.

The weight was immense, possessive, thrilling.

“You talk a lot, little whore,” Skarg rumbled, his voice a hot wave against Zac’s ear. The wendigo’s breath smelled of musk, pine, and something ancient and wild. “But you are lucky. Since I know you are a virgin, I will not completely break you tonight. Consider this… a preview.”

“Break me,” Zac gasped, struggling uselessly against the demon’s hold, the words muffled by the snow. “Break me until I beg for more.”

Ha. Skarg’s head moved away from Zac’s ear. “Oh, you’ll beg.”

Zac felt a large, clawed hand grip the hem of his robe. With a single, powerful tug, the fabric was pulled up, exposing his lower back and ass to the biting cold. His muscles tensed involuntarily, goosebumps rising on his skin. Above him, he heard Skarg let out a low, guttural rumble of pure, animal hunger.

Zac, face down in the snow, felt the wendigo’s warm breath on his butt cheeks. His eyes went wide. He tried to push his rear up, arching his back, trying to get closer to the caribou’s maw, but he was still pinned firmly to the ground.

A wet, warm sensation hit his cheeks. Zac choked back a gasp as a generous amount of spit cascaded down, slick and hot against his cold skin.

‘Such a gentleman,’ Zac thought, a wave of blissful anticipation washing over him. ‘I would have enjoyed it if he rimmed me a bit first, but beggars can’t be choosers. At least he’s not going in dry.’

He braced himself, every nerve ending on high alert, ready for the glorious, dream-fulfilling impact.

Zac felt Skarg shift his immense weight. A moment later, something impossibly hot and solid flopped onto his thigh and butt cheek.

Zac nearly bit his tongue off. ‘Oh, fuck. It’s big. It’s really, really big.’

He desperately tried to crane his neck, to look back at the caribou demon meat extravaganza that was now spreading the small pool of saliva between his cheeks. The sheer size of it was breathtaking, a promise of pain and pleasure that made his head spin.

Instantly, all the fight went out of him. He went limp, every muscle in his body relaxing. That feeling… that glorious, heavy, insistent pressure against him… it was so close to…

Skarg laughed, a low, triumphant rumble. “Prey instinctively know when it’s useless to fight,” he growled, misinterpreting Zac’s surrender completely. “I’m going to use you now, little human. I’m going to take what’s mine.”

Zac let out a quiet moan as Skarg began to slowly, deliberately push himself in. It was a tight fit, a glorious, stretching pressure that was everything he’d ever dreamed of. Zac was still trying to grind backward onto the caribou’s cock, but it was no use. Skarg had him pinned, a living mountain of muscle holding him in place. Zac was now just a warm location for Skarg’s prodding, and he was here for it. He was so, so here for it.

‘All these years,’ his mind reeled blissfully, ‘and this is it. I’m finally getting it. From a hot demonic military officer in a wild, dubious-consent roleplay with full scenario immersion and a winter-wonderland set. This is the peak. This is my Everest.’

He closed his eyes, a grin spreading across his face, and decided to play along. He let out a faked, breathy whimper. “Oh… you’re so big… I don’t think I can take it…”

Skarg bellowed, a sound of pure, masculine triumph, and ground forward another agonizing inch. “I told you you’d take it! Not so funny now, is it, little virgin? You’ll think twice before teasing us, won’t you?”

“Oh yeah,” Zac said enthusiastically, his voice full of genuine awe. “That big dick is definitely turning me into a good boy.”

Skarg stopped. The rhythmic pressure ceased.

Zac’s eyes snapped open. He looked around in the snow. “Uh,” he said quickly, trying to recover the mood. “I mean… I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have teased you! You’re so strong! Please don’t hurt me!”

There was a pause. Then, Skarg slowly began grinding forward again, sinking deeper.

“That’s right, you little slut,” the wendigo growled, his voice thick with lust. “And now… you’re gonna pay.”

Zac smartly stayed quiet, other than the occasional whimper of “fuck” and “so big” and “please.” These, he noted, seemed to stroke the demon’s ego beautifully as Skarg slowly, relentlessly worked him open. Zac was glad his vocabulary didn’t need to be large; his mind was setting off fireworks. Even with this just being the warm-up, he was already on a knife’s edge. He probably would have gone over already if his arms weren’t pinned, preventing him from touching himself.

The demonic deer cock was just perfect. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, every incredible inch. It was smooth and tapered. When it first entered, it was almost deceptively small, and for a split second, Zac had been worried. But then it just kept going, getting thicker and thicker the further it made its way inside, a logical impossibility, a geometric marvel of pleasure. He sighed as he finally felt something wider press firmly against his entrance, presumably seating the demon completely within him.

“Oh no,” Zac said dreamily, trying to wiggle his butt back and forth against the immovable object. “You’re all the way in me. Please… please don’t be too rough.”

Skarg laughed again, a deep, triumphant sound. “Don’t think you’re getting away that easy,” he growled. “I’m getting balls-deep in you, you fuck-hole.”

“Uhh,” Zac tried to turn his head, the logic-obsessed part of his brain briefly taking over. “Balls-deep doesn’t actually mean you get your balls in me. It’s a metaphor for-”

Splat. More hot spit landed on his ass.

“Shut up,” Skarg spat.

“Aren’t you already in?” Zac winced as Skarg tried to press even deeper, the pressure becoming immense.

“That’s the medial ring,” Skarg growled. He leaned over Zac, one massive arm wrapping around his chest, pulling him into a loose headlock bear hug that was both terrifying and incredibly intimate. “Now for the main event.”

“But you’re not equine,” Zac whimpered as he felt a warm, sliding pressure deep inside him, a feeling like stretching a muscle that had been sore for years, like the clean, satisfying sensation of peeling dried glue off your skin. It was a feeling that unlocked a part of him he never knew existed, rewiring his entire nervous system. His back arched, and his leg began to shudder uncontrollably.

Pop.

Skarg groaned, a deep, guttural sound of release, and surged forward another few inches.

Zac’s eyes went wide.

The sensation of the medial ring pushing past something deep inside him was everything. Zac saw stars. Zac saw God. Zac saw the Devil, and the Devil had just reached into his soul and milked his prostate with a single, expert twist.

His body convulsed. A wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure crashed over him, so intense it bordered on pain. He shuddered and seized, a wordless scream trapped in his throat. ‘Oh, it felt so good. It felt so fucking good. Yes. Don’t ever fucking stop. Don’t…’

‘…stop?’

Zac blinked his eyes open.

He looked around. The blizzard was gone. The twisted trees were gone. Skarg was gone.

He was in his room. The cold, sterile quiet pressed in on his ears. He was tangled in the single, rough sheet on the demonically comfortable bed, his body slick with sweat and other fluids.

Wait…

Wait.

WAIT, FU-

It wasn't fair.

“ IT’S NOT FAAAAAAAAAIR! ” Zac screamed, rolling off the bed and onto the cold stone floor. He thrashed and kicked, a whirlwind of impotent rage. “TORTURE! THIS IS TORTURE! I’M CALLING THE DEMONIC HR OFFICE!”

He remembered his dream. He remembered it all with a horrifying, perfect clarity. He remembered Skarg chasing him through the snow. He remembered that he had lost his breath when being tackled. He remembered the glorious, magnificent moment he had shed his mortal coil of virginity and become a true, red-blooded, omega, bottom, monster cock depository.

But now… he couldn’t remember the sensation.

He remembered that he was shivering in his dream. He remembered bumping into a tree and that it made him clutch his shoulder. He remembered his eyes watering when Skarg had been stretching him. He could recall the events like a movie he had just watched. But he couldn’t remember how any of it felt. Not the heat of Skarg’s body, not the pressure of his entry, not the earth-shattering climax. It was a memory without the feeling, a story without the soul. It was like reading the description of a five-star meal instead of tasting it.

“ NOOOOO! ” he wailed again, scrambling to the heavy wooden bureau. He grabbed the handles of the top drawer and yanked with all his might, intending to rip it out and smash it to pieces. Unfortunately, the demon-made furniture was built to withstand the casual tantrums of minor gods. The drawer didn’t budge. Zac just succeeded in stubbing his toe.

He hopped around, cursing, before turning his fury on the bed. He grabbed the edge of the mattress, intending to flip it in a dramatic show of defiance. It was like trying to flip a granite slab. The thing barely moved, and he succeeded only in straining his back.

And the worst part? The absolute, most humiliating cherry on top of this shit sundae? When he woke up, he was totally flaccid. Completely, utterly, tragically blue-balled. The dream had given him the climax, but his body had been cruelly left out of the equation.

He spun around, looking for something, anything, to break. His eyes landed on the small, slit window overlooking the chasm. With a roar of pure frustration, he rushed at it and began pounding his fists against the smoked, unbreakable glass.

“Let me out!” he yelled between impacts. “I’ll jump! I’ll do it! At least the fall might feel like something!”

His fists just bounced off the glass with a dull thud, the pain radiating up his arms.

A polite, dry cough echoed from behind him.

“You are finally awake, Avatar. I trust you slept well?”

Zac froze. He slowly turned, his fists still raised, his breathing ragged. Bune stood in the now-open doorway, both heads looking at him with a mixture of concern and mild amusement. The butler was holding a fresh, neatly folded set of black robes.

Zac’s mind, stripped of reason and fueled by unfiltered horniness, made a split-second decision. He saw Bune. He saw the only other living (or un-living) thing in the immediate vicinity.

He released a primal, undulating war shout, a sound of pure, frustrated need, and dove at the butler.

“ GIVE ME PENIS! ”

Bune shrieked in fright, a synchronized, high-pitched sound from both heads. His butler-ly composure shattered. He reacted on instinct, tossing the neatly folded robes he was holding directly at the incoming human as if trying to catch a rabid bat in a blanket.

The black fabric unfurled in mid-air, wrapping around Zac’s head and shoulders. Blinded and tangled, his forward momentum carried him out of the room. He tumbled into the hallway, his feet catching in the trailing cloth, and landed hard on his face with a muffled oof.

Bune stood in the doorway, panting, his four hands braced against the frame. His two hearts were hammering against his ribs.

“Did you have a nightmare, Avatar?” the Right Head asked, its voice trembling slightly. “They are quite common here. A side effect of the ambient psychic energies. Actually, it would be strange if you didn't have a nightmare.”

Zac didn’t answer. He just lay on the hallway floor, a heap of black robes and existential despair. Slowly, painstakingly, he untangled himself and rolled onto his back, staring up at the cold, unforgiving stone ceiling.

“Bune,” he said, his voice eerily calm.

“Yes, Avatar?” the Left Head replied cautiously.

“Can you possess people’s dreams?”

Bune blinked. Both heads exchanged a confused look. “Of course,” the Right Head said, as if stating the obvious. “Even a low-born imp can manage something as simple as that. It is one of the foundational skills of our kind. Why do you ask?”

Zac continued to stare at the ceiling, the pieces clicking together in his mind with a slow, horrifying certainty. The chase. The catch. The climax. The lack of feeling.

“Why?” Zac asked, his voice hollow, as if all the joy and pain had been scooped out of the galaxy, leaving only a cold, sterile void. “Why would someone not remember how things feel in a dream?”

Bune laughed, a dry, rasping sound. “A safety feature, little avatar,” the Left Head explained. “If you were, for example, eaten and slowly digested in a dream and you remembered the visceral, agonizing pain of it when you woke up, your mortal brain would likely short-circuit. You’d probably choke on your own vomit and die immediately.”

The Right Head looked down at Zac, a slow, dawning horror on its face. “Did… did one of the others…?”

Before Zac could answer, Bune lunged. The butler grabbed Zac, hauling him to his feet with surprising strength. He began smelling him all over, both heads moving with frantic, desperate energy.

Zac wanted to be angry. He wanted to protest. But the sensation of dueling dragon snouts pressing into his neck, his hair, his shoulders, was such an unexpected and delightful treat that he could do little but giggle.

“Oh, Bune!” he laughed, squirming slightly. “Let me shower first! I’m all messy!”

Bune was not listening. He was locked in a fierce internal battle. Zac could feel the butler’s body tense, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he struggled to control himself, to prevent his third, more primal head from emerging. The scents were overwhelming. On one hand, there was the pure, untouched, intoxicating scent of virginity, the core of Zac’s being. But overlaid on top of it, clinging to his skin and his robes, was the rank, musky, post-coital scent of a body that had just been thoroughly railed by a ten-foot-tall murder-deer. It was a contradiction, a paradox, an affront to the collection.

The Left Head’s eyes were closed in a state of near-ecstasy, its forked tongue flicking out to taste the air near Zac’s neck. “Still pure…” it whispered over and over again, a desperate mantra. “Still pristine… the seal is intact…”

But the Right Head was all business. Its golden eyes locked onto Zac’s, stern and demanding. “Who was it?” it hissed, its snout inches from Zac’s face. “Who invaded your dream? Where did the bad demon touch you? Was it your amygdala? Your hippocampus? Your prefrontal cortex? Show me on this psychic diagram where he violated your subconscious!”

Zac blinked, trying to process the question. “Uh… he touched my butt. With his dick. A lot.”

“Ha!” Bune’s Left Head laughed, a sound of pure relief. He placed Zac down gently and patted the human’s head. “No one did any such thing. Your body is pure. Your virginity is intact.” Both heads smiled down at Zac, their expressions reassuring.

Zac frowned back up at the dragon. That was not the correct response.

“So it was a he,” the Right Head mused, scratching its chin with a claw. “Interesting. What else can you tell me about the perpetrator? We will need a full report for the Captain.”

Zac decided to lean into it. He lowered his gaze, his voice becoming a quiet, trembling whisper. “He was so… so big and rough with me. He was really trying to scare me. He… he pinned me down in the snow.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” the Left Head exclaimed, awkwardly pulling Zac into a hug. The dragon’s body was surprisingly warm, the scales smooth under his cheek.

“It was so… awful,” Zac whimpered, burying his face in the dragon’s stomach.

“I’ll destroy them!” the Right Head roared, a jet of violet flame shooting from its mouth and harmlessly scorching the stone ceiling. “They dare upset our pure Avatar!”

Zac hugged the dragon butler tighter, rubbing his cheek against the fine fabric of his waistcoat. “I can’t remember how awesome it was to get my tight little butt totally gaped,” he sobbed.

Bune went completely, utterly stiff. The comforting embrace turned into a rigid statue.

Zac felt the shift and held on tighter, wrapping his arms around the dragon’s waist so the ancient demon-reptile could not escape.

“He made me orgasm so hard without even touching myself!” Zac wailed into Bune’s stomach. “And I can’t remember what it felt like! This is worse than being digested! At least then I’d know what its like to choke on something!”

Bune began trying to gently, then not-so-gently, push the wailing human off of himself. “Oh, that is… uh… Zachary, you must just be cranky when you wake up! Yes! That’s it!”

The butler collected himself, straightening his posture even as Zac clung to him like a limpet. “The wolf is cranky when he wakes, too! This is not a problem! Perfectly normal!” He put on a strained, waxy smile. “How about we get you to the bathroom so you can get cleaned up? A nice hot shower will make you feel better.”

Zac sniffed, looking up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. “Will you scrub my back for me?”

Bune looked around the empty hallway, flustered. “Uh, I’m not sure that is within my duties as a-”

Zac let go with one arm only to grab one of Bune’s four hands, pulling it insistently toward his own chest. “And my front,” he said, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “My front needs scrubbing, too. Thoroughly.”

Bune’s cheeks flushed a deep, embarrassed violet. He quickly turned away from Zac, pulling his hand free. “No! You will need to scrub yourself, Avatar! It is… character building. Please, come this way.”

His second head coughed. “The water pressure is quite strong,” it added, trying to sound helpful. “Your human skin is so soft. You might not want to scrub too vigorously.”

Zac grinned, a triumphant, wicked expression. He followed the flustered dragon demon down the hall, his hormone-addled brain already hard at work. ‘He’d look so much better in a French maid’s outfit,’ he thought, a vivid image of the primal necromancer dragon, all four arms and two heads, stuffed into a stereotypical black-and-white uniform, looking mortified as he dusted with a feather duster. The image was so delightful that Zac walked directly into a wall.

Bonk.

“That is not the door, Avatar,” Bune said, holding open a door a few feet to Zac’s left. “You must be half-asleep still. Humans are so fragile.”

Zac rubbed his face and corrected his trajectory, stepping through the doorway.

The bathroom was a masterpiece of stark, masculine luxury. It was all black marble, polished silver fixtures, and steam. A massive, walk-in shower with multiple heads hissed softly, filling the air with a thick, warm fog. There were no decorative soaps or fluffy towels, only large, rough-looking grey cloths and bars of unscented black soap. It was Marchosias’s style through and through: functional, imposing, and unapologetically beautifully-austere.

Through the steam, he heard a voice. A rugged, gravelly voice, humming and then singing, completely off-tune.

Zac froze. He looked up at Bune, his eyes wide. He didn’t wait for permission. He scrambled into the bathroom, his mind racing. ‘Who is it? Who is showering right now? Oh my god, they might be all soapy and wet and need their back scrubbed… and their front! Their front definitely needs scrubbing!’

“Avatar, get back here!” Bune shrieked from the doorway, realizing what was happening. “I haven’t even shown you where the shampoo is yet!”

Zac skidded to a stop on the slick marble floor, the steam swirling around him. He listened. The rough, off-tune singing was deep, punctuated by strange, bird-like squawks.

“Barracks bunny was lookin’ so funny, yeah,

The little barracks bunny, she wanted to play with my gunny,

And she said to paint her tummy with honey,

So my soldier filled up that cun-”

Zac stared. He had found the source of the song.

Through a break in the steam, he saw him. Halphas. The eagle was standing under one of the massive shower heads, water sluicing off his broad, muscular chest and shoulders. He was lathering up, completely oblivious.

And as he finished his dirty ode to soldierly stress relief, he turned. His golden eyes met Zac’s.

For a moment, there was just stunned silence.

Then Halphas let out a sound. It wasn’t a scream nor was it a squawk. It was a high-pitched, panicked coo-COO-coo

He howled in fright, his wings flaring out instinctively, and immediately tried to cover himself with his hands and wings, a frantic, undignified scramble of feathers and muscle.

Zac just stared, his mouth hanging open. The image of the massive, hyper-masculine military jock cooing like a startled pigeon and panicking was so incongruous, so utterly bizarre, that his brain simply refused to process it.

Halphas, meanwhile, was having a full-blown crisis. He slipped on the slick marble, his wings pinwheeling for balance, and went down hard with a loud splash and another panicked coo-coo-COO!

“What are you doing here, Avatar?!” he squawked from the floor, trying to make himself as small as possible.

There was a sudden puff of black smoke. A grey towel and a cloud of soft, grey downy feathers materialized in mid-air and fell directly onto Halphas. The towel was instantly soaked by the still-running shower, but it clung to the naked eagle, providing a semblance of modesty.

“Why?!” Zac finally yelled, snapping out of his stupor. He took an indignant step forward. “You’re so hot! Don’t hide all that hard work! It’s like painting a beautiful picture just to put it in a vault! Let me see your glory! The world deserves to see it! I deserve to see it!”

Just as Zac finished his passionate, art-history-themed rant, Bune finally locked on to his target. The butler lunged into the steam-filled room, tackling Zac around the waist and hauling him back out into the main bathroom area.

“Don’t you dare try to defile him, you sky-rat!” the Right Head roared toward the flustered, towel-draped eagle.

Bune then looked down at the dazed human in his grasp. The Left Head cooed, its voice full of concern. “Are you alright, Zachary? Was he the one? Did he touch your medulla oblongata?”

“Oblongata?” Zac gasped, his hand flying to his forehead. “Oblon... gata get that eagle dick…”

And with that, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fainted dramatically in Bune’s four waiting arms.

Zac woke to a rhythmic, gentle slapping on his cheek and a low, worried growl. He was in the shower, fully clothed, with cool water spraying over him. He frowned, a wave of annoyance washing through his groggy mind. He didn't want to wake up. He was having a fantastic dream about being a damsel in distress captured by a very mean dragon. It was awesome.

He cracked open an eye. Bune was kneeling over him, both heads looking down with expressions of frantic concern. The Right Head was the one doing the slapping, its clawed hand surprisingly gentle.

The dragon man was genuinely nervous. He knew humans were fragile creatures, prone to dying from the simplest things, much like hamsters. A severe case of sperm retention, combined with the shock of seeing a naked superior, could very well be fatal.

“Har…” Zac murmured, his voice a weak mumble.

“There you go!” the Left Head said, relieved. “Wakey wakey, Avatar.”

Zac’s eyes fluttered closed again.

“Don’t go back to sleep!” the Right Head said, slapping him gently again. “Did you get a concussion? Are you okay?”

Zac mumbled something again, his voice weak.

“What did you say?” the Left Head asked, leaning closer. “Stay awake!” the Right Head wailed.

“You can slap me harder,” Zac whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the hissing water. “And… we should probably make a safe word.”

Bune stopped. Both heads stared down at the semi-conscious, soaking wet human. They let out a long, synchronized sigh of pure, unadulterated relief.

“You are okay,” the Right Head said, its voice filled with exhaustion.

“Don’t scare me like that, Avatar,” the Left Head added, gently helping Zac sit up. “My nerves cannot take much more of this.”

Zac leaned against the cool marble wall of the shower, water dripping from his hair into his eyes. “So… ‘pineapple’?” he suggested weakly. They failed to agree on a safe word. Zac, exhausted, finally just took his shower.

The infernal water pressure was an experience. Instead of a gentle rain it was a high-pressure jet wash, the kind used to strip paint from battleships. Zac had to brace himself against the marble wall to keep from being physically eroded. He appreciated the variety of soaps and shampoos Bune had provided, though. Lined up on a silver shelf were bottles of brimstone-infused body wash, charcoal and obsidian exfoliating scrubs, and, right in the middle, the bottle of Celestial Silk - Mane & Tail Rejuvenator that he had accidentally stolen.

He picked it up, uncorked it, and inhaled the divine scent of vanilla and ego. He considered using it. It smelled incredible. But if Nock's mane was anything to go by, the volumizing effects were potent. Zac did not need the extra volume. It looked good on Nock, though. Everything looked good on the sexy lion man.

By the time Zac stepped out of the shower, he was frustrated all over again. The shower used to be a place of reflection and imagination. He had read once that many great minds in history had their "eureka" moments while bathing, and Zac had always used that knowledge to hyper-charge his R-18 fantasies. But with water pressure equivalent to a fire hose, he had been too busy trying to stay upright to have any profound thoughts, sexual or otherwise. He just felt… very, very clean.

He angrily toweled his hair, wrapping the rough grey cloth around his waist as he walked toward the sinks. “Bune! Do you have a toothbrush I can have? I forgot to pack one!”

He rounded the corner to the bathroom proper and stopped.

Halphas was there, leaning against a marble counter, fixing a camo-patterned baseball cap in the mirror. He was dressed in a pair of baggy camo cargo pants and a tight, white t-shirt that clung to every defined muscle of his chest and arms.

Zac’s anger evaporated. He slowed his roll, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Hey, Halphas. You always up this early?”

The eagle looked over, his golden eyes sweeping over Zac’s towel-clad form. All traces of his earlier panicked cooing were gone. The confident, cocky jock was back in full force, a smirk playing on his beak.

“Early bird gets the worm, new guy,” he drawled.

Zac pushed off the doorframe, a playful smile on his face. He walked over to the sink next to Halphas, leaning on the counter with his elbows. “Tee-hee-hee,” he giggled. “So what does the bird do with the worm once he gets it?”

Halphas laughed, a sharp, bird-like bark. “You’re a riot, new guy.” He walked over, standing close enough for Zac to feel the heat radiating off him. He looked down at the towel-wearing human, his golden eyes filled with a predatory amusement. “And such a tease. If the Captain didn’t give the order himself, I’d have already had you cleaning up my loft.”

“Oh, you’ve got a loft?” Zac asked, his voice full of feigned innocence. He leaned back against the counter, looking up at the eagle. “That’s pretty cool. Do you work out at home, too? Because I can make sure all your sweaty gym stuff is-”

“Leave the Avatar alone, Halphas.”

Bune entered the bathroom, carrying a heavy garment bag. “If I find out you molested the Avatar’s delta waves, I will be forced to pull rank and have you reprimanded.”

“Ha!” Halphas squawked, turning to face the dragon. “We were all in his dream two nights ago, Bune. If you want to report me, I have witnesses placing you there, too.”

“Last night, you dolt!” the dragon huffed. “When Zachary called for me this morning, he was delirious. Someone had tortured him in his sleep.”

“What?” Halphas’s playful demeanor vanished. He looked suddenly serious. “We’re under lockdown. No one’s supposed to know he’s here.”

“Someone might have suspected something was off,” Bune mused. “The Captain never misses a battle. His absence would have been noticed.”

“We need to find out who it was,” Halphas said, his voice hard. “If they spread the word about a virgin Avatar-”

“It was Skarg,” Zac said, interrupting them. He held his hands out, palms up. “And toothbrush. I think I have waffle breath. Do I have waffle breath?” He exhaled directly into Halphas’s face.

The eagle recoiled, his beak wrinkling in disgust. “Ugh, yeah, you do.” With a flick of his wrist and a puff of black smoke and soft grey feathers, a brand-new toothbrush materialized in his hand. He thrust it at Zac. “Here. Go nuts.”

“Always with the mess,” Bune huffed, before blowing a precise, targeted jet of violet fire at the leftover feathers that were now floating in the air, incinerating them instantly.

Zac beamed at Halphas, taking the toothbrush. “Thank you, sir! Maybe you can summon me something else that goes into my mouth later.”

Halphas let out a nervous laugh, watching the human skip off to the sink, completely unbothered. He turned back to Bune. “Kid’s a piece of work.”

“ Furfur, ” Bune hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “That little bastard. I will chew his ball joints for this. I will grind his antlers into dust.”

“Eh, you know how that herbivore is,” Halphas chuckled, his good mood returning. “He gets an idea in his head and just plows ahead. Seems like the Avatar is taking everything in stride, though.”

Bune looked at the eagle, all four of his eyes wide and serious. “You did not see the Avatar this morning, Halphas. He was… frightening.”

Halphas stared blankly at Bune for a solid three seconds. Then he erupted in full-bellied laughter, a loud, raucous series of squawks and barks that echoed off the marble walls. He bent over, clutching his stomach, tears forming in his golden eyes.

Bune looked completely unimpressed, his two heads glaring at the hysterical eagle. “It is not a laughing matter,” the Left Head insisted. “He was feral. He lunged right at me, screaming about wanting my-”

Whap.

Halphas slapped Bune hard on the back, still laughing. “That little guy? Scary? Oh, you’re too much, Buney-boy! ‘Frightening!’ Hah!” He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, his laughter subsiding into wheezing chuckles. “I gotta go log some flight hours. You kill me.” Still shaking his head, he sauntered out of the bathroom, leaving Bune fuming.

“You sounded scared enough in the shower!” Bune hissed at the eagle’s retreating back.

Zac wandered over, toothbrush in hand, a fresh, minty scent now radiating from him. “Ahh, all fresh. I could probably make out with someone for hours before my breath got bad again.” He stopped in front of Bune, looking up at the dragon with a hopeful, expectant expression.

“Now is not the time for that,” the dragon man said, shaking both heads with a weary sigh. “It is time to get dressed, Avatar. Your official uniforms have arrived.”

Bune held up the heavy garment bag he had been carrying. It was made of a thick, dark fabric, embroidered with a silver, snarling wolf’s head.

Zac’s eyes lit up. “Ooh. Do I get a cool hat?”

There were many conflicting emotions bubbling through Zac as he followed Bune to the dining room for breakfast. The outfit was not what he expected.

It was not a set of satanic mage's robes, all dark silk and mysterious hoods. It was not a full plate of spiky black armor that screamed ‘minion of darkness.’ Zac would have even approved of a suave, red tuxedo to really go for that sophisticated, ‘deal with the devil’ look. That would have been kinda cool, and surely Marchosias would have found a tailored suit acceptable for a boy-wife.

But what he got… what he was currently wearing… set off wildly conflicting emotions.

He caught his reflection in a tall, ornate mirror as they passed it in the hall. He was wearing a fleece, leopard-print, zip-up onesie. It was complete with a long, swishy tail and a hood that had two perky little cat ears stitched onto it. Bune had been adamant that Zac put the hood up, insisting that otherwise, the uniform was not "regulation."

It was fucking cute as fuck.

Zac knew this for a fact, because the moment he’d put it on, Bune’s pupils had dilated, and the dragon had started making a low, rumbling, purr-like sound. The comfortable, warm fabric was incredibly soft, and it felt like it had been tailored just for him. Bune had even told him it was woven with soul-thread, making it surprisingly durable and resistant to stabbing.

Of course, that comfort was immediately undercut when Bune had added that the suit could still become a “human soup bag” if the wearer was bludgeoned with enough force. But by then, Zac was already focusing on the real negative.

Ose.

That pussy-ass little shit was a leopard. And now, every time Zac looked down, he was reminded of the bored, handsome, naked demon who had sentenced him to a life of enforced celibacy with the threat of creative, eternal torture held against his head.

‘Dammit,’ Zac thought, filled with undefinable melancholy, his new tail swishing behind him. ‘Why does leopard print have to give off such slutty bottom energy?’ He sighed, a quiet, mournful sound escaping his lips.

“Meow.”

“Did you say something, Avatar?” Bune’s Left Head asked as he pushed open the dining room door.

The Right Head looked back at Zac and let out a sound that was dangerously close to a squeal. “Oh, you finally look at home! It was so sad seeing you in those drab robes, so out of place. Now you look like a proper demonic avatar!”

Zac just shook his head, feeling the fleece ears flop around ridiculously. He entered the dining room. It looked the same as the night before, but without the epic battle of good and evil swirling overhead, it just felt… empty.

At the head of the table, Marchosias was fast asleep, his head pillowed on one arm, a plate of untouched, perfectly cooked steak sitting in front of him.

Zac walked in, his slipper-like footie pajamas making him utterly silent on the stone floor. He gave Bune a nod and gestured toward his previous seat, where a plate with a few sad-looking waffles sat waiting.

“Be right there,” he mouthed.

He checked to make sure Bune was distracted, directing a zombie waiter to polish a candelabra. The moment the dragon’s back was turned, Zac bolted.

He moved with the silent, predatory grace of a housecat about to knock a glass off a table. He didn’t run, he flowed, a blur of leopard-print fleece. He rounded the end of the long table, his target in sight.

With a final, silent leap, Zac landed directly in the Captain’s lap.

The wolf stirred. He shifted, a low grumble rumbling in his chest. “Who…?”

Marchosias’s eyes slowly fluttered open, amber pools of confusion and sleep. He looked down at the leopard-print figure nestled on his lap.

“Ose…?” he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred. “What… what are you doing? I told you I wasn’t interested in…”

“Morning, Captain,” Zac chirped, leaning his head against the wolf’s broad chest. “Sorry, I didn’t realize this seat was taken. You don’t mind, do you?”

Marchosias stared, his brain slowly, painfully, booting up. This wasn’t Ose. This was smaller. Softer. And it was purring. He was purring. Oh god, he was purring.

Marchosias’s eyes opened wider, the sleepy confusion slowly being replaced by a dawning, frantic awareness. His hands, acting on some primal instinct, settled on Zac’s waist, the rough pads of his fingers pressing into the soft fleece.

His voice was becoming firmer, losing its drowsy slur. “Did… did something happen? You look…” He trailed off, leaning in, his muzzle pressing against the crook of Zac’s neck. He inhaled deeply.

Zac’s heart hammered in his chest. The feeling of those rough, calloused paws rubbing his obliques, the hot breath on his skin, the wolf’s bedroom eyes still heavy with sleep… it stole his voice. His brain bypassed all thoughts of sex and went straight to a fantasy involving a summer home in the Hamptons, a shared golden retriever, and contentious arguments about thread counts.

“Meow,” he managed, rubbing his tailed rear into the Captain’s lap. “Do you likey the kitty?”

Marchosias’s eyes snapped fully open. He let go of Zac as if he’d been burned. “Avatar! You… I thought… When I saw the leopard print, I thought you might have been… defiled.”

Zac raised an eyebrow, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. “There’s still plenty of time if you want the maiden voyage, Captain.”

Marchosias grabbed Zac by the waist, lifted him off his lap, and turned the human to face him, holding him suspended a few inches off the floor. “Zac,” he said, his voice a low, serious growl. “The avatar of a demon… often takes on aspects of their patron’s appearance after… a contract is sealed.” He looked Zac up and down, from the fleece ears to the slippered feet.

As he spoke, Zac noticed the Captain’s fingers were unconsciously kneading the soft fabric of the onesie, a rhythmic, cat-like motion against his sides.

Zac couldn’t help it. He squirmed in the wolf’s grip and let out a loud, vibrating purr.

Marchosias choked on his breath. He immediately, though gently, tossed Zac off to the side. Zac landed on his butt with a soft thud.

“Bad Avatar,” Marchosias growled, his voice strained. He stood up, turning away to straighten his uniform. “I was… I was just concerned that you were no longer a virgin. I did not realize that you were simply… wearing… something.”

Zac pulled himself up using the edge of the table, his purr still rumbling in his chest. “You can dress me however you want, Captain. I thought you might like me in a suit. You’re so professional and it would be so hot if you just ripped it off of-”

A loud, hooting shout of laughter exploded from the other end of the dining room, shattering the charged atmosphere. Zac and Marchosias both froze, turning toward the sound. Andras was leaning against the doorway, a fresh cigarillo in his beak, shaking with silent, wheezing laughter.

Andras managed to contain his laughter, though his shoulders were still shaking. He sauntered into the dining room, his gaze flicking between the flustered wolf and the purring, leopard-print human.

“My, my, Captain,” the owl drawled, his voice thick with amusement. “How long has President Ose been here? You’re being a terrible host. There was no pomp. No circumstance. No formal announcement of his arrival.” He suppressed another wave of laughter, his feathers ruffling.

Andras strolled over to his seat and dropped into it, propping his boots on the table. In front of him was a plate of something that was actively wiggling. Zac watched, fascinated, as the owl unsheathed his cutlass, stabbed the undulating meal with the tip, and brought the squirming morsel to his beak.

Zac swished his new tail, giving Marchosias a final, playful wink. The Captain was already slumped back in his chair, a hand covering his face in a gesture of profound defeat.

Zac strolled over to his own plate, grabbed the sad, cold waffles, and began nibbling on one. “So,” he said, looking down at his spotted onesie. “Does this really make me look like Ose?”

Andras nearly choked on his meal, letting out a strangled squawk.

“You look much smaller,” Bune’s Left Head offered from the doorway. “And softer.”

“And you do not track litter everywhere,” his Right Head added with a sniff. “You are a significant improvement.”

Marchosias slowly pulled his hand away from his face. He looked at Zac again, his expression now analytical, the earlier fluster replaced by a cold, strategic assessment.

“Its not terrible,” the Captain said, his voice a low rumble. “No lesser demon would dare look President Ose in the eye long enough to know the difference. The resemblance, however superficial, will grant you an aura of authority.” He paused, his amber eyes narrowing. “And fear.”

“You… you really think so, Cap?” Andras asked, his voice cracking with suppressed laughter.

Marchosias sighed, a long, weary sound that spoke of artistic regret. “This wasn’t what I expected when I commissioned his uniform. It is a bit… revealing.”

Zac looked down at himself. He was covered, literally from head to toe, in thick, fluffy fleece. The only skin showing was the oval of his face. ‘Revealing? What is he talking about?’

“But,” Marchosias continued, staring at the onesie with a critical eye, “we all know Ose is like Skarg.... A nudist. The pattern alone implies a state of undress.”

Andras choked. He spat a half-chewed grub across the table and erupted into a fresh wave of hooting, wheezing laughter.

‘Wait… if the leopard print implies I’m naked… that means I’m basically walking around looking like a naked leopard demon.’ A innocent grin spread across his face. ‘Oh yeah. That could really, really work in my favor.’

“Do you think it is too crass, Andras?” Marchosias asked, genuinely concerned. “Too on the nose? I knew I should have been more specific with the tailor.”

“It’s perfect!” Andras howled, slapping the table. “Don’t change a thing! It’s a masterpiece!”

“Really?” Marchosias looked unconvinced. “I guess it will have to do.” He looked back over at Zac, who was now double-fisting his waffles, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

“Yes, it is nice,” Bune said, walking over and gently fussing with Zac’s fleece ears, straightening one that had flopped over. “It is very clean. And quiet. Not ostentatious at all.”

That was the last straw for Andras.

The owl collapsed, his laughter finally overwhelming him. He slid out of his chair and sank directly into a shadow on the floor, his hysterical, muffled hoots echoing from the darkness as he vanished.

“I hate that owl,” Marchosias growled, glaring at the empty chair. “What was so funny?”

Zac shrugged, taking another bite of waffle. “Does he have some weird history with Ose or something?”

“No more or less than the rest of us,” Bune’s Left Head said, still fussing with Zac's hood. “He just has a terrible sense of humor.”

Zac finished the last of his waffles, licking the blueberry jam from his fingers with a satisfied sigh. Once Andras had laughed himself into the shadow realm, the rest of breakfast had been a quick and blessedly quiet affair. Marchosias was finishing his steak in grim silence, leaving Zac otherwise alone at the massive table with Bune and the zombie waitstaff.

The meal was over and he was in the company of a very handsome (if fussy) dragon butler. But he was missing something… something vital.

“Bune,” Zac called out, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. “Can I ask you something?”

“Any time, Avatar,” the Left Head replied, turning from where he was clearing Marchosias’s plate.

“You know, humans often summon me to ask questions,” the Right Head added conversationally. “It is one of my primary functions. But since you are a special case, I won’t even charge you your soul for the answer.”

Zac leaned forward, his expression deadly serious. He looked the dragon butler in all four of his golden eyes.

“Where the fuck,” he said flatly, “is the coffee?”

“Oh, that,” Bune’s Left Head said, glancing nervously toward Marchosias.

His other head lowered its voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “We don’t bother talking about things like that. Or alcohol. Or drugs. It is… discouraged.”

“Even poppers?” Zac asked, horrified.

Bune’s heads nodded solemnly in unison. “The Captain does not like mind-altering substances in his home,” the Left Head explained. “He says they are a weakness. Bad for a soldier’s discipline.”

Zac leaned over, peering down the long, empty table toward Marchosias who was yawning loudly and stretching his massive frame. “Is he Mormon?” Zac whispered.

Bune looked at Zac with an expression a parent might give a child who had just asked if the cows bled milk, fond pity for his profound, adorable stupidity. “The Captain,” the Right Head said slowly, “is the Captain. That is all.”

“But there was booze in the pantry,” Zac pushed. “Were they left over from his college party days? Did he do one too many keg-stands and gave up the sauce after a legendary hangover?”

“No,” Bune shook his heads as he collected Zac’s empty plate. “They were for cooking and now we will not be able to enjoy bourbon brazed barbeque bishop this week.”

Zac nodded, his mind already spinning. ‘Hot and straight edge. Okay. That’s cool with me. As long as he doesn’t get all upset if I spike the punch bowl and we get shwasted at the holiday party. And then I get him under the mistletoe, mmmmm…’

He closed his eyes, a dreamy smile on his face. He slowly raised his arms to hug himself, swaying gently in his chair.

‘Oh, they were both so tipsy,’ his mind raced, painting a vivid picture. ‘Making out right on the dining table in front of all the other lieutenants. Everyone was whispering and taking pictures, but Zac didn’t care. Fuck ‘em. He was fucking the boss right in front of them, and they could all kiss his ass at work the next day, because he was about to get promoted to Personal Assistant. Very personal.’

Scrape.

Zac’s eyes snapped open. His chair was being pulled back from the table. Bune stood over him, both heads looking down with an expression of stern finality.

“It is time for lessons.”

“Lessons?” Zac asked, his brain still having difficulty pulling away from the thought of Marchosias’s lips tasting of spiked eggnog.

“Yes,” the Left Head stated. “The Captain’s orders. If you are to infiltrate the Holy City, you must be educated. Etiquette. History. Theology.”

“Your indoctrination begins now,” the Right Head added grimly. “Come along.”

“NOOOO!” Zac yelled, his dreamy fantasy shattering into a thousand pieces of cruel reality. “I haven’t even had caffeine yet! This is madness! This is a violation of my human rights!”

He launched himself at Bune, his hands like claws as he ferociously tried to scratch the dragon. Sadly, his fingernails just skidded uselessly off the butler’s nigh-impenetrable scales with a series of pathetic skritch-skritch sounds.

Realizing that direct assault was ineffective, Zac changed tactics instantly. He collapsed in Bune’s grip and began to wail, turning his head toward the head of the table.

“MARCH!” he cried, his voice thick with fake tears. “The dragon is being mean to me! He won’t give me coffee and he’s talking about school! Save me!”

Marchosias looked up, once again pulled from his endless disappointment. He made direct eye contact with Bune, a silent, weary communication passing between them. Then, the wolf shook his head slowly.

Marchosias marched over to where Bune was holding the squirming, leopard-print human. He looked down at Zac with no sympathy whatsoever.

“Bune,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You have my full permission to use the strappado, if necessary.”

With that, Marchosias turned and left the dining room, his footsteps echoing with grim finality.

Zac watched the wolfman go. “Did… did you just say Bune could use a strap-on?”

The wolfman stumbled, his stride faltering for a split second. His tail, which had been swishing with authority, tucked in sharply. But he didn't turn around. He just quickened his pace and disappeared down the hall.

Zac’s eyes went wide. He looked up at Bune.

“So,” he purred. “About those… lessons?”

“No.” Bune hoisted Zac up by the scruff of his leopard onesie, lifting him until his feet dangled a foot off the floor. “Library time.”

Bune carried Zac down the hallway, holding him at arm's length like a particularly noisy, thrashing sack of cats. Zac wailed, his legs kicking, his arms clawing uselessly at the air, but he was ultimately unable to reach his draconic handler.

“School? Are you kidding me?!” Zac shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “I’m not here for studying! I’m here for extracurriculars! WAAAH! I hate books! And all the stories were wrong! Not a single professor ever wanted a quick handy during office hours! Education blows!”

Bune reached a pair of massive, iron-bound doors. Desperately trying to keep Zac from clinging onto the doorframe, he kicked one of them open, swung the wailing human back, and, with a grunt of effort, underhand-bowled him into the room.

Zac slid.

The polished black floors, smooth as glass, offered absolutely no resistance to the high-thread-count fleece of his onesie. He shot across the room like a leopard-print curling stone, coming to a slow, graceful stop as he bumped gently against the base of a towering bookshelf.

He lay there on his back, staring up at the impossibly high ceiling, his momentum and his will to fight completely spent.

“Fuck you so much, Ose,” he whispered to the gloom. “Fuck you to Hell. Or, uh… somewhere you wouldn’t like to be. Like a library. Or a church. Yeah. Fuck you to church.”

He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. Bune was just turning away from the doors, which for some reason were now bound shut with heavy, newly-manifested iron chains. The dragon butler pulled a pair of delicate, silver-rimmed reading glasses from his coat and perched them on the snout of his Left Head. The Right Head, meanwhile, was looking around the gothic library with an expression of pure, unadulterated bliss.

“Ahh,” the Right Head sighed, a puff of contented smoke curling from its nostrils. “The smell of ancient parchment, bound souls, and quiet contemplation. What a wonderful place to be.”

Zac looked around, and his jaw dropped.

This was Marchosias’s personal library. It wasn’t a room; it was a cathedral dedicated to knowledge. Bookshelves, carved from a dark, petrified wood, soared stories high, disappearing into the shadows of a vaulted ceiling held up by pillars shaped like weeping angels. Rolling ladders, tall enough to give a god vertigo, were propped against the shelves. Stained-glass windows, depicting not saints but scenes of famous infernal military victories, cast pools of blood-red and sapphire-blue light onto the floor.

There were reading nooks with high-backed leather chairs, each with its own floating globe-lamp that shed a soft, warm glow. In the center of the room, a massive, circular table was covered in star charts and astrolabes that moved on their own, tracking the movements of alien constellations. The air smelled of old paper, leather, and something else… a faint, electric tang of ozone, as if the very knowledge contained in the books was a living, breathing entity. This wasn't just a library; it was a fortress of the mind, and it was the most beautiful, terrifying room Zac had ever seen.

Zac stood up, drawn by the sheer, overwhelming presence of knowledge. He reached for a book on a nearby shelf, its spine bound in what looked suspiciously like human skin, the title embossed in writhing, silver script.

“Not that one.”

Bune was suddenly beside him, quickly and firmly ushering Zac away from the shelf and toward a large, empty desk. “There are some things a human mind is not meant to know,” the Left Head said, his voice unusually grave.

“We do not need you ripping your own eyes out on your first day of lessons,” his Right Head added with a shudder.

Zac looked back at the forbidden book. “You know, when you say things like that, it just makes me want to read it more. Is that reverse psychology? Because it’s working.”

Bune simply hoisted Zac up and deposited him into the massive, high-backed desk chair. “Being a spy will be significantly harder if you are blind. Now, stay.”

Zac was not enjoying this very much now. ‘Total boner-kill,’ he thought, kicking his slippered feet back and forth in the demon-sized chair, his legs dangling a foot off the floor. ‘Did Ose lie to me? Was there really no contract at all, and I’m just in regular Hell right now? Am I already serving my time, and he just gave me some evil, sexy sliver of hope to be cruel?’ His hands balled into fists. ‘That leopard is so getting kicked in the nuts.’

Bune returned, a towering stack of books held in one pair of hands, and a fresh sheet of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell in the other. “Just a few basics today, Avatar,” the butler said as the heavy stack of books landed on the desk with a deafening thump. “I don’t want to overwhelm you on your first day.”

Zac rolled his eyes and took the parchment and ink. "Lecture away, Bune. I am one hundred percent not going to listen to a single word you say."

“What?” Bune sputtered, seeming to read his expression. “But you must study! It is vital for your role as a spy in the Holy City! If you are caught, you might be questioned, or worse, inquisitioned!”

Zac looked up at the desperate dragon-professor and gave him his most earnest, convincing smile. “Yeah, I’ll totally listen. You got it. I’m all ears.”

Bune beamed, both heads nodding in satisfaction.

The lecture began. “Now, a foundational moment in celestial-infernal relations,” the Left Head began, pacing back and forth. “The First Schism. It began as a minor skirmish between the Dominus Angels and Lord Belial over the final bag of divine fertilizer meant for the Tree of Knowledge. You see, it was a very messy breakup… and they began to fight over the smallest things…”

Zac tuned him out completely. He had never used a quill before and found it surprisingly tricky to get used to. He’d drawn a lot in school (how else was he supposed to pass the time without a phone?) so he was curious to try the new medium. The ink was thick and black. He dipped the quill, trying to get the feel of it.

“…but that is why, to this day,” Bune’s Right Head droned on, “we will not give an inch, not even on the most trivial of territorial disputes. It is the principle of the matter!”

Zac looked down at his parchment. It was a mess. The quill kept blotting, leaving thick, uncontrolled pools of ink. But through the mess, a figure was beginning to take shape. A very blotchy, but undeniably powerful, drawing of Marchosias ripping his tunic open, throwing his head back, and howling at the moon.

‘So bad-ass,’ Zac thought, a satisfied smile on his face as he added a few more lines to define the Captain’s impressive abs. This was a much better use of his time.

After another hour of droning history, Zac was bored out of his mind. The idea of the entire eternal war being a cosmic, never-ending messy breakup between God and Lucifer was kind of interesting, sure. But then Bune described Lucifer.

“…and he was the most beautiful of all creations,” the Right Head sighed romantically. “Blond hair like spun gold, eyes like the morning star, perfectly proportional, with soft, unmarred skin and the voice of an angel…”

All Zac heard was: ‘Twink.’

Zac didn’t have twinkphobia… he just had a severe, incurable case of daddyphilia. The moment Lucifer was described as a hairless pretty-boy, Zac’s interest in the entire war plummeted to zero. He was just about to ask if God was the sexy, bearded silver-fox in this cosmic divorce, when a clawed hand reached out and plucked the parchment from his desk.

Zac yelped, reaching out in a panic. “Hey! Those are my notes! Give them back! They’re in… code! A secret human spy code! You wouldn’t understand!”

He nearly fell out of his chair as Bune held the drawing at arm's length, both heads tilting as they examined the blotchy ink. Zac watched, horrified, as the dragon took in his masterful depiction of Marchosias wolfing out, complete with heroic abs and a dramatic howl.

A slow smile spread across the Left Head’s face. “I did not know you were an artist, Avatar.”

“It’s from a movie!” Zac shouted, his face turning beet red. “A human movie! I didn’t even like Zootopia! It had weird political undertones!” He stopped, registering what the dragon had just said. “Wait, artist? Me? I mean… yes. Yes, I am. A visionary.”

“Oh, you have captured Goremaw’s carnivorous rage quite nicely,” Bune’s Right Head mused, twisting the parchment this way and that, trying to make sense of the erratic, blotchy line work. “The bared teeth, the powerful chest… a striking likeness. Though I believe you’ve made him a bit too… lean.”

Zac stared. “Goremaw? The warg? That’s not… that’s supposed to be-”

“A fine first attempt,” the Left Head said encouragingly, handing the drawing back. “Perhaps with practice, you could be the warband’s official portrait artist. A noble calling.”

Zac took the parchment, looking down at his drawing of a shirtless, howling Marchosias. He had poured his heart, his soul, and his libido onto this page.

And Bune thought it was a picture of the dog.

Zac slowly flipped the drawing over, hiding the image of the misidentified Wolf Daddy. “So, God’s mad because Lucifer gave his adopted kids some Adderall, and now everyone has to die forever,” he summarized flatly. “Got it.” He looked up at Bune, his eyes pleading. “Are the lessons over now?”

Bune chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. “God did not ‘adopt,’ as that would imply Adam and Eve had parents who gave them up. It is more correct to call them God’s ‘gooey clay babies.’ Or, at least, that is what you should call Adam. I suppose Eve is a ‘rib baby.’”

Zac nodded slowly. “Okay. Cool. Are we done?”

“No, silly,” Bune chuckled, both heads shaking. “We haven’t even begun to talk about the petty back-and-forth throughout the breakup. God and Lucifer just kept escalating. It was a mess. God even killed Lucifer’s pet.”

Zac’s blood pressure skyrocketed. “WHAT?!” he shouted, leaping to his feet. “NOT THE PET! WHAT THE FUCK, GOD?! That’s the one line you don’t cross! Ever!”

Bune agreed passionately, a rare moment of perfect, unified emotion between his heads. “Draco was a wonderful feral!” the Left Head lamented. “Such a treat to host. He never blew noxious gas in the castle, and he always loved having that soft scale on his belly rubbed.”

The Right Head sniffed, a small puff of mournful smoke escaping its nostrils. “I knew we should have suggested a scale splice when he was molting...”

“God had Lucifer’s dragon killed?” Zac whispered, the pieces falling into place with a horrifying click. “So… you’re saying there are no dragons on Earth because of God?”

Bune picked up another heavy book from the stack. “Yes,” he said grimly. “That is exactly what I am saying.”

“But… but… but…” Zac stammered, his mind reeling with the implications. “If there were dragons… one of them totally could have kidnapped me! Taken me back to their lair! Made me their hoard-bride!”

“And they would have, too,” Bune said, clenching a fist. “A dragon cannot resist a virgin. It is biological. An imperative.”

“Aahh!” Zac gasped, clutching his chest as if he’d been shot. “You mean… God cock-blocked me?! He cock-blocked me from getting turned into a dragon’s damsel in distress?!”

Bune looked at Zac, his four golden eyes filled with a grave and terrible understanding. “Do you see now, Avatar? Do you see why we cannot allow Heaven to win this war?”

Zac’s resolve hardened. His earlier boredom, his frustration, his selfish desires… they all coalesced into a single, burning point of righteous fury. His eyes blazed with a newfound, holy (or unholy) determination.

“I get it now,” he said, his voice low and full of venom. “Those bitches are going down.”

Zac slumped out of the library, his fiery passion for righteous vengeance having lasted approximately ten minutes before he was doodling again. The war against Heaven was important, yes, but so was capturing the perfect musculature of a demonic wendigo.

He held up his double-sided parchment, examining his handiwork. On one side was the misunderstood masterpiece of Marchosias. On the other was a new ink sketch of Skarg, sitting shirtless by a bonfire, looking quite swole. It was only his upper half. Zac had learned the hard way not to draw anything below the belt while in public. There had been… consequences in the past...

He sighed, following Bune toward the kitchen for lunch. Bune had glanced at the new drawing and declared it to be a lovely rendition of "some trees by a pond." Zac really sucked with the quill. It was so hard to use.

“So, Zachary, what were you most surprised to learn?” Bune’s Left Head asked curiously, turning to face the leopard pajama-wearing demon-slave. “Was it the fact that God and Lucifer tried to maintain their relationship for a century after Lucifer moved out? The long-distance thing never works.”

“Or was it that Lucifer has a strange fixation on God’s sons?” the Right Head added, sounding gossipy. “And that is why God has not sent another one down? That bastard God knows Lucifer has his tastes and is denying everyone the second coming because of it!”

“Well, it is a bit weird,” Zac said, trying to keep up. “To hit on your ex’s kids.”

“They are not children!” Bune’s Left Head said, sounding almost defensive. “Adam was a fully formed adult! And Lucifer just wanted to show him that bitches are unfaithful too, so it wouldn’t be totally bad if they fooled around a little. Which, of course… had its results.”

Zac sighed. “Didn’t we do enough history lessons? I’m hungry again. All this learning is burning calories.”

Bune chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. “We are nearly there.”

As they walked, Zac couldn’t help himself. A genuine, strategic thought bubbled to the surface of his hormone-addled brain. “So, why do I need to know all this? Wouldn’t it be odd if I just roll into the Holy City knowing the secret, universe-altering truth about God’s messy divorce? Seems like a dead giveaway.”

Bune snorted, a puff of smoke from each nostril. “Many universes know about this. It’s common historical knowledge in most civilized dimensions. But for some reason,” Bune pulled out his clipboard and scanned it with his Right Head, “Earth 3c88XT0o seems to have been running under the assumption that they should just be ‘living good lives’ and ‘being nice to each other.’ Such a quaint, inefficient system.”

Zac looked up. “But… isn’t that what Jesus said to do?”

Bune laughed, a loud, incredulous sound. “No! He wanted people to work out and be strong instead of fighting amongst themselves! There is an eternal war going on that needs fodder! Do you know how hard it is to train a soul that’s spent its mortal life ‘turning the other cheek’? Their core strength is abysmal.”

“Oh,” Zac said. He didn’t have much to add to that. It wasn’t like he could refute anything the demonic dragon said. He did feel a bit glad, however, that bench presses hadn't been part of the service when he was forced to go to church as a kid.

“Lucifer tried to help him, you know,” Bune shook his heads sadly. “He told him, ‘It’s not healthy to dehydrate for forty days just to look extra shredded to inspire the humans. God is making you hurt yourself for the gains.’ But he wouldn’t listen.” The Right Head sighed wistfully. “Oh, how Lucifer fell for that human. Such a twunk... So much potential...”

Zac thought back to the images of Jesus he remembered from his childhood. ‘Yeah,’ he mused, ‘he did usually have washboard abs. But he also usually looked a bit… crucified. Which is not a great look. Maybe he did have a killer physique under all those shepherd’s robes he wore.’

‘Good on you, Jesus,’ Zac thought, a newfound respect blooming in his chest. ‘You’ve got way more discipline than I do. Working out is for tops.’

“How your world’s interpretation of his message about eating protein, curing sickness, and self-improvement got lost to history is a mystery,” Bune said, pushing open the dining room door. “Frankly, it’s embarrassing.”

“I kind of don’t remember the protein thing,” Zac said as he walked in. His train of thought then crashed off a bridge, plunged into the ocean, and was devoured by a kraken.

Sir Nock was there.

The lion was lazily lounging in a high-backed chair, a golden silk robe draped over his powerful frame, open enough to reveal the expanse of his sculpted chest. His large foot-paws were propped up on a stool, where the rodent demon was meticulously massaging his beans. At his shoulder, the warthog demon was carefully brushing his magnificent, newly-conditioned mane.

And Nock was eating an ice cream cone.

He was sensually, aggressively lapping at a scoop of blood-red ice cream, his long, rough tongue swirling around the treat. His muzzle was dripping with red. Strawberry, Zac hoped. Probably not strawberry.

“-and of course, fish is very high in protein,” Bune said, walking past the stun-locked human.

Zac’s eyes went wide. The lion man looked so… ferocious. He looked a bit silly with a waffle cone, yes, but the bloody muzzle, the hungry, predatory look in his eyes as he devoured the sweet… maybe the poetic knight was romantic, but right now, he just looked like a king. Zac shivered as he watched the lion’s tongue make another slow, deliberate pass around the icy blood-pop.

‘Hnggggg,’ Zac’s brain short-circuited. ‘That lion man really could do crazy things to me.’

“Avatar!” Bune called.

Zac looked over. The butler was standing by what was now Zac’s assigned seat, a plate of sad, human waffle food already waiting.

But Zac couldn’t be bothered by processed junk food. Nock had spotted them. Their eyes had locked.

Normally, Zac would have gotten nervous and looked away, breaking eye contact with the apex predator. But Ose’s fear-epidural had short-circuited that reflex, too. He just stared, his gaze unwavering, drinking in the sight of the lion. ‘Holy shit,’ he thought. ‘He looks like the fucking king of the jungle. All hail the king, baby.’

Nock, caught in the intensity of Zac’s gaze, froze. His jaw went slack. The blood-red ice cream blob, deprived of its structural integrity, detached from the cone. It fell.

It landed with a wet splat and immediately collapsed down the front lion’s golden robe, right at the crotch.

“Argh! Cold, cold, cold!” Nock yelped, jumping to his feet.

In his panicked flailing, he kicked out. His foot connected squarely with the face of the rodent demon, who had been diligently massaging his pads. The meerkat-like creature went sprawling backward with a pained squeak.

The warthog demon, startled, looked up from his brushing, his eyes widening in surprise as they landed on Zac. The pig-man’s jaw dropped. He immediately averted his eyes, bowing his head in terrified reverence.

“P-President Ose! Sir!” the warthog sputtered. “Welcome! You’re looking… uh…” He looked flustered, refusing to make eye contact. “I’ll… I’ll be quiet now.”

The dining room was a scene of pure chaos. Nock was frantically trying to fish the melting ice treat out of his crotch, the rodent was rolling on the floor groaning and holding his face, and the warthog was standing stock-still, eyes squeezed shut in terror.

Zac just stood there, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. This uniform was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

“Ose?” Bune’s Left Head questioned, looking from the terrified warthog to the leopard-print human. “That is not-”

“Yes!” Zac said loudly, cutting him off. He spread his arms wide, striking what he hoped was a commanding, presidential pose. “It is I! The bad kitty man, Ose! And you, my demon minion, must go and fetch me a soda! A diet pepsi, if you have one. The President is thirsty!”

The warthog peeked one eye open, his expression one of pure, porcine confusion. “What?”

Meanwhile, Nock, who had nearly composed himself and extricated the last of the frozen treat, took a confident step forward. Unfortunately, that step landed directly on the slick, melted blob of ice cream on the floor.

His feet went out from under him. He flailed, arms pinwheeling, and crashed backward directly into the warthog. The pig-man grunted as the lion took him down, the two of them collapsing into a tangled heap of gold silk, leather, and wounded pride.

Zac lowered his arms, a look of profound disappointment on his face. ‘Really, Nock?’ he thought, shaking his head. ‘Aren’t felines supposed to be agile and smooth? That was just embarrassing.’

“You are going to stain the floors!” Bune wailed, his voice full of exasperation as he began to walk around the long table toward the slapstick trio. “And where did you even get that blood-pop, Sabnock? Did you steal that from the pantry?” The Left Head sniffed the air. “That was type and grade-A first born blood! That was for the red sauce with the soul-pasta on Wednesday! It was medical grade!”

The Right Head nodded vigorously. “Do you know how hard it is to source ethically-questionable-but-still-technically-non-slave-farmed blood in this economy? It costs a fortune!”

Zac just stood there, watching the chaos unfold, a single, sad waffle still clutched in his hand. Somehow it was half burnt and half frozen, not down the middle, just, bite to bite, which made it weird.

By the time Zac had finished his lunch, Bune had finally finished reprimanding the Hakuna Matata trio. Nock had been glancing over at him the whole time, a strange, contemplative look in his eyes. Zac was a bit conflicted that he was stuffing his face with Eggos during what should have been a seductive moment, but oh well. Nock's entourage, meanwhile, was very obviously trying not to look at him at all, keeping their eyes fixed on the floor.

Marchosias was right, the lesser demons really did think he was Ose at a glance. Zac frowned. ‘What the hell did that bastard leopard do to make them so scared of him?’ The rodent had been aggressive toward Andras, not fearful, and Andras had killed him dead.

Also… it was convenient that they were back alive already. After being so utterly decapitated when he last saw them, he should have been more shocked to see them pampering Nock again. It made a vague, video-gamey sort of sense that if a demon died, they’d just respawn in Hell. But he should probably get some more concrete information in those regards. Regards. Regar. Gar gar ga ga…

Zac’s mind stuttered to a halt. A warm, lace handkerchief was gently wiping his lips. Nock was leaning over him, his golden eyes filled with a soft, romantic light.

Zac wanted to lick the lion’s hands so badly. So, so badly. But that wouldn’t be very maiden-like. He had to play the part. He held himself back, his fingers curling into. He was so close to the half-robed, blood-dripping, golden eyed, perfect-maned lion Adonis. Oh, I just can't wait to be with the king.

“Little Avatar,” Nock prosed, his voice a low, rumbling purr. “You're glowing, ever more beautiful you grow. You must know this exquisite outfit… causes new things to flow in my undertow. A pantera like you would look good below… my purrfect cargo.”

Nock looked quite pleased with himself, a smug, poetic grin on his muzzle.

Zac couldn’t help it. He giggled, the sound light and airy. “Purrfect cargo? That was terrible. I love it.”

“You’ve got a bit on you, too,” Zac whispered, his eyes looking over the lion-man's red muzzle. “I can clean it off for you. But I don’t have a handkerchief. Do you mind if I… lick?”

“Oh!” Nock’s romantic demeanor shattered. He suddenly realized his look wasn’t one hundred percent on point. He straightened up, pulling a small, ornate hand mirror from a pocket in his robe. “A smudge! Unacceptable!” He whirled around to face his minions.

“Timon! Pumbaa! What is the meaning of this?! You were supposed to ensure I was immaculate!”

‘Wait,’ Zac thought, his brain buffering. ‘Their names are actually Timon and Pumbaa? That’s… uh. Well, at least I won’t have to learn new names.’

The sidekicks rushed over, scrambling to stand at attention in front of Nock, who was now standing tall, hands on his hips, looking quite haughty and regal.

“S-s-sorry, Master!” Pumbaa said thickly, bowing his head. “We didn’t know President Ose would be here.”

“We can get you cleaned up right away!” Timon added eagerly. “I managed to salvage your mane scrunchies from the ceiling collapse yesterday! Only three were crushed!”

“This isn’t Ose,” Nock said with an exasperated sigh, waving a dismissive paw. “This is Zac. The Avatar I was telling you about. The one whom I have been tasked with keeping safe from those ill-mannered charlatans.”

Timon and Pumbaa finally, hesitantly, looked more closely at Zac. Their expressions shifted from terror to disbelief, then to pure, unadulterated rage.

Zac laughed nervously, giving a little wave. “Hey guys. Funny seeing you here. Alive.”

“HIM?!” Timon yelled, pointing a spindly, accusing finger. “He’s the human?!”

“He dive-bombed me!” Pumbaa squealed in agreement, pointing at his own bruised forehead.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa there,” Zac said, putting his hands up and taking a step back. “I’m just a cute little avatar. I didn’t do anything to you. That was the owl’s fault. Mostly.”

“Yes, listen to him,” Nock chuckled, placing a proprietary hand on Zac’s shoulder. “The Avatar is like a lost fawn whose mother was ravaged and brutally eaten alive in front of him by a pack of ferocious carnivores.”

Zac frowned. ‘Wow, that’s… graphic. But okay, I guess.’

“Oh, how weak and traumatized and starved he was,” Nock continued, his voice taking on a theatrical, storytelling cadence, “as he watched those heartless beasts rip and tear into his screaming deer-mother’s flesh, making sure to eat her from the legs up because they thought the screams of pain made their bloody meal taste better.”

Zac rolled his eyes. ‘Okay, any time now, Nock. Get to the point.’

“Then they slowly ripped out his mother’s organs and ate them one at a time while her little deer cries grew softer and softer,” Nock went on, a tear forming in his eye. “Then, finally, as she died, they grew bored and didn’t even finish eating her, leaving him to cry and cry over her mangled body.”

Zac put his face in his hands. ‘What the fuck is he even talking about now? Is this from a book? Who writes this shit?’

Nock continued on for another few minutes, the story becoming increasingly detailed and gruesome, involving maggots and scavenger birds and the fawn’s desperate, horrifying first acts of survival. The gist of the story was that, for some reason, the warband, the high demons, were the hungry carnivores who were now taking in the orphan fawn.

By the end of it, Zac felt very dirty and uncomfortable for having listened to the story of his poor, poor, entirely fictional deer-mom being eaten by wolves.

The lion could have just said Zac was a weak bitch and needed to be protected from meanies. But no. Of course not. It had to be a whole goddamn production.

Nock stood there, looking quite pleased with his bardic powers, a single, perfect tear rolling down his fur as he concluded his gruesome tale. He had, in his mind, painted a masterpiece of tragic vulnerability.

Timon, however, was not impressed. He crossed his spindly arms, his beady eyes narrowed. “That human stole your conditioner.”

Nock’s eyes flew open. “HE WHAT?!”

Before the lion could spin, before Zac could lie, before Timon could hiss in triumph, before Bune could finish trying to scrub a stubbornly pink stain from the apparently very-stainable floor, something happened.

It was a sound, first. A deep, groaning crack from high above.

Zac wasn't exactly sure why things kept happening around him. Was it just that he was in Hell? Was it because he was roommates with violent, emotionally unstable demons? Was it just a big coincidence? Or maybe, just maybe, the castle’s architect had gotten some numbers messed up, because the fucking ceilings in this place were an insurance nightmare.

The ceiling of the dining hall exploded downward.

A storm of plaster, stone, and splintered wood rained down as two massive, fighting forms crashed through.

Marchosias and Skarg, locked in ferocious combat, slammed onto the long dining table. The ancient wood, which had withstood centuries of demonic feasts, shattered like kindling under their combined weight. Food, silverware, and candelabras went flying.

They were a whirlwind of violence. Marchosias, armored and snarling, was on top, blasting Skarg point-blank with his silver, annihilating fire breath. Skarg, on his back, was frantically throwing up walls of jagged ice to block the flames, the ice hissing and sublimating into thick clouds of steam on impact.

Skarg managed to get a hand free and slammed it onto the Captain's face, instantly encasing Marchosias’s head in a thick mask of ice.

The ice mask held for a split second, then steam-exploded outward with a deafening crack. Shards of superheated ice flew like shrapnel. One massive piece caught Pumbaa, who had been standing there gawking, directly in the chest. The warthog’s entire upper half simply vanished in a pink mist, his legs standing for a moment before collapsing in a heap.

The force of the blast was enough. Skarg, seizing the opportunity, kicked out with both powerful legs, sending Marchosias flying off the ruined table. They rolled away from each other in opposite directions, coming to a stop amidst the wreckage, both breathing hard, both ready to kill.

The dining room, once a place of quiet, gothic elegance, was now a disaster zone. And Zac was standing right in the middle of it, a half-eaten waffle still in his hand, wondering if "ceiling collapse" was covered under his new, non-existent health plan.

Marchosias rose from the wreckage, his movements fluid and deadly. He pulled his sword from the scabbard at his hip. It wasn’t a flashy weapon. It was a one-handed longsword, plain and brutally functional, its blade a dark, unadorned steel. The only ornamentation was the pommel, which was carved into the shape of a snarling wolf’s head, its amber eyes seeming to glow with a faint, internal light.

He pointed the sword at Skarg. “You,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You think this is a game?”

Skarg shook his massive head, his mane flying. He let out a bellowing roar that was pure defiance. The temperature in the room plummeted, frost forming on the shattered remains of the table, the air chilling to the bone. “I’ll do it again!” the wendigo roared. “Just because you deny yourself doesn’t mean we all have to!”

Marchosias howled and dove, his sword a silver blur aimed at Skarg’s throat.

Skarg didn’t flinch. He reached up, grabbed one of the prongs of his own massive antlers, and with a sickening crack, broke it off. The jagged piece of bone instantly frosted over, a hilt of pure, solid ice forming in his grip. He brought the antler-bone sword up just in time to block Marchosias’s swing.

The clash of steel on demonic bone rang through the room like a death knell.

What followed was a storm of violence. Zac watched in absolute awe, rooted to the spot. The wind from their swings whipped his fleece ears around his head. The percussive thud of their blows vibrated in his chest. Marchosias was a master of precision and fury, his every strike aimed to kill. Skarg was a force of nature, his antler-sword a whirlwind of brutal, desperate defense.

‘Oh, shit,’ Zac thought, a string of drool forming at the corner of his mouth. ‘Look how strong they are. They’re both so good with a big sword in their hands. God, please let me sword-fight with Marchosias someday. I bet he’s a great teacher. Very hands-on.’

His fantasy of Marchosias teaching him how to properly grip and unsheathe his greatsword was interrupted by a firm tug on the back of his onesie.

Bune, his face a mask of grim determination, yanked Zac backward, pulling him out of the line of fire and pressing him against the far wall.

It happened just in time.

Marchosias’s blade locked with Skarg’s. The silver fire of the Captain’s power met the raw frost of the wendigo’s. The result was a massive explosion of steam and ice shards that shot directly through the space where Zac had been standing.

Timon was not so lucky. The rodent demon, who had been scrambling to his feet, was caught full in the blast. Most of his left side simply vanished in an instant, erased by the superheated ice projectile. He collapsed in a heap, another casualty of the lieutenants' domestic disputes.

Zac stared at the spot where he'd been, then at the half-vanished Timon, then back at the dueling alphas. His heart wasn’t pounding with fear, but with a terrifying, exhilarating thrill. This was the most awesome thing he had ever seen.

“You defied my order!” Marchosias roared, putting his full weight behind a two-handed overhand swing that drove Skarg to one knee.

“You said we couldn’t defile his body!” Skarg yelled back, his muscles straining as he struggled to hold back the Captain’s furious blow. “You said nothing about his dreams!”

“They’re destroying the room!” Bune wailed, running frantically around the dueling behemoths. “And dinner is in only four and a half hours! Stop! Stop! Or hurry up! Not the new high-chair! That just came in! Noooo!” The butler waved all four of his arms, trying to herd the brawling hellions away from the more expensive furniture.

‘Aww, fighting over me,’ Zac thought, a giddy warmth spreading through his chest. ‘This is so romantic.’ He looked around the wreckage. ‘Where did Nock put that handkerchief? Princesses give knights their favor before a duel, right? A snotty napkin is basically the same thing.’

Completely oblivious to the demonic death match still raging, Zac began looking for the lion. He spotted him huddled in a corner, hunched over the bisected remains of Pumbaa.

‘Oh, he must be mourning his underling’s death,’ Zac thought, his heart melting. ‘He’s not just a vain poet; he has a soft, compassionate side.’

In the background, Marchosias and Skarg roared as they rolled across the floor, crashing through a serving cart.

Zac walked over to Nock and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “He was a brave man, Nock. Are you okay?”

“Don’t look at me,” Nock said, his voice muffled and choked with emotion.

Zac felt all warm and fuzzy for the lion man. ‘Oh, he can be compassionate, not just fuckable. This adds layers.’ “There, there,” Zac cooed, patting his shoulder. “You shouldn’t feel too bad. Timon got blasted, too. They’re probably being reconstructed together right now.”

“I don’t care about that!” Nock snapped, still not looking up. “Just… just give me a moment, Avatar.”

Zac stepped back, frowning. ‘Rude. I was being supportive.’

Another explosion of steaming ice rocked the room. “No more silver fire!” Bune’s voice shrieked from across the hall. “That was a load-bearing wall! Just accept your punishment, Furfur! It will be less destructive!”

Zac sighed. The drama was really killing his romantic mood.

Nock finally stood. It took a minute, but at least Zac had the fight to watch. It was quite intense. Marchosias clearly had the upper hand, but Skarg was defending himself admirably. The caribou man had started to freeze everything around the Captain as they fought, coating the floor and walls in a spreading layer of rime. The wolf was reprimanded by Bune every time he tried to blast it away with his fire breath.

Nock turned, a dramatic swirl of gold silk, his mane flowing and bouncing as he faced Zac. The lion’s muzzle was clean now, and Zac noticed a small, neat pile of bloody napkins sitting on the legs of the bisected Pumbaa.

“Now,” the lion man said, fixing his robe and giving Zac a cheeky smile. “Where were we? You had found my special conditioner. Saved it from that bastard Andras’s trickery and my own clumsiness. A true hero’s act-”

Zac’s leopard-print tail flapped in the sudden wind as Nock was unceremoniously sucked into the fight. He had strayed too close, and a backswing from Skarg’s antler-sword caught him in the ribs, sending him stumbling directly into a spinning elbow from Marchosias.

“I will-oof-repay you for-argh-your kindness!” Nock yelled, before getting hit twice more and being flung bodily out of the superhuman beatdown, crashing into a pile of ruined chairs.

Marchosias finally overpowered the wendigo. He got behind Skarg, grabbing him by the antlers and yanking his head back, his sword at the caribou’s throat.

“He is already broken and insane like the rest of you fucking demons,” Marchosias growled, his voice a low, guttural snarl. “And you torture him? You give him nightmares for your own amusement?”

“Fuck you!” Skarg shouted, his legs scrambling for purchase, his arms reaching back helplessly for the wolf. “You just make the fucking rules up as you go because of how you feel! Huh?! Why don’t you go flagellate yourself some more, you fucking pussy! Go get off, go feel in a way that your rules say is ok!”

“You little shit,” Marchosias howled, pulling the antlers tighter. “I’ll-”

“Just because you’re scared of fucking doesn’t mean he is!” Skarg bellowed, his voice raw and desperate. “Why don’t we send you to the Holy City?! You've been a virgin sense the fall!”

The room went deadly silent.

The clash of steel, the roar of rage, the wails of the butler… it all stopped. The only sound was the faint, spectral crackle of Skarg's ice spreading across the floor.

Marchosias froze, his grip on Skarg’s antlers tightening. Nock, half-risen from the pile of chairs, stopped moving. Bune, who had been trying to reassemble Timon, went still.

And Zac stood there, watching, as the one unspeakable truth of the Captain’s existence was laid bare for all to see.

“YOU DARE?!”

Marchosias roared. With a surge of pure, unrestrained fury, he twisted Skarg’s antlers. There was a sound like a tree splitting in a thunderstorm. He ripped the massive rack of bone and ice clean from the wendigo’s skull, then, in one fluid, brutal motion, plunged the jagged base of both antlers deep into Skarg’s back.

Skarg howled, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. “They were the perfect length, you sterile bitch!” he screamed, writhing on the floor.

Marchosias stomped a heavy, armored boot onto Skarg’s neck, pinning him to the stone. He clenched his teeth, his muzzle wrinkled in a snarl of absolute hatred. A silver light, the annihilating fire of his angelic past, began to glow from his opening mouth, aimed directly at the back of Skarg’s head.

“Ahem.”

A small, delicate cough. Followed by another. Cough, cough.

“WHO THE FUCK HAS ALLERGIES?!” Marchosias bellowed, turning his furious, silver-lit gaze on the source of the interruption.

It was Zac.

The Captain’s eyes went wide. The silver light in his mouth sputtered and died. His ears, which had been pinned back in rage, flattened in a completely different kind of panic.

“Oh, sorry,” Zac said, giving another little fake cough and waving a hand in front of his face. “I just have a little tickle in my throat from all the dust. Maybe… you could itch it? With your dick?”

Marchosias went completely rigid. “How… how much of that did you hear?” he growled, his voice strained.

Zac slowly reached forward, ignoring the sword, the armor, the palpable aura of murder, and gently placed his hand on Marchosias’s shoulder. “We don’t have to talk about it now, in front of these… breeders,” he said, his voice soft and full of a sympathy that was far more terrifying to the wolf than any threat. “But I had no idea. You’ve been in so much pain this whole time.”

Tears, genuine and glistening, began to fall from Zac’s eyes as he looked up at the Captain. “How long?” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “You’ve been in this hot, perfect wolf body, and you really haven’t… you haven’t fucked anyone?”

Marchosias’s fur stood straight on end. His tail tucked so hard it practically disappeared. A dark, visible blush spread across his muzzle. He began to back away, completely forgetting he was standing on Skarg’s neck.

“ARGH!” Skarg wheezed as the Captain’s full weight ground down on his throat.

“I knew I felt a connection with you,” Zac continued, his voice full of dawning, tragic understanding. He stepped forward, right onto Skarg’s back, to keep his hand on the retreating wolf’s shoulder. “A bond. A kinship of the unfucked. Please, don’t be scared. You can talk to me.”

Marchosias tried to swat Zac’s hand away, his movements frantic and clumsy. “Bad kitty! I am not scared of fucking! Give me some space! Personal boundaries!”

Zac just tightened his grip, his eyes full of a terrible, unwavering empathy. “It’s okay,” he cooed. “We can take it slow.”

“Bune!” Marchosias nearly cried, his voice cracking with desperation. “Get the Avatar! Get him now!”

Zac had nearly pinned the Captain against the wall, his hands on the wolf’s chest, his eyes full of a terrible, unwavering empathy. “It’s okay,” he was cooing. “We can take it slow.”

Just as he was leaning in, Bune finally intervened. The butler’s clawed hands snagged Zac by the scruff of his leopard onesie, hoisting him into the air like a disobedient kitten.

Marchosias didn’t hesitate. He crouched, ducking under the flailing human, and scrambled away. He only stopped to frantically flatten his ruffled fur after he was a safe, multi-armlengths distance away.

“You are supposed to be learning right now!” Marchosias snapped, trying to regain his composure and puffing out his chest. “Bune! Why are you here?!”

“It was lunch time, Captain,” Bune replied calmly, still holding a squirming Zac. “The human body is so fragile. It consumes calories just by sitting and listening.”

A low growl emanated from the floor. Skarg was pushing himself up, the broken bases of his antlers bleeding black ichor down his back. “Hey… you K-9 cock-sucker… I’m not done with you yet…”

Zac looked over and sighed. Skarg looked very much like he had been hit by a train, and then someone had tried to reassemble his body parts from memory. “Hey Skarg!” Zac smiled and waved.

“Ose…?” Skarg questioned, his eyes unfocused. “Why are you… oh. Oh, wait.” He shook his massive head, the world snapping back into focus. He saw the leopard-print onesie. He saw Zac. “AVATAR!”

With a roar, Skarg bolted toward Zac, his arms outstretched, intent on sweeping the human up and claiming his prize.

He didn't make it. Marchosias stuck out an arm, clotheslining the charging wendigo. Skarg, moving at full speed, flipped head over heels over the Captain’s arm and landed flat on his back with a resounding thump that shook the room.

“You’re still in deep shit,” Marchosias growled, looking down at the groaning caribou.

“You know,” Zac said thoughtfully while dangling in Bune’s grip, “instead of punishing him, why don’t we just accept it?” He crossed his arms, looking down at the two panting and spent alphas. “All demons want to fuck virgins. It’s a law of reality. I don’t blame any of you. And,” he paused for dramatic effect, “I know this is going to be hard to believe, but I’m a real team player.”

He looked directly at Skarg. “So, I’m willing to submit myself to your nightly dream-torture. It’s for the good of the warband. Morale. Synergy.”

He then turned, his leopard-kitten eyes locking onto Marchosias. “Or maybe… you could torture me, Captain. For… discipline. To make sure I follow orders.”

Marchosias’s tail, which had been tucked in tight, gave a single, involuntary thump-thump against his leg.

“No,” the wolf said, his voice strained. “That is a terrible idea.”

But his tail wagged again.

Zac’s afternoon lessons with Bune were proving to be an exercise in extreme mental gymnastics. Bune was currently lecturing on the etymology of high-ranking names, specifically focusing on Lucifer.

“You see, Zachary, ‘Lucifer’ translates to ‘Light-bearer’ in the ancient celestial tongue,” the Left Head explained, tapping a pointer against a dusty scroll. “He was meant to be the dawn-bringer, the most radiant of the host.”

Zac, however, had already pivoted. “Light-bear, huh?” he mused, leaning back and letting his leopard-print tail swish thoughtfully against the chair leg. “I mean, it’s a bit of a cheeky name, isn’t it? Since they hadn't invented the word ‘twink’ yet, they just called him ‘light bear’, it's basically ‘little bear’.”

Bune’s Right Head recoiled, looking flustered. “Little... Bear? I assure you, the Morning Star is anything but ‘little,’ and his follicular density is quite low. He is remarkably smooth.”

“Exactly,” Zac pointed out. “Twink energy. But it makes me wonder something else… are there any actual bear demons? Like, big, hairy, ‘growl-at-you-while-they-pin-you-to-the-forest-floor’ types? I feel like there's a gaping void in Hell's monster seduction coverage.”

Bune adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses. “Well, President Purson and King Balam are known to keep pet bears. Massive, armored beasts that can crush a man’s skull with a single swipe of a paw.”

Zac sighed, a long, rattling sound of disappointment. “No, Bune. Not real bears. That’s not hot. That’s just… oddly Canadian. I’m talking about the vibe. The aesthetic.” He adjusted the fleece of his onesie, feeling the soft fabric bunch up. For a moment, he imagined himself as a lonely archivist who spent his days in this dusty library, only to steal away into the dark corners of the keep at night to be ‘visited’ by a secret bear-demon lover.

‘Maybe one of the lieutenants has bear-man helpers,’ he thought wistfully. ‘Like Timon and Pumbaa, but... fluffier. If I could just get defiled by a lesser demon, then March wouldn't have to worry about the others, right? It would be like a loophole. “Sorry Captain, the intern did it.”’

But the real thing that kept his footie-pajama-covered leg bouncing in excitement, was the Conditional Dream Rotation. Fat chance that he paid even the slightest bit of attention after that bomb had dropped after lunch.

Marchosias had finally agreed to it. After the chaotic brawl in the dining hall, the Captain had realized that if he didn't give his lieutenants some kind of outlet for their collective obsession with the Virgin Avatar, the castle would be rubble by Tuesday. The rules were strict: one lieutenant a night, no actual psychic damage, and absolutely no carry-over into the waking world.

Zac was still a little salty about Skarg being an asshole… the wendigo really could have mentioned that the "dream-feeling" wouldn't stick around after waking. It was the ultimate blue-balls, ruined orgasm, unexpected pleasure-denial when he had woken up… But… as Zac looked at the ink-stained parchment on his desk, his anger softened into a weird, perverted appreciation.

‘I’m basically a protagonist in a 4K, ultra-high-def, first-person VR porn,’ he realized. ‘Sure, I don’t get to keep the physical sensations, but the spectacle? The avant-garde performance art of it all? As a connoisseur of the finest smut, I have to respect the craft.’

He looked down at his latest drawing. He had abandoned the wolf-dog and moved on to Nock. The lion man was depicted standing heroically, holding a sword high with a triumphant, toothy grin on his muzzle. Because of the quill’s tendency to blot, it looked less like a noble knight and more like a lion that had been caught in an explosion at a soot factory, but Zac was proud of it nonetheless.

“Is that... a bush?” Bune’s Left Head had asked.

Dinner had gone just as quickly as the afternoon lessons, a blur of high-fructose syrup and sexual tension. Zac barely remembered eating his waffles because he’d spent the entire meal staring at Marchosias with the intensity of a dehydrated man eyeing a gatorade. March had what Zac craved… and it wasn’t electrolytes.

The Captain, for his part, was vibrating with awkwardness. He was trying desperately to act like everything was normal, but Zac knew the truth now. The wolf wasn't just a stoic commander; he was a vincel… voluntarily celibate. Zac had never encountered a specimen in the wild before, and he absolutely refused to believe Marchosias was telling the truth about wanting it that way. No, the wolf was clearly just scared. Scared of the passion, scared of the intensity... scared of fucking.

Zac had spent most of the meal disassociating, vividly imagining a scene where he and Marchosias were sitting on the edge of a bed, blushing furiously, asking each other "Is this okay?" and "Are you nervous?" ten times before finally, cutely sharing a soft, whiskery kiss.

“You’ve been chewing that same piece of waffle for nearly fifteen minutes,” Bune’s Left Head interrupted, shattering the daydream.

Zac blinked, realizing the dining hall had emptied out, leaving only him and the dragon butler. He swallowed the now-pulpy mass of blueberry dough. “I was just... savoring the mouthfeel,”

“I’m sure,” Bune sighed, gently steering Zac toward the exit by his shoulder. “Once the last of your lessons are finished, you will be able to go to bed. I imagine you are quite excited for that.”

Excited didn't even cover it. Zac’s mind was racing. The debate over who got to invade his dreams and "psychically torture" him had been the highlight of the afternoon. Even though Zac had generously offered an "anything goes, free-for-all, first-week-trial-period" orgy, March had insisted on a structured schedule.

One demon per night. A calendar of curated nightmares. To the demons, it was a tactical rotation; to Zac, every day on that calendar felt like his birthday, and he was dying to see who had won the rights to his subconscious for the night.

As they walked, the stone walls of the keep seemed to ripple and stretch. They passed a doorway that Zac was fairly sure had been the library an hour ago, but now it looked like a broom closet for oversized scythes. The castle’s non-static floor plan was a nightmare for navigation yet Bune was walking with purpose.

“No more story time?” Zac asked with a wide, jaw-cracking yawn, his hood’s fleece ears flopping forward. “I had a great idea for a drawing of Halphas. I wanted to capture the lighting while he’s... cocking his gun.” Zac’s eyes glazed over for a moment. “Mmmm. High caliber.”

“No,” Bune responded, stopping in front of a pair of massive, reinforced wooden doors that smelled of musk and old hay. “The Captain has decided that your theoretical education is not sufficient on its own. Practical skills are now required.”

Bune shoved the doors open.

“Tonight,” the butler announced as the sound of stomping hooves and angry shrieks filled the air, “you will have your first riding lesson.”

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.

“You sound a bit cranky, Andras,” Zac teased, his eyes twinkling. “Do you want a belly rub, too? I have two hands.”

“Like you would even know how to rub me,” Andras scoffed, his feathers puffing out in an indignant display of wounded pride. “Pure hands like that wouldn’t know the first thing about tugging my-”

“Andras,” Bune growled, both heads turning to glare at the owl simultaneously. The air in the stables grew heavy with the smell of scorched ozone. “You will keep your mutt on a leash while you are in the Captain’s house. I will not have his halls smelling of wet warg and... whatever it is you do in your spare time.”

Andras shifted his focus to the butler, his golden eyes flashing with a sharp, predatory anger before cooling into something far more jagged and cruel. A slow, mocking smirk touched his beak. “I’ll take a mutt over a purebred any day, Buney-boy. You know what they say... and who would want a fucking nut-case dog.” He let out a sharp, owl-like hiss, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You just wish you were a mutt, you tri-polar snake.”

Bune’s frame seemed to bulge at the seams for a moment. His midnight-blue scales bristled, and his necks thickened as if the third, brutish head was fighting to tear its way into existence. But with a visible effort, he smoothed his tattered tailcoat and let out an exasperated, weary sigh.

“Get Goremaw off of the Avatar,” Bune commanded, his voice tight but controlled. “We are here on business, not for your petty verbal sparring.”

Andras took a deep breath, his feathers settling back into place as he reclaimed his nonchalant posture. “Fine. Goremaw, get over here.” He whistled, a sharp, commanding note. “You can eat that when March realizes all this spying is just a waste of time and lets us have some real fun.”

“The Captain has a plan,” Bune said, crossing all four of his arms over his chest. “Or he is forming a plan. He does not waste time.”

“He’s wasting all of our time by trapping us here,” Andras countered, lighting a fresh cigarillo with a snap of his talons. “The old wolf has finally lost his mind. He didn’t even question the outfit. The man is leading a warband and he’s let a human walk around dressed like a plush toy.”

“The onesie?” Zac managed to grunt from the floor. He was currently pinned under Goremaw’s massive, furry paw, trying to defend his face from a very enthusiastic, very wet tongue. “It’s... it’s growing on me. It’s breathable.”

Bune nodded in agreement, his Left Head looking thoughtful. “It is an easy-to-spot pattern in the library. He did not make it very far when he tried to escape earlier. I saw a flash of leopard print behind the ‘Genealogy of Ghouls’ section and intercepted him instantly.”

“Fucking idiots,” Andras said, shaking his head and blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Goremaw, that’s enough. Let the little snack go.”

Zac and Goremaw both froze, looking up at the two high demons with identical expressions of guilt. Goremaw’s ears flattened, and he gave Zac one last, mournful lick before his instincts shifted. Instead of letting Zac go, the warg decided that if he couldn't have scratches here, he would take the human to his den.

Goremaw leaned down, gently but firmly grabbing Zac by the scruff of his leopard-print hood. He began to trot toward the back of the stables, dragging Zac along as if he were a prized chew toy he intended to bury for later.

Zac, surprisingly, didn't fight it. He just went limp, his arms tucked into the fleece, enjoying the sensation of being accepted into the warg pack. ‘This is fine,’ he thought.

“THE AVATAR IS NOT A CHEW TOY!” Bune nearly shouted. The butler rushed over, his four hands reaching out to grab Zac by the ankles.

A bizarre and undignified tug-of-war ensued. Goremaw growled, a playful but stubborn rumble, pulling Zac toward his pen. Bune planted his heels, his scales scraping against the stone, and tugged Zac back toward the stable aisle.

Zac felt like a piece of taffy being stretched to its breaking point. His leopard onesie groaned under the strain, the fleece ears on his hood twitching with every yank. He looked up, his head lolling between the dragon and the wolf-beast, and made eye contact with Andras.

The owl demon just leaned against a pillar, took a long drag of his cigarillo, and slowly shook his head, his expression one of utter, weary disbelief.

“You guys know I have a spine, right?” Zac wheezed, his voice muffled by the hood. “It feels kinda good but it has limited tensile strength.”

“With the way you keep bending over for everyone, it’s surprising to learn that spine has any strength at all,” Andras said, finally stepping forward to wrestle Zac from Goremaw’s grip.

The warg did not want to let the human go, leading to a frantic, toothy struggle. By the time Andras had successfully extracted Zac, the owl demon was scowling, holding his hand away from his body and vigorously wiping thick, viscous warg-slobber onto a handkerchief. “What’s gotten into you, boy?” Andras muttered to the beast. “You didn’t even maim him in the slightest. You’re losing your edge.”

“Goremaw is a good boy,” Zac said, unfazed. Even though he had just been freed from the literal jaws of a demonic wolf-hyena-hybrid, he was already reaching back out, his hand subconsciously burying itself in the coarse black fur of the warg’s neck. “And I think I’ve solved my mount problem. Just get me a saddle and I can ride him. It’s good training for... riding Marchosias.”

Zac’s voice trailed off into a hazy murmur. He hugged himself, swaying gently on the spot, his eyes glazed over as he vividly imagined the ‘rhythmic’ training sessions he’d have with the Captain. What sort of gates did a wolf-man have? As long as they got galloping Zac didn't care.

“No. Absolutely not,” Andras hooted, snapping his fingers to break Zac’s trance. “Goreboy, Gore-Gore, Gore-eo’s and Cream… come here. Let’s get out of here. Don’t pay attention to that leopard-print whore.”

“There is no way you are riding that mutt,” Bune agreed, his Left Head looking scandalized. “It doesn’t follow orders. We have no warg saddles,” the Right Head added, “and it will shed black fur all over your uniform. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get warg-hair out of soul-fleece?”

Zac, however, wasn't listening to the logistics. He had found a large, jagged object on the floor, what he thought was a sturdy stick. “Fetch!” he cried, tossing it with all the grace of a man who had never played a sport in his life.

The ‘stick’ was actually a massive, calcified femur. Zac’s aim was terrible; instead of sailing down the stable aisle, the bone went high and wide, sailing over the iron bars of one of the many closed pens where Marchosias kept his most temperamental war mounts.

Goremaw didn't care about aim. He barked happily, like a gravel crusher, and launched his motorcycle-sized body over the pen’s gate in a single, powerful bound.

CRASH.

The silence of the stables was instantly obliterated. From inside the pen, a chorus of terrified, high-pitched neighing erupted, followed by a wet, guttural roar. The heavy iron door of the pen began to shake violently, booming under the impact of heavy bodies slamming against it.

Zac looked back at Bune and Andras, his leopard ears flopping as he tilted his head. “Whoops.”

“YOU ALREADY ATE!” Andras yelled, sprinting toward the pen.

“NOT ANOTHER BICORN!” Bune shouted, both heads screaming in unison.

The two demons didn't wait for Zac. They ran toward the shaking stable pen, Bune ripping open the wooden doors and Andras drawing his cutlass, both desperate to prevent Goremaw from turning the Captain’s cavalry into a buffet again. Zac stood there, watching the chaos with a small, proud smile. ‘He really is a good boy,’ he thought.

The stable pen was a whirlwind of black fur, silver feathers, and flying straw. Andras dove into the fray, his tattered greatcoat snapping like a whip as he grappled with the warg’s thick neck. For a moment, it was a terrifying display of demonic strength, Andras straining against the beast, his talons digging into the coarse fur.

But then, the violence didn't just stop; it dissolved.

The moment Goremaw realized it was Andras, his posture shifted from lethal predator to an overexcited toddler. The low, bone-chilling snarl turned into a high-pitched, enthusiastic yelp. The warg abandoned the cowering, half-mangled Bicorn and turned his full, sloppy attention to the owl demon.

Zac watched, mesmerized, as Goremaw’s massive tongue, thick as a steak and twice as wet, lathered Andras’s face, beak, and head-tufts.

“Ugh! Gross! Stop! Goremaw, off!” Andras sputtered, his usual suave composure vanishing under a tidal wave of warg-spit. He tried to maintain his "bad boy" image, shoving at the beast’s chest, but his feet were slipping on the bloody straw. He looked less like a Prince of Hell and more like a man losing a wrestling match with a very hairy rug.

Finally, Andras managed to grab the warg’s harness and began dragging the wagging, wiggling, motorcycle-sized puppy out of the pen toward Zac. “You’re a bad boy, Goremaw,” Andras muttered sternly, though he was busy wiping his beak with a sodden sleeve. “A very, very bad boy.”

Behind them, the pen door swung shut with a mournful creak. Bune stood over the eviscerated remains of the Bicorn, his four hands pressed to his faces in a gesture of pure, unadulterated despair. “Why does this happen every day?!” both of his heads shrieked toward the rafters. “The paperwork! The reconstruction fees! I am going to have a stroke, and then who will polish the silver?!”

Zac barely heard the butler’s lament. He was staring at Andras.

The evil owl, the sower of discord, the rogue who dropped chandeliers on people... had a very happy dog. Zac’s mind, fueled by years of reading questionable fiction, immediately began re-evaluating the demon’s character profile. How could a sociopathic, anti-social, lone-wolf serial killer have a pet that clearly adored him? As far as Zac was concerned, Goremaw was a literal windstorm that had just blown away every red flag in the building.

Zac watched as Andras finally stopped struggling. The owl demon let out a long, weary breath and loosened his grip on the warg’s collar. He closed his eyes, finally accepting the torrent of wet licks across his face-feathers.

And then, he whispered it.

“I know, buddy,” Andras murmured, his voice losing its jagged edge, sounding almost... tender. “You’re a good boy. That dumb horse was trying to steal your toy.”

He glanced at Zac for a split second before hiding his face back in the warg’s fur.

Zac’s heart didn't just flutter; it did a full Olympic floor routine. ‘Oh, he totally can do feelings!’ Zac thought, his eyes wide and shining. ‘I was right. The rogue has a heart. The bad boy is just misunderstood!’

Zac hugged himself, his leopard-print tail practically twitching with excitement. ‘I can fix him,’ he promised himself. ‘I can absolutely fix him. And then I can watch him and the dog play together while I make us waffles in the kitchen. It’s the perfect ending.’

Zac strolled up to the owl demon, his leopard-print tail swishing behind him with newfound confidence. "I didn't know you were such a good daddy to your doggy," he cooed, his voice dripping with faux-innocence. "You know, if you ever want company bringing him out for a walk, I wouldn't mind a bit of dogging."

Andras finally managed to wrestle Goremaw into a sitting position. He stood up, dusting off his greatcoat and attempting to reassemble his mask of detached cruelty. "Dogging? What exactly does that imply?" He raised a suspicious, feathered eyebrow. "Goremaw is fine with his normal three walks and an hour of playing fetchies… I mean fetch!.. I mean, killing the innocent."

"Oh, you silly owl," Zac said, reaching out to brush a stray clump of warg fur from Andras's lapel. The demon flinched, but didn't pull away. "Dogging doesn't have anything to do with the dog per se. Goremaw would just be an excuse for us to wander off into the wild together."

Zac's eyes drifted past Andras, staring dreamily into the middle distance. "Then, out in the wild... what is that? A rainstorm? Oh no! And when we find ourselves all wet, we need to strip down to get warm and dry. And we accidentally touch hands." Zac clasped his own hands together, sighing. "Our eyes lock, and you tell me it's been a long time since you've been in a silly situation like this. And I laugh and agree it is quite ridiculous."

Andras stared at him, his beak hanging slightly open. Even Goremaw had stopped panting, tilting his massive head as he watched the human perform.

"Then you look at me," Zac continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, "and ask if you can say something else ridiculous since the situation is already so crazy. I nod, thinking you're going to say some dumb pun or mention that the dog is going to get our jeep all dirty. But instead... you ask if I want to kiss, and then-"

Zac stopped, blinking his eyes open. The fantasy dissolved. He looked around.

Andras was ten feet away, walking briskly toward the back of the stable, furiously snapping his fingers to coax the reluctant warg to follow him. He looked like a man fleeing a crime scene.

Zac frowned, his lower lip jutting out. "I know the kid comes first, but communication is important in a relationship, my love! Please don't ignore me when we're talking!"

"WHAT?!"

Andras spun around so fast he tripped over his own feet. He stumbled backward, his arms windmilling. Goremaw, sensing an opportunity for playtime, barked happily and launched himself at the off-balance demon.

Andras went down hard, hitting the straw with a squawk of surprise. Before he could recover, the warg was on top of him, straddling his chest and pinning him with affectionate weight. Goremaw immediately resumed his assault, a massive, sloppy tongue slurping up the side of Andras's face.

"You tell him, Gore-iental Express!" Zac cheered, clapping his hands. "You tell that naughty demon that he shouldn't run from his feelings!"

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING?!" Andras sputtered, spitting out a mouthful of warg fur. He flailed, trying to reach for the hilt of his cutlass, but Goremaw’s weight was immense, and the owl demon couldn’t find any purchase in the slippery straw. "GET OFF! BAD DOG! THIS IS MUTINY!"

Goremaw just wagged his tail harder, thumping it against Andras's ribs like a drum, delighted by the game of "pin the master."

Zac leaned against a stable pillar, watching the chaos with a content smile. ‘Yep,’ he thought. ‘Definitely fixable.’

Before Zac could continue sexually harassing the murderous demon, he was distracted by Bune finally reappearing from the tack room. In the short moment it took for Zac to properly appreciate the butler’s rolled-up sleeves and ruffled outfit… which made the dragon look like he had just returned from a nap that included a lot of thrusting… Andras had sunk into the shadows, pulling Goremaw with him, once again retreating from his emotions.

Zac had lost his prey, but he now knew even more about the resident bad boy. The way to his heart might not be through elaborate Rube Goldberg-like traps designed to one-shot elephants, but through a much more furry and honestly derpy alternative. And Zac already had an ace up his sleeve: the hellhound seemed to like him.

'Just wait until I begin carrying warg treats with me,' Zac grinned wickedly. 'If your dog loves me, you will too. Dogs and owners take after each other, right?'

“Finally, that backstabber is gone,” Bune’s Right Head huffed, dusting imaginary lint from its lapel.

“Are you alright, Zachary?” the Left Head questioned, looking him over with concern. “That dirty warg did not hurt you, did it?”

Zac was indeed a bit bruised from being tackled by the dog, just as he was bruised from being tossed around by the various demons for the past sixty-ish hours, but his leopard-skin suit stopped anyone from seeing the damage. “Actually, I found it quite calming to pet Goremaw,” Zac said. “Maybe we can convince Andras that I need his dog to be my emotional support animal.”

“Emotional... what?” Bune asked in genuine confusion. “Goremaw has been Andras's steed since the Fall. That dumb dog is the only one the owl can’t push away.”

‘Dumb dog, huh?’ Zac thought. ‘Well, I guess I’m a retarded poodle because Andras would have to hide his dick inside of himself to keep me off it. Now, how best to get him to see that Goremaw loves me and we would be good dog dads together?’

Bune attempted to regain Zac's attention by dragging him further down the aisle to inspect the other options.

“Behold, the Giant Vesper” Bune announced, gesturing to a massive bat hanging upside down, its leathery wings wrapped around itself like a cloak. Zac approached, hopeful, but the bat simply screeched at a frequency that made Zac’s teeth hurt and shuffled further up the rafter, clearly wanting nothing to do with him.

Next was a basilisk, a crocodile-like creature with surprisingly long, muscular legs designed for sprinting. It looked terrifying, until Zac got close, at which point it hissed, scrambled backward into its water trough, and submerged itself completely, leaving only two judgmental eyes above the surface.

There were camels with three humps and mouths full of razor-sharp shark teeth that spat acid when he looked at them. There was a bull made of what looked like polished bronze that snorted actual gouts of fire, but extinguished itself and played dead the moment Zac touched the gate.

But the worst blow came from the Arachne-Weaver. It was a massive spider, easily the size of a minivan. Zac, trying to be open-minded, had approached it with a friendly smile. The spider didn't try to eat him. It didn't try to wrap him up for later. Instead, it frantically began spinning a web across the front of its stall... not a trap, but a wall. A solid, opaque barrier of ropelike silk designed solely to keep him out.

“Denied by a spider,” Zac muttered, watching the creature seal itself away. “That’s a new low.”

By the end of the rejection humiliation ritual, Zac was ready to give up. He didn't care if he had to carpool with Nock or Andras. Their vehicles were good enough, and he didn't mind riding bitch. In fact, wrapping his arms around Andras's waist on a motorcycle sounded infinitely better than seeing all of Marchosias's exotic pets treat him like he was radioactive.

“There is... one more,” Bune said hesitantly, stopping in front of a small, low-walled pen near the back.

Inside was a rock.

“A rock?” Zac asked flatly.

“A Pygmy Aspidochelone,” Bune corrected. “Though 'pygmy' is relative. It is an island-turtle.”

It looked just like a large, jagged boulder, until Bune tossed a piece of raw meat from a bucket near it. Slowly, with the sound of grinding stone, a head emerged. It was a snapping turtle’s head, beak sharp and eyes ancient and mean. It snapped up the meat with terrifying speed, then looked at Zac. It didn't run. It didn't hide. It just blinked slowly.

“He doesn't hate me!” Zac cheered.

Ten minutes later, Zac was sitting atop the Aspidochelone’s jagged shell, his legs dangling over the sides of the massive reptile. The creature was roughly the size of a coffee table.

“Now, grip with your thighs!” Bune instructed, holding his arms up as if spotting a gymnast. “Maintain your center of gravity! The Aspidochelone is known for its... stability.”

Zac looked around the stable. He looked down at the turtle. He looked back at Bune.

“Bune,” Zac said. “I don’t think we’re moving.”

“Patience!” the Right Head chided. “He is building momentum!”

Zac waited. The turtle let out a low hiss, blinked again, and then slowly, painfully slowly, lifted one massive, clawed foot. It placed it down about six inches forward.

“There!” the Left Head clapped. “Progress!”

The rest of Zac's riding lesson went by very, very, very slowly. He thought it had been hours, but when Bune clapped his hands and announced that "twenty minutes in the saddle was enough for the first night," lest the Avatar get bow-legs, Zac had been surprised (and a little upset). The Aspidochelone, which Zac had already named Leonardo, had barely made it out of the stall.

How the turtle could ever be considered a war mount was beyond Zac. It was slower than if Zac had to propel himself using only his eyelids. But Bune seemed so happy that something was actually going correctly and nothing was dying, catching on fire, or being sexually harassed, that Zac didn't have the heart to complain too loudly.

On the walk back to Zac's room... during which Zac was already nearly floating in anticipation for sleeping and dreaming... he couldn't help but feel a slight nagging in the small, non-horny corners of his mind.

"So, Leonardo is pretty chill," he started, "but uh, will he be able to keep up with Goremaw or Sir Hoofington or uh... a wheelchair-bound infant?"

"What do you mean?" Bune's Left Head asked, briefly turning away from directing a small queue of ghosts and ghouls to different cleaning tasks. "The Aspidochelone is the perfect size for you."

"I appreciate that I won't need to keep a step stool around when I ride him, but he is a tad bit lethargic." Zac did not want to insult his new turtle friend since it was the only one of Marchosias's pets that didn't seem to be repulsed by him. Why didn't they all love him like Goremaw did? It was a mystery. "I just think walking might be faster," he finished lamely.

"Walk? Ha!" Bune chuckled. "Your war mount is your mobile battle station. Sometimes the battles are quite long, so having somewhere to sit is nice." Bune's Right Head turned and swapped places with the Left Head to take over the conversation. "And Ose has never been a brawler. Your powers are not as useful on the battlefield directly... it is too noisy and chaotic for the paladins to hear your lies. So, the Pygmy Island Turtle is a wonderful choice. And if we get you a seatbelt, the Captain will be so happy."

Zac frowned. "Please don't turn Leonardo into a mobile high chair."

"The battlefield is a dangerous place," Bune said as he led Zac up another staircase. "Being positioned next to the Captain will be the safest place for you."

"Yes, next to my wolfy-hubby is where I belong," Zac said wistfully before hardening his expression. "But that's the point. Leonardo is slow as fuck. He won't even make it out of the driveway by the time the show has started. I'm gonna be late."

"Don't be ridiculous," Bune waved one of his four hands dismissively. "The different battlefronts are hundreds of miles from here. It would take days for even Goremaw to run there."

Zac waited for a few moments before realizing Bune wasn't going to continue unprompted. "So how do we travel to the battlefield? Hell-icopter?"

"Such a flimsy device would be shot out of the sky nearly instantly," the dragon said, leading Zac down yet another flight of stairs.

"Okay then what?" Zac asked. "And you didn't laugh. Helicopter. Hell-icopter. It's good, right? It just came to me. I should have been a comedian."

"I transport them," Bune said simply, ignoring the pun.

"How do you transport them?" Zac pressed. "And seriously, hell-icopter."

"My necromantic powers give me many abilities," Bune said, his tone shifting to one of lecture-hall pride. "I am able to move the dead. Most think that is simply animating or conjuring, but there are more applications. Due to those, I am not limited as other necromancers are." The dragon smirked smugly. "I do not need to look for or wait for a dead body to reanimate."

Zac nodded sagely. "You kill someone and make a dead body. Got it. Very metal."

"No," Bune sighed, the sound echoing in the stairwell. "I move the dead. I can transport the dead underground, so I can animate whichever body types I need. It is a logistical advantage."

"We were talking about Leonardo," Zac muttered, not sure how flexing on all the other goth mages helped his transportation issue.

"I can transport the others underground to the battlefronts and back here," Bune said, finally stopping in front of a door and pushing it open to reveal another room that looked like Zac's but, once again, was completely new. "It is much faster than other types of travel, and Heaven is too mysophobic to ever think of digging down into the ground."

"What's me-so-phobic?" Zac asked, tilting his head. "When I hear me-so, I usually think me-so-horn-"

"It means they are scared of being dirty," Bune cut off Zac's unfiltered thoughts with a sharp cough, "as if dirt itself is a bad thing."

"That's a bit ironic coming from you," Zac said as he entered his anti-demon-rape room. "You're quite serious about stains."

"Because they upset the Captain," Bune coughed into a fist. "Now, if there's anything else you-"

"Why does March's opinion matter so much to you?" Zac cut off the dragon’s attempt at a quick goodnight. He leaned against the doorframe, his tail twitching. "I saw you wrestle Skarg in the pantry, and I can tell you could have taken him down much faster than March did, if you really wanted to. You're a Duke, and you're stopping yourself from letting a virgin vibrate on your vent when you could be corrupting me."

Bune froze. For a split second, there was silence.

Then, with a wet, sickening tear, Bune’s Third Head erupted from between his shoulders. The Left and Right heads immediately looked shocked and mortified, recoiling from their own body.

"YES!" the Middle Head roared, spittle flying as its red eyes locked onto Zac. "COME OVER HERE AND GRIND ON MY CLOACA YOU FILTHY LITTLE VIRGIN!"

"DO YOU HAVE A HEMIPENIS?!" Zac yelled back, his eyes wide. Bune's third head had been missing all day, and Zac had told himself he wouldn't miss the opportunity to ask when it arose.

"CLASPERS!" the Middle Head bellowed, its tongue lolling out. "NOW GET OVER HERE!"

As Bune's Left and Right heads began apologizing profusely and screaming at the smug-looking Middle Head, Zac clutched his chest. He felt like he was having a heart attack. Claspers? Wasn't that a shark thing?

"You... you... you..." Zac couldn't even form proper words. "You got two cocks?"

Zac felt like he was in a trance as his body moved toward the dragon demon. All this time, he thought the others were hot and the dragon was just keeping his hand out of the cookie jar. But this... this changed the calculus entirely.

And what Bune's Middle Head roared next, just as the other two heads managed to grab the handle and slam the heavy door in Zac's face, sent the human into a mini-seizure.

"THREE!"

The information was simply too dense. It was a cognitive payload too heavy for the human brain to process. His eyes rolled back into his skull. His knees, which had been carrying him faithfully through days of demonic thirst, finally gave out and he collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.

CRACK.

His head hit the stone floor with a sickening, solid thud. The world didn't just fade to black; it was violently switched off.

...

...

"...he's finally here..."

"...places, everyone, places..."

"...does the lighting catch my good side? How does my mane look? Is it voluminous enough?..."

...

Zac blinked.

He wasn't on the floor anymore. He was standing, but he couldn't see anything. A thick, heavy fabric was tied tight around his eyes. He reached up, his fingers brushing against silk, and yanked the blindfold down.

He wasn't in his room. He wasn't even in the keep.

He was in a castle, but it was wrong. The stones were asymmetrical, jagged, and rough-hewn, lacking the sleek, obsidian perfection of Marchosias’s fortress. The windows were narrow slits, but instead of the eternal, bloody red glow of the Pit, a pale, artificial moonlight streamed through. It felt like a set. A stage.

Zac looked down and realized his footing was precarious. He was standing on a grate of cold iron. He grabbed the bars surrounding him. He was in a suspended birdcage, hanging by a massive chain over a dark, seemingly bottomless pit.

He leaned over the edge, squinting into the abyss. "Hello?" he called out. "Any Void Leeches down there? Or is this just a dramatic drop?"

He looked across the room. On a raised dais, sitting on thrones made of skulls and spikes, were two familiar figures. But they looked... different.

The warthog demon, Pumbaa, was draped in heavy velvet robes trimmed with ermine fur. He wore a crown that was slightly too small for his head, sitting crookedly between his ears. He looked like a caricature of an Evil King from a dark fantasy novel.

Beside him, the rodent demon, Timon, was dressed in tattered black robes covered in silver stars. He held a staff topped with a glowing green orb. He was clearly going for "Dark Wizard," though he looked more like a lawn ornament gone bad.

"Hey guys!" Zac waved enthusiastically through the bars of his cage. "I didn't know you were on the dream invite list! Look, if this is still about the conditioner, I really didn't mean to steal it. Even though it did smell really good, and I bet it would be great to use when I'm jerk-"

"Silence, Princess!" Pumbaa huffed, slamming a scepter onto the stone floor. "There is no escape for you now!"

Timon hissed in amusement, rubbing his spindly hands together. "The Evil King Pumbaa will make you his consort! He will fill you with a child and take over your kingdom! Now be silent, wench!"

Zac blinked. "Fill me with a... wait."

He looked down at himself. The leopard-print onesie was gone.

In its place, Zac was wearing a skimpy, silver chainmail bikini. It was less "armor" and more "suggestion." Gems dripped from the chains, catching the moonlight, and sheer, flowy bits of transparent silk hung from his hips and shoulders, designed purely for dramatic wind effects.

Zac blinked again.

His brain broke a little bit. He touched the cold metal against his skin. Then, he looked back up at the demons, a wide, delighted grin spreading across his face.

He shook his shoulders. Jingle jingle. He shook his hips. Swish swish.

"Oh my god," Zac whispered. Then he laughed, shaking his ass so the gems clattered against the iron bars. "Princess Leyah eat your heart out, bitch! Look at this fit! I look expensive!"

"Stop that!" Pumbaa hissed, looking uncomfortable. "You're the Princess! You are supposed to be cowering in fear of my dark seed!"

Zac stopped dancing and pointed a manicured finger (when did he get a manicure?) at the warthog man. "You'll never break me!" he declared dramatically, pressing his chest against the bars. "Even if you ravage me over and over and over..." His voice trailed off into a husky whisper. "...and over... and fill me with your royal oats..."

"Cut!" Timon screeched, banging his staff. "That isn't any way for a kidnapped maiden to act! You're ruining the tension!"

"I'm building the tension!" Zac argued. "I'm a defiant princess! It's a valid archetype!"

Before the rodent wizard could retort, the heavy wooden doors at the far end of the chamber exploded inward.

BOOM.

Splinters of wood showered the room like confetti. Dust billowed out, swirling in the shafts of moonlight.

"Halt, evil doers!"

A voice, rich and baritone, echoed through the chamber.

As the dust settled, a figure emerged. It was Sir Nock. He was clad in armor so shiny it was physically painful to look at. He held a massive sword pointed toward the ceiling, his other hand resting on his hip. He struck a pose, holding it for a solid five seconds to ensure everyone saw it.

And his mane.

It was magnificent. It was voluminous. It defied gravity, blowing in a wind that didn't exist inside the stone room. It was the mane of a lion who used excellent conditioner.

"Release pure Zachary," Nock bellowed, his golden eyes flashing, "and I may let you live!"

Zac’s chainmail jockstrap became quite uncomfortable very quickly. That lion was so fuckable it was insane. Why the hell did God think it was appropriate to make the demons so alluring? Falling from grace and turning into a demon was supposed to be a punishment, right? Not an all-expenses-paid trip to Korean pop star-level plastic surgery.

"Ha ha ha!" Pumbaa laughed thickly, snapping back into character with a jolt. He spread his arms wide, his velvet robes billowing. "What a fool you are to have come here! You have fallen right into my trap!"

"Fool!" Timon hissed manically, crouching beside the throne and waving his staff. "Complete fool!"

"I may be a fool," Nock said passionately, holding his free hand to his armored chest and closing his eyes, a single beam of moonlight perfectly highlighting his profile. "But I am only a fool... for love."

Zac let out a soft, appreciative whimper from his cage.

"It pains me to see an evildoer like you," Nock continued, his voice dripping with tragic empathy. "For I know you are just stuck in a cycle of violence. It is a curse that you must rise above! The fair Zachary does not love you, and taking the kingdom will not fill the void in your heart."

Nock opened his eyes slowly, a subtle, practiced twitch at the corner of his lip adding just the right amount of rugged sorrow.

"It is not for love!" Pumbaa declared, rising from his throne with a snort. "It is for the power! For the riches! You see, ever since I was a young boy, I have desired to command others. So I started my evil plan! To become the Dark King of... uh..."

"Helltopia," Timon suggested in a stage whisper.

"HELLTOPIA!" Pumbaa roared, correcting himself. "To become the Dark King of Helltopia, I needed to amass a small fortune, an army, and have a royal bride!"

As the Dark King's monologue droned on, Zac found himself drifting. He gripped the bars of his cage, pressing his face between them to get a better look at Nock. The lion was very kindly holding his pose, standing perfectly still while the antagonist spelled out his evil plan in excruciating detail and the dark mage played hype-man.

The armor looked so... form-fitting. Was there a zipper in the back? Or maybe magical clasps? After seeing the lion's impressive swimmer’s build while he strutted around in his robe earlier, Zac realized that the breastplate must be incredibly snug across those pectorals. It was essentially metal lingerie.

"But it matters not that I've told you," Pumbaa concluded with a menacing flourish, "since you will be dead soon anyways!"

Nock shifted his weight, the metal of his armor clinking melodiously. He changed his pose, swinging his sword out to the side and widening his stance. "You say you fight not for love, but for power. And that is why you will lose!"

He changed poses again, this time pointing his sword directly at the warthog, his chin lifted defiantly. "For when you fight for love... you can never lose."

Pumbaa growled, a low, rumbling sound of frustration. "Let's see your love save you from this! Evil Wizard, destroy the interloper!"

Timon stepped forward, his cackling laughter bouncing off the stone walls like skipping stones. "Your wish is my command, Dark King Pumbaa! I will erase this noble hero and there will be no one to stop you from taking over the world! Bwahahaha!"

Nock dropped into a defensive stance, his boots scraping dramatically against the floor. "Do your worst, vile sorcerer! My heart is my shield!"

Zac gripped the bars of his cage, wishing he had a bucket of popcorn. The plot was basic... like, 'first draft of a high school D&D campaign' basic... but the character designs were top-tier, and the lead actor was incredibly hot.

Timon swirled his staff overhead, the green orb at the tip pulsating with an eerie light. A magical wind whipped through the chamber, smelling faintly of ozone and wet dirt. The stone floor in front of Nock cracked open, and with a grinding rumble, a rock golem pulled itself from the earth.

It was a clunky, lumpy monstrosity, looking like five boulders glued together with glowing green slime, but it towered over the lion.

Nock gripped his massive sword with both hands, sneering at the construct. "Too scared to fight with your own hands, you fiend? You hide behind dolls!"

"You are not worth lifting a finger for!" Timon screeched, pointing his staff. "Attack him, Dark Golem! Crush him into paste!"

The humanoid rock monster lumbered forward, swinging a fist the size of a microwave in a slow, telegraphic arc.

"HA!" Nock shouted, sidestepping with a flourish of his cape. He parried the stone fist with the flat of his blade, grunting with theatrical effort. "Is that all you have? My grandmother hits harder!"

Zac, getting into the spirit of things, shook the bars of his cage. "Get him, Sir Nock! I will be your sword maiden and tend to your sheath if you free me! I'll keep your sword nice and warm!"

Nock froze mid-parry. His ears swiveled toward the cage, and a goofy, lovestruck grin broke through his determined scowl. "My sheath?" he called back, turning his head away from the monster. "Oh, sweet Zachary, I would be honored to let you tend to my-"

CRUNCH.

The golem’s other fist connected squarely with the side of Nock’s head.

The lion knight didn't even have time to finish his sentence. He crumpled instantly, crashing face-first into the stone floor with a deafening clatter of armor.

Zac winced. "Ouch."

Nock groaned, pushing himself up on shaking arms. His chest piece was dented and his perfect mane was mussed. He looked up at the golem, then glared past it at the rodent wizard. A low growl started in his throat. "Timon, what the hell was-"

BAM.

The golem didn't wait for the dialogue. It delivered a brutal, spartanesque kick to Nock’s chest.

Nock went airborne. He flew backward across the room, slamming into the castle wall with a bone-jarring impact that cracked the masonry. He slid down the wall and landed in a heap, wheezing, clutching his breastplate as he struggled to catch his breath.

"Mwah ha ha," Pumbaa said, his voice wobbling. He looked nervously at Timon, who was cackling with a little too much genuine glee. "The... uh... the hero was all talk, it seems?"

Zac realized the scene was going off-script. He pressed his face against the cold iron bars, shouting down at the fallen lion. "Get up, brave Sir Nock! You can't let them win! You're my only hope! I need you to save me so we can ride off into the sunset and do butt stuff!"

Nock’s head snapped up. His golden eyes flashed open, but the romantic sparkle was gone. In its place was the burning, molten rage of a High Demon of Hell who had just been embarrassed in front of his crush.

He stood up slowly, the dented metal of his armor groaning. He didn't strike a pose. He didn't check his hair. He just gripped his sword until his knuckles turned white.

"You evil fucks are dead," he snarled.

Nock's eyes snapped open, his vertical pupils dilating until his irises were swallowed by black pools of violence. For a second, Zac swore he saw a faint, golden aura flare around the lion, but he shook his head... this was a dark romance fantasy, not a Shonen battle anime.

Nock roared, charging back into the fray. This time, there was no posing. He met the golem head-on, ducking under a sweeping haymaker with liquid grace. His massive sword became a blur of steel, no longer deflecting but attacking. Clang. Crack. Crunch. Every swing connected with purpose, the blade biting into the stone joints, exploiting hairline fractures Zac hadn't even seen. The golem staggered, chunks of its rock-flesh cleaving off in showers of gravel.

"Stupid golem!" Timon hissed, slamming the butt of his staff onto the dais. "Must I do everything myself?!"

With a wave of green light, the earth rumbled again, and a second, larger golem burst from the floor. But Timon wasn't done. He pointed his staff at the debris field of the first crumbling construct. " Lapidem Bullet! "

The fallen shards of stone levitated, vibrating with kinetic energy, before launching themselves at Nock like a shotgun blast.

Nock didn't flinch. He spun, his cape flaring, his sword weaving a defensive web that batted the projectiles out of the air. He didn't lose momentum. He rolled under the second golem’s legs, slashing upward into its knee joints, severing them cleanly. The construct toppled with a deafening crash. Nock was a hurricane of feline fluidity and roaring steel, dismantling the stone giants with terrifying efficiency.

Zac noticed Pumbaa, still sitting on his skull-throne, clenching his fists into the velvet fabric of his robes. The warthog looked genuinely nervous as chunks of golem flew dangerously close to his head.

"The brave hero will save me, Evil King!" Zac yelled, rattling his cage to get their attention. "You'll never get to smell my ripe bikini after I toss it into the hamper when I jump into the shower! And then when I get out of the shower and catch you, you'd be all embarrassed and aroused trying to hide how naughty you were being!"

Zac's voice dropped to a husky, roleplay whisper that echoed weirdly in the stone chamber. "And I'd pretend to be so upset with you. I'd tell you, 'If you don't want anyone to know about your little sniffing habit... take those pants off, you filthy piggy.'"

The sound of battle died instantly.

Nock froze mid-swing, his sword buried halfway into a golem's torso. Timon’s staff faltered, the green light dimming. Pumbaa’s jaw hung open. All three demons stood motionless in the debris-strewn room, staring up at the suspended cage.

Inside, Zac was hugging himself, swaying back and forth, eyes glazed over as he muttered something about "snout play" and "truffle hunting."

Nock cleared his throat. It was a loud, sharp, deliberately unromantic sound. HRA-HEM.

Zac’s eyes fluttered open. He looked down. The demons were looking at him like he was the weird one.

"Oh," Zac said. "Are we... still fighting?"

Nock blinked, shaking his head as if to clear water from his ears. He yanked his sword free from the stone torso with a spray of sparks and snapped back into a heroic stance, pointing the blade at the dais.

"Fear not, sweet Zac!" he bellowed, his voice cracking slightly before returning to its booming register. "Keep your eyes upon me and dare to hope! Your knight is coming!"

Timon was a few moments too slow getting back into the proper "Evil Wizard" mindset. He was still trying to process the phrase "ripe bikini" when Nock lunged.

The lion's sword flashed silver in the moonlight. It sliced cleanly through the wooden staff, shattering the glowing green orb, and continued its arc, embedding itself halfway into the meerkat demon’s skull with a wet thwack.

Timon let out a choked squeak. Nock didn't hesitate. With a violent twist of his wrists and a savage upward heave, he ripped the blade free. The force of the motion nearly exploded the demon’s head, sending a spray of gore across the dais. Timon’s body crumpled to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

Pumbaa yelped, swallowing hard as a piece of his friend's brain landed on his velvet sleeve.

"The dark wizard is no more!" Nock declared. He swung his sword to the side with a sharp flick, splattering a line of blood and grey matter onto the floor. He planted a shining, armored boot on Timon’s twitching corpse and pointed his blade directly at Pumbaa’s snout. "This is your last chance, Corrupt King! Free Zachary and forfeit your titles! Only then will I let you live!"

Pumbaa’s eyes darted nervously to the mangled remains of the wizard. He tried very hard not to look directly at the open skull cavity. "If... if I leave peacefully, you'll let me live?"

Nock’s expression grew somber. He lifted his chin, his golden eyes filled with tragic resolve. "Of course, you'd never do that. Killing hurts my soul... but sometimes it is the only answer when such darkness exists."

Pumbaa whimpered, raising his hands in surrender. "Really! I think I'll relinquish my-"

"HRAAAAGH!"

Nock gave a heroic, bloodcurdling roar and charged, his sword already swinging in a lethal, decapitating arc.

Pumbaa squealed in terror. He scrambled backward, grabbing a massive, ornamental war axe from beside the throne just in time to block the blow. CLANG. The impact sent Pumbaa flying off the dais, his crown clattering away as he hit the stone floor and rolled.

"Why are you making me fight you?!" Nock shouted, tears gathering in his eyes as he advanced on the scrambling warthog. "You could have lived! Why did you choose death?!"

"I DIDN'T!" Pumbaa screamed, barely parrying another strike that would have split him in half. "I SAID I QUIT!"

"Vile fiend!" Nock bellowed, swinging again with enough force to crack the floor tiles. "This hurts me more than it will hurt you!"

Zac, watching from his cage, slowly started to frown. This wasn't exactly the noble duel he had pictured. It was basically a heavily armored super-soldier chasing a fat guy in a velvet robe around a room while screaming about mercy.

"Uh, Sir Nock?" Zac called out tentatively. "He looks pretty sorry... maybe we can just skip to the rescue part?"

"Don't listen to his lies, sweet Zachary!" Nock cried, cornering the wheezing Pumbaa against a pillar. "Evil never surrenders! It only waits!" He raised his sword high for the killing blow. "I do this for YOU!"

Pumbaa's high-pitched squeals of fear were cut short as Nock began, quite literally, mincing the pork. The lion knight stopped occasionally mid-hack to wail about how he "didn't want it to end this way" and that "the evil king forced his hand," despite the fact that Pumbaa was very much dead and very, very tenderized.

Finally, silence fell over the chamber. Nock stood panting amidst the carnage, turning slowly to face Zac. He was covered head to toe in blood and viscera; it slid down his dented chest piece in thick, crimson rivulets. For a moment, Nock smiled, looking genuinely pleased with his butchery, before a thought clearly struck him.

He winced dramatically and fell to one knee, supporting his weight with his sword like a tragic hero on the cover of a romance novel. He breathed heavily, looking tired and spent.

"Are you..." his voice was pained, rough with emotion. "Are you alright, sweet Zac? I am here now."

Nock slowly looked up. His pupils were dilated, swallowing the gold. His mane, miraculously untouched by the gore, was thick, voluminous, and perky. Through the mask of blood covering his face, his pearly white smile shone like a beacon of "I'm going to allow you to get fucked by me" energy.

Zac couldn't help but fall to his knees too, clutching the bars. "My hero! Please, free me from this cage so I might look more closely upon my rescuer!"

Nock’s exhaustion vanished. He scurried over to a chain tie affixed to the wall with impressive speed for a man in full plate. Within a minute, the cage was lowered, and Zac was stepping out onto the cold stone of the dream castle.

"Oh, Sir Nock," he said, hugging himself and shivering slightly in his chainmail bikini. "You're so hunky... I mean, brave."

Nock turned and reached for him. He stepped forward, his massive, blood-slicked gauntlet gently lifting Zac’s chin until the little human was looking up at him. Zac’s heart raced. The "pizza delivery boy" part of the script was done. It was finally time for the real action.

Zac fluttered his eyelashes. "The bad guys are taken care of..." He looked down pointedly at Nock's armored codpiece. "I think it's time you sheath that sword."

Nock chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Yes, my chaste maid. Follow me, and we will escape this horrid smelling place."

He took Zac’s hand and led him toward the door he had burst through earlier.

"Oh, we have to travel a bit?" Zac asked, trying to keep up with the lion’s long strides. "I was thinking a little bit of pregaming here... you were so badass fighting those golems that I'm sure you could use a massage. Where I massage your face. With my butt."

Nock didn't answer. He simply led Zac over the threshold of the shattered door.

Zac looked up. He thought the lion man was right in front of him, but the moment his foot crossed the threshold, the world shifted. The cold stone dungeon vanished.

He found himself in an entirely different space. It was a luxurious yurt, vast and airy. sheer white linens hung from the ceiling, billowing in a gentle, warm breeze. Soft, amber lighting bathed the room in a golden glow, and the floor was made of smooth, light wood that felt warm underfoot.

Zac walked forward slowly, pushing the white drapes aside, his breath hitching as he found his way to the center of the room.

There, Nock, now stunningly clean and minus his blood-soaked armor, was sprawled out on a massive, circular bed strewn with red rose petals. He was naked, save for a single white silk sheet that was tastefully draped over his crotch, much to Zac’s immediate and profound dismay. His golden fur gleamed in the soft light, his muscles defined and perfect.

When Zac clutched his chest to be sure his heart wouldn't beat out of his own chest, his hand didn't feel the cold metal of a chainmail bikini, but soft, weightless fabric. He looked down at himself and held out his arms. He was wearing a white silken robe, nearly see-through, that flowed around him like mist.

"Oh, pure one," Nock purred, gesturing Zac closer with a single, beckoning finger. "Your soft skin... it makes me grin. Your thoughtful eyes... make my spirit fly. Your... delicious ass... makes my thoughts quite crass."

Nock shifted, throwing his arms back over the headboard in a gesture that Zac interpreted as Come touch my perfect body, I give you permission even though I know I'm too good for you.

Zac didn't need to be told twice. He practically cannonballed onto the bed, the mattress absorbing the impact with a plush bounce. As he rebounded, he quickly scrambled onto his hands and knees, crawling toward the waiting lion with a hunger that defied all concepts of "chaste maiden."

Zac was shaking violently as he held his hands over Nock's sculpted body. He could see the adonis belt through the golden fur, the definition sharp enough to cut glass. He could even make out a thick vein running up the lion's powerful thigh where the fur was shortest.

"Thank you for spending time on the details," Zac whispered reverently. "They are so very important."

Nock grinned, looking quite smug. "Do not be afraid to touch," he purred. He reached over, pulling something small and square from under a pillow, and brought it to his mouth, biting the corner with a practiced rip.

Zac was oblivious to the lion's actions. His hand was slowly reaching toward the silk sheet, his heart beating so hard his ears hurt. He was desperately praying that the lion man did not have a literal lion dick and more of a...

Zac's mind slowly turned off as his hand hit the sheet and he felt what was under it.

He gripped what would be a painfully large human organ. Through the silk, he could feel bumpy bits at the tip and near the hot, thick base. Barbs, his brain supplied helpfuly. Are they barbs? Oh, you fucking feline. Hook me like a fish.

Zac finally came back to reality as Nock laughed, a rich, throaty sound. "You can do more than feel it through the sheet, sweet Zachary."

Zac looked up at Nock. The lion was holding a condom.

Zac's head slowly tilted to the side. "Wha... what's... is that a rubber?"

Nock nodded solemnly. "We do not want you getting pregnant, my sweet."

Zac looked around the dream-yurt, confused. "But, uh, mpreg is kind of hot. You don't wanna fill me with lion cubs? Because I wouldn't mind a bit of dream husband domesticity."

"Oh," Nock looked a bit surprised and uncomfortable. "Well, I still shouldn't. Marchosias told us we cannot defile you."

Zac nearly pulled his hair out. "SKARG LITERALLY PINNED ME DOWN AND FORCED HIS BIG DEMON DICK INTO MY TIGHT VIRGIN HOLE AND I LOVED IT!"

Nock’s eyes dilated instantly. He grabbed Zac, pulling him into a passionate, consuming kiss.

Zac's eyes went wide before he collapsed into the lion's strong arms. His brain was on fire as he slowly made out with the perfect 10 lion man. Mmm, totally sandpaper, he thought blissfully as the rough tongue explored his mouth. His body felt like little pieces of ice were touching him all over in the best way possible.

Zac whimpered as Nock gently pulled away.

"My dear Zac," Nock whispered, his voice heavy with regret. "I hope the prophylactic doesn't upset you. I trust that you are disease-free, but..." The lion man looked down in shame, his ears flattening. "I cannot say the same."

Zac's lust cloud cleared just a bit. "Oh. Uh, if you've got lion herpes or something that's okay. I think like two-thirds of all people have the herpes virus or something."

"No, it is not that," Nock sighed. "It is much worse."

Zac sat up a bit, putting a comforting hand on Nock's chest. "If it's... if it's HIV, I understand. We can use the condom until I get on some of those pills they have. I think they even have a yearly injection now. It's no big deal, Nock. I'm glad you are such a gentleman and are honest, but I don't think we need to worry about it in my dream."

Nock shook his head again, looking tragic. "I'm sorry my sweet Zac, but there is no cure for this. And my demonic powers are so strong, it follows me into my dreams. I... I... I..." the lion stuttered. "I have the plague."

"The what?"

Zac opened his eyes.

He was laying on the cold stone floor of his room in Marchosias's keep. His head was still throbbing in pain from when he fell and hit the floor earlier.

He slowly rolled onto his side, staring at the wall.

"I didn't even get to see it," he whispered to the empty room. "FUCK."

After laying on the floor until his head stopped aching, Zac had plenty of time to think. What was the point of the princess rescue storyline? Did demons remember feelings from dreams? Was immersive roleplay actually just training in disguise, and Marchosias was truly a tactical genius that would be spoken about for eons?

And most importantly: why didn't he rip that sheet off of Nock and stare at the lion's junk?

Zac squeezed his eyes shut and felt the tears fall on his cheeks. Barbs. He knew there were barbs or something and the lion tube steak was impressive, but he couldn't remember the feeling of it, just that it had made him a bit damp.

However, after wallowing in self-admonishment for nearly an hour, he realized that he was not going to be able to go back to sleep, how could he ever think about drifting off when there was no demon to give him dream strip teases. Even with the lingering effects of the demon dream visit (which once again had left him quite limp) his blood was boiling with the hormones of a thousand degenerate fan girls waiting to get books signed by their favorite yaoi author. Even if he could not raise his mast to sail the seas of his imagination, he needed to take action. He needed... to cruise.

The light outside the window was still its static vague red. He had no idea how long he had been asleep or unconscious. He also had no clue as to where exactly he wanted to go. But when he pulled himself up by the doorknob and found it turned easily in his hand, he knew that Bune’s embarrassed exit the night before was now his free pass to get into trouble.

Zac peeked out into the corridor. It looked exactly the same as any other time he'd been in the halls: cold, stony, and aggressively gothic. He felt a bit of anti-climax; he thought there might be some early morning mood lighting, maybe a sconce dimmed for ambiance. Totally a missed opportunity.

He padded down the hall, looking at the very sharp-looking weapons mounted as art on the walls. He felt a bit judged by the different suits of armor as he passed. He hoped they were not filled with bugs, but he was not really in the mood to find out. He was still a bit salty from being rejected by the Arachne-Strider down in the stables the night before.

He tried to remember his way to the dining room as he walked along, rubbing the sore spot on his head. It seemed like whenever Bune led him around, the dragon just confidently walked down whatever hallway he fancied and the keep would lead him where he wanted to go. Zac felt like this would work out for him too. You know what they say: play it by ear if you want a hot wolfman in your rear.

Zac struck a confident pose, pointing forward down the corridor. "Alright my soon-to-be-betrothed wolf man's million-dollar bachelor pad! Show me the kitchen! Kitty wants to get some breakfast!"

He strutted down the hall, his tail swishing with purpose.

Twenty minutes later, Zac was less confident. Somehow, he had found himself in a long hallway with no end in sight in either direction. He had turned around after walking for about eight minutes in one direction and was growing ever more unsettled that there were not even doors now. He should have been back to where he started at this point, but it would appear that the building did not like him very much.

"I swear to god," Zac muttered under his breath, glaring at a sconce, "I am not above pulling one of these wall lights down and starting a fire. I will do it. I'm crazy."

"You're gonna start a fire?"

Zac sighed before turning. He should have just had a killer jumpscare (he had no clue someone was behind him) but now he was just a bit embarrassed he was overheard earnestly threatening an inanimate object.

Halphas was standing in front of him, looking a strange combination of winded, amused, and also a bit concerned. The eagle demon was dressed in a jogging outfit that consisted of very short shorts and a tight white wifebeater.

"Fire hot... so fucking hot..." Zac murmured as he stared at the eagle's shorts.

Halphas's legs were thick. Zac didn't know how, but even with the light dusting of feathers, he could tell these were beefcake legs. Nock might have had a sexy vein, but these legs were sculpted. How the feathers on the eagle's inner thighs didn't rub off when he walked didn't make any sense, but Zac wasn't questioning the physics of thigh gaps right now.

"Yeah, that's one of its key features," Halphas chuckled as he watched Zac get instantly dick-hypnotized… or dicknotized as Zac would begrudgingly refer to it later in his memoirs.

Zac was lost in a fantasy involving Halphas in a bodybuilding competition, and Zac got to play the role of the very eager judge. He imagined himself oiling up those massive thighs, giving a thorough, hands-on critique of the eagle's gluteal striations.

He returned to reality as Halphas snapped his fingers in front of the zoned-out human's face. "So what is it? You trying to get sweaty?" the eagle asked.

"Yes," Zac said instinctively. Getting sweaty with a hunky jock was an easy ask.

Halphas crossed his arms and looked pleased, his biceps flexing. "That's the spirit, new guy. It would take you a while to get back to the main keep anyways if you weren't up for a run."

"Run?" Zac questioned. "Like... with my legs?"

The keep, apparently, was quite large and also quite demonic. The magical and spiritual powers that were infused into the Pit had given the building an atypical floor plan. The corridor was, according to Halphas, about two miles away from where Zac had begun his early morning escapade.

Twenty minutes later, Zac was dripping with sweat and panting as he struggled to keep up with Halphas, who was barely breaking a sweat jogging slowly down the corridor. Zac was half-listening as Halphas droned on about the keep and how it was excellent for his morning cardio routine. The carpet was a bit bad for his joints, apparently, but being able to run a marathon without any distractions or interruptions was quite nice.

"I need... a break..." Zac wheezed, the fleece of his leopard onesie clinging to him like a wet, sweaty second skin. He felt like dying.

Halphas laughed, a sharp bark, and barely slowed his pace. "That's the spirit, new guy! You'll get whipped into shape in no time."

Zac fell dramatically to the floor, holding a hand up. "But I'm a bottom! If I get buff, people will want me to fuck them!"

Halphas stopped, jogging in place and looking down at the sprawled-out human with a grin. "This is cardio, not weightlifting. Endurance is key for any position."

Zac sucked in air, his chest heaving. "There are better forms of cardio," he gasped, "like getting held down onto a mattress and struggling until I can't move while a big cruel demon groans about how tight my-"

Zac trailed off, hugging himself and rolling around on the floor as the fantasy took hold, momentarily overriding his exhaustion.

Halphas shook his head and laughed, the sound echoing down the endless hallway. "You'd be fun to fuck for all of five minutes before you passed out. Are you even doing kegels?"

Zac slowly opened his eyes and stopped hugging himself. He looked up at Halphas from the floor, affronted. "I'm not an old blown-out grandma."

Halphas stopped jogging in place and clicked his beak in disapproval. "Do you think someone with no experience would be better in the sack than that old blown-out grandma?" He reached down, offering a taloned hand to help Zac up. "If she's truly blown out, she must have been quite the slut back in the day. Experience counts for something."

Zac reluctantly took Halphas's hand and allowed himself to be easily heaved to his feet. "Touché. You've really made a great case for fucking grandmas over virgins."

Halphas squawked with laughter. "That's not what I'm trying to say." He slapped Zac heartily on the back, nearly sending the human sprawling again. "I don't wanna risk getting flayed by March unless I know you've got the stamina to keep struggling for at least half an hour. Where's the fun if you go limp after the first round?"

A shiver ran up Zac’s spine. The wheels in his mind began to turn. It was true that he did not really care to become a buff bodybuilder, in the same way that a reader does not truly care to write, Zac was a consumer of the visually impressive. But... half an hour of hardcore, intense, passionate demon assault really would be a taxing ordeal. In Zac's fantasies, he never considered the physical demands of holding himself in different positions for extended periods of time. Or the core strength required to ride a boulder.

Zac felt a rush of panicked realization. He should actually work out a bit.

The rest of the run (if you could call a man in a leopard onesie slightly power-walking while wailing about a stitch in his side and how working out blows "a run") was surprisingly informative. Between complaints, Zac got to listen to Halphas talk more, and the eagle really did like talking.

“...and that's how we killed the Easter Bunny,” Halphas said, looking fondly out into space. “I knew I'd never enjoy working for any captain other than March after that. Got myself reassigned that very evening.”

Zac shuffled towards the eagle, who was holding open the dining room door. He wanted to ask more about the Easter Bunny being a real thing and how stupid that sounded. He also wanted to ignore the eagle and walk straight towards the closest chair and collapse. But the eagle had mentioned Marchosias, and Zac needed to do some detective work.

“A big win,” Zac said, trying much too hard to sound nonchalant, which was immediately undercut by his huffing and wheezing. “And you didn't bring the Captain out to Evil Gay Hooters to get some wings and look at butts after? I thought you all liked March.”

Halphas looked a bit confused. “Like… March? I mean...” He looked around to check if anyone else was awake yet. “He’s a great captain.”

Zac finally got to a chair and slowly lowered himself into it. Yeah, his legs were going to hurt a lot. Spontaneous two-mile runs in slippers were not a good life choice. “Yeah, you all seem to respect him, but I thought this was a goofy found family, fraternal bonds from your time doing bad dog shit together, bros before hoes because all the bros are gay or at least bi-flexible… situation.”

“Uhh...” Halphas walked over to the table and, with a puff of black smoke, poofed a big tub of protein powder into existence. “I don’t know what that really means, but we are demons. We don't like each other.”

Zac happily grabbed a box of waffles from Halphas as the eagle demon began creating a breakfast spread. “You say that, but that's just years of ingrained toxic masculinity,” Zac said through his first bites of unheated breakfast. “I know you all care for each other. After an eternity of battles with your backs to each other as you brave the assault of angels... It’s been centuries since you've even needed to express your feelings towards each other in words since you're all so in sync with each other. Just a glance of the eyes, a subtle gesture, a...”

Zac's voice trailed off, his eyes glazing over. “Touch of the hands. How lonely you all have been. So of course it would only be natural that you began to look towards each other for comfort... for pleasure...”

Zac looked up to see Halphas humming to himself and shaking a big protein drink next to his head.

“What was that?” the eagle asked as the drink sloshed loudly.

"Nothing," Zac said wistfully, "just enjoying my shipping hobby."

He was just beginning to imagine Halphas and Marchosias getting steamy in the Captain's war tent… perhaps over a map table, pushing all the little figurines aside and spilling a bottle of ink over some random documents… when Halphas actually acknowledged what Zac had said.

“Boats, huh?” the demon said between slurps of his chunky, not-shaken-enough protein powder syrup. “I actually know a bit about them too. I'm surprised you're into that sort of thing. After Bune told us you were an artist, I just thought you'd be into lame chick stuff.”

Zac’s mind raced, trying to process how not to seem like he was into "lame chick stuff" in front of the very sexy demon. "Yeah, ships, haha. Uh, like, it's so cool that they don't sink and stuff." Zac was floundering. "So, what do you like about ships?"

“I uh...” Halphas looked a bit confused by the extremely vague question. “I guess I like the spectacle. It’s do or die. Imagine... the Battle of Svolder.”

Halphas began to light up. He put down his shaker, his golden eyes widening with enthusiasm. He began to gesture with his hands, mapping out fleet formations on the empty table using pepper grinders and a stray fork. "King Olaf was cornered! His longship, the Long Serpent, was surrounded by enemies. But he didn't run. He tied his ships together into a floating fortress! It was brutal! Axes swinging, men falling into the freezing water, the sea turning red! Pure, chaotic, close-quarters carnage on a wooden platform that could burn or sink at any moment!"

Zac slowly relaxed in his chair as Halphas's excited story washed over him. Much like Bune's lectures, he wasn't really listening to the historical details, but seeing the sexy and scantily dressed eagle geeking out so hard was endearing. ‘He’s not a big stupid himbo meathead,’ Zac thought, admiring the way Halphas's pecs flexed when he simulated an axe swing. ‘He’s a nerdy vending machine who never skips leg day. So fucking perfect. I wonder if he'd give me his number if I asked.’

“It’s about resolve!” Halphas gushed, slamming a fist into his open palm. “No retreat, no surrender! If you do not push forward and take the victory, only a cold watery grave awaits you!”

Halphas paused, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion of his storytelling. He looked at Zac, then down at his impromptu battle map of breakfast condiments, and seemed to realize he was getting a little too intense. He cleared his throat, quickly grabbing his protein shaker and downing the rest in one go. “But uh, yeah. Boats are cool and stuff, I guess. It’s not like they're that interesting.”

Zac raised a skeptical eyebrow, leaning forward over his waffle box. "So, did any of the Vikings say 'never let go' right before immediately leaving their lover to drown in the freezing water even though there was clearly enough room on the door for two people?"

Halphas blinked, his golden eyes narrowing in confusion. "Uhh... I don't think so. Most of them died by axe wounds or drowning under the weight of their armor. There wasn't much time for floating door logistics."

"Well, you wouldn't have to worry about that from me," Zac said fiercely, wiping sticky waffle crumbs from his hands onto his leopard-print thighs. "I have excellent grip strength. I'm not some bitch like Rose."

Halphas opened his beak to ask who Rose was and why she was a bitch, but Zac was already gone.

His eyes glazed over as the dining hall dissolved into the opulent, mahogany-paneled stateroom of a luxury ocean liner. Soft, golden light filtered through a porthole, illuminating Halphas, who was draped dramatically across a velvet fainting couch. He was wearing nothing but a small, white towel loosely knotted at his hip.

"Paint me, Zachary," Dream-Halphas rumbled, his voice like velvet over gravel. "Paint me like one of your monster men."

Zac, holding a charcoal stick and wearing a beret for some reason, frowned critically at his subject. "I can't capture your essence with that towel in the way, Hal," he scolded gently. "To truly understand the enormity of your masculine beauty, I need to see the... eagle dick."

Imagination-Halphas smirked and reached for the knot of the towel. "Anything for your lame chick art..."

Zac leaned forward, breathless, as the towel began to slip-

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.

The sound of aggressive swallowing snapped Zac back to reality. He blinked rapidly. The ocean liner vanished, replaced by the austere stone of the dining hall. Halphas was standing by the table, head tipped back, chugging a glass of freshly conjured orange juice. His throat bobbed mesmerizingly with each swallow.

Zac watched the juice disappear, but for once, his mind didn't go straight to the gutter. Instead, a different, more desperate craving clawed its way to the surface. He looked at the eagle’s glowing hand as the empty glass vanished in a puff of smoke.

"Hey, Halphas," Zac said, his voice taking on a wheedling, desperate tone. "Hal. Buddy. Old pal. My favorite gym partner."

Halphas wiped his beak with the back of his hand, looking down at the human. "What do you want, new guy?"

"You wouldn't be able to summon me up a hot cup of coffee, would you?" Zac asked, clasping his hands together in prayer. "Just a little cup? A dark roast? I'm begging you. My blood is crying out for bean juice."

Halphas looked at him, an amused glint entering his eyes. "You're into that sort of thing, huh? Stimulants?" He chuckled, leaning back against the table and crossing his massive arms. "Was Nock really that bad last night that you're afraid of falling back asleep?"

Wait... fall back asleep?

Zac froze mid-sip, his eyes going wide. ‘Why didn't I think of that?’ he screamed internally. ‘I could have just laid there! I could have bonked my head against the bureau again! By now I could be at the dream clinic, getting a very thorough check-up to make sure I didn’t catch the plague!’

His existential angst over missed opportunities was cut short by a familiar poof of black smoke and grey feathers. The rich, earthy aroma of dark roast coffee filled the air, instantly overriding every other thought in Zac’s head.

He snatched the steaming mug from the air before Halphas could even extend his arm.

"Mine," Zac hissed.

He brought the cup to his lips and downed a third of it in one gulp. Searing pain lanced across his tongue and the roof of his mouth, first-degree burns, easily, but he didn't care. It was hot. It was bitter. It was life itself.

"Whoa, easy there, tiger," Halphas said, looking a little concerned as steam billowed from Zac’s open mouth. "It's probably a bit hot. You want to maybe let it cool down?"

Zac just shook his head violently, picking a small, grey down feather from between his teeth. "Coffee good," he croaked, his voice raspy from the heat. "Coffee make happy. Mmmm coffee." He drained the rest of the cup and slammed it down on the table. "Another."

Five minutes later, Halphas was starting to look genuinely worried.

"You know this stuff has caffeine in it, right?" the eagle asked, hesitating by the time he pushed a seventh steaming mug across the table. "Like... demonic caffeine. It's pretty strong stuff. Maybe you should pace yourself?"

"Don't judge me, you sexy vending machine," Zac murmured into the cup, his hands shaking violently as he lifted it. His mouth was numb, his heart felt like it was trying to vibrate its way out of his ribcage, and he could see colors he didn't have names for. He gave precisely zero fucks.

He downed the cup. "Another."

Halphas stood up, stretching his arms over his head with a series of satisfying pops. "Alright, that's enough. Better not let March catch you binging like this. The Cap is strict about substance abuse. He might put you into a program with Buney-boy, and trust me, you don't want to attend those meetings."

"I don't have a problem, you have a problem!" Zac hissed, clutching his empty mug to his chest like a precious artifact. His hands were vibrating so hard the ceramic rattled against his sternum. "I can quit anytime I want! I just don't want to! It's a lifestyle choice!"

"Right, just like being a virgin is a lifestyle choice," Halphas said with a grin.

Zac's mouth opened and closed like a fish. His demonically caffeinated mind sprinted through a hundred potential comebacks at light speed.

No, you're a virgin.

No, that eagle definitely fucks.

It's not a lifestyle choice, it's a disability, I'm sexually dyslexic.

Too wordy.

Oh, so you'll make me coffee but you won't make me scream?

Promising, but off-topic.

Finally, he looked up from his mug and shouted, "How can it be a lifestyle choice if I'm in hell?! That's a deathstyle choice!"

He looked around for approval, expecting a witty retort or at least a confused squawk.

The dining room was empty.

Zac blinked. He looked down. His coffee had gone cold. A thin, oily film had formed on the surface.

"Damn it," he whispered. "I really need to work on my timing."

He groaned as he pushed himself up from the table, leaving behind a graveyard of empty mugs and a single plate covered in waffle crumbs. His legs felt like jelly, his hands were still shaking, and his head was buzzing like a hive of angry bees.

"Ugh, gotta piss so bad," he muttered, shuffling toward the door.

He took two steps before his face went white. A deep, ominous rumble echoed from his stomach, louder than a warg's growl. The demonic caffeine, having finished rewiring his nervous system, was now declaring war on his digestive tract.

Zac froze, clutching his stomach.

"Oh fuck," he whispered, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. "I'm gonna shit my pants."

Zac speed-waddled out of the dining room, his knees knocked together in a desperate, friction-heavy attempt to maintain the structural integrity of his sphincter. He looked up the hallway. He looked down the hallway. It was endless, dark, and seemingly bathroom-free.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in his chest. This wasn't happening. There was absolutely no way he was going to poop himself on his third day in Hell. He refused to be that guy. And certainly not in a tactical, soul-threaded leopard onesie. The cleanup would be a logistical nightmare, and Bune would never let him live it down.

He began to shuffle down the corridor, his pace frantic but restricted by the terrifying biology of his situation. He reached the first door and flung it open.

A broom closet. Just brooms. "Useless!" he shrieked, slamming it.

He hobbled to the next one. He threw it open. A wall of humid, earthy heat hit him. The room was filled with writhing, purple ferns that vibrated aggressively and hissed at him. "Nope!" Slam.

He tried the third door across the hall. He was met with the deafening, bone-shaking roar of a supermassive black hole projected onto the ceiling of a planetarium, swirling with cosmic violence. "Too loud!" Slam.

Sweat was blinding him now. He reached the fourth door. Inside, a figure was standing perfectly still, facing the corner. It was wearing a leopard-print onesie.

"Hey!" Zac shouted at his evil twin, desperation overriding fear. "Where's the shitter?!"

The doppelganger slowly turned around. Where its face should have been, there were only squiggly, swirling black voids, spiraling into nothingness. It began to float toward him, arms outstretched.

"Ugh, sorry buddy, didn't know you were having a moment," Zac grunted, slamming the door in the void-monster's face.

His stomach gave a lurch that felt like a tectonic plate shifting. A cramp seized his midsection so hard he doubled over.

Zac blinked the stinging sweat out of his eyes. He glared at the stone walls of the hallway. He knew this castle was alive. He knew it was messing with him. And he was done playing nice.

"IF THE NEXT ROOM ISN'T THE BATHROOM," he yelled furiously at the ceiling, "I'M GONNA JUST TAKE A DUMP RIGHT ON THE FLOOR!"

His ears popped. The ambient hum of the keep went silent. It felt like the hallway was holding its breath.

Zac narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping to a menacing, erratic whisper. He pointed a shaking finger at the ornate runner beneath his feet. "It would be a shame if this high-thread-count, antique rug got a big, demonically-caffeinated dookie on it."

The torches in the sconces flickered nervously. The shadows seemed to recoil.

"I mean it!" Zac threatened, waddling toward a pristine suit of armor. "I'll do it in the helmet! I'll do it right in the visor! I have no shame left! I will ruin the resale value of this entire wing!"

He reached for the next handle. The castle seemed to shudder.

He threw the door open.

Black marble. Polished silver. Steam.

It was the infernal bathroom.

Zac felt a surge of triumph, the unique, god-like thrill of bullying a sentient building into submission. But his victory lap was cut short.

Pfft.

A tiny, high-pitched fart rang out in the tiled acoustics of the room. It was the warning shot.

"Oh god," Zac whimpered.

He abandoned all dignity and sprinted the last ten feet, ripping at the zipper of his onesie as he dove for the toilet.

Zac clawed his way out of the bathroom like the sole survivor of a horror movie, except the killer wasn't a guy in a mask, but a sentient, high-voltage espresso bean.

“Oooooo,” he moaned, dragging his leopard-print clad body across the threshold. “I’m dieinggggg.”

His arms gave out, and he let his face plant directly into the plush, antique runner he had threatened only minutes before. It was surprisingly comfortable. Soft, cool, and smelling faintly of lavender and old dust. He nuzzled it, a tear leaking from his eye.

‘I’m so glad I didn’t poop on you,’ he thought deliriously. ‘You’re a good rug. You don’t deserve that. Nobody deserves that.’

His stomach gurgled, a sound like a drowning trombone. Even lying face down on the floor in the middle of a hallway in Hell, all he could think about was the cramps. They came in waves, rolling through his intestines with the force of a tidal wave hitting a cardboard shack.

‘This is what happens when Bune denies me my caffeine for two days,’ he reasoned, squeezing his eyes shut as a fresh spike of pain hit him. ‘I just… I just topped off the old tank a bit too high. Or maybe I filled a unleaded tank with diesel. Demonic diesel.’

He lay there for what felt like an eternity. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. After half an hour of gastrointestinal distress, Zac had entered a meditative state of pure agony. He was floating in a void of cramps, trying to geometrically calculate exactly how one would douche a second arrow of pain from their lower gut, when a sound shattered his concentration.

“AVATAR!”

It was a bark of surprise and genuine fear.

Zac didn’t even have time to lift his head. Strong, armored hands grabbed him by the waist and hoisted him into the air with frantic speed. He dangled there, limp and miserable, looking into the panicked amber eyes of the Wolf Captain.

“Oh, hayyyyy,” Zac managed to wheeze, his voice trembling. “Come here often?”

“What is wrong?!” Marchosias demanded. He began to shake the leopard-print human, his claws digging into the fleece. “Speak to me! You are pale! You are sweating! Did… did one of the others…?”

“Uhgggg,” Zac winced as his head flopped back and forth like a ragdoll. “Stop shaking… please… feels like someone jammed a hot poker into my guts…”

Marchosias froze. His fur stood straight up, puffing out his uniform until he looked twice his size. His pupils dilated into black saucers, and the temperature in the hallway dropped ten degrees.

“A hot poker,” he repeated, his voice suddenly cold, hard, and terrifyingly quiet. “In your guts. Someone defiled you.”

Zac’s head finally lolled to a stop. He looked at the wolf with half-lidded, pain-filled eyes. “If only.”

Marchosias blinked. He leaned in, his nose twitching as he took a deep sniff of the Avatar. He expected the scent of sex, of lust, of another demon’s mark. Instead, he got a whiff of burnt coffee beans, sweat, and… something much more biological.

His nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Sorry,” Zac managed, clutching his stomach. “Just dropped a bomb in there.”

Marchosias stared at him for a long, baffled second. Then, realization dawned. He rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful, letting out an exasperated, steam-engine huff from his nostrils.

“Who brought drugs into my house?” he growled.

Zac opened his mouth to defend his coffee consumption, but another cramp hit him, and he just groaned.

“Fucking demon scum,” Marchosias muttered, tucking Zac under his arm like a unruly surfboard. “Giving a fragile human body demonic party favors. They have no discipline.”

He began to march down the hallway, his boots thudding heavily against the stone. Zac bobbed along under the wolf’s arm, staring at the floor passing by. Even in his incapacitated state, being manhandled by the object of his most lust-filled fantasies was doing things to him.

“Marrchhhhh,” Zac moaned, the vibration of the wolf’s stride rattling his teeth. “I need you to take care of meeee. Not go off and give the others in-school suspensions.”

Marchosias looked furious. His jaw was set, his eyes burning with the fire of a commander whose orders had been flouted. “Suspension? I am going to make them chew their own fucking hands off.”

“Nooooo,” Zac groaned, trying to wiggle his arm free to grab at the Captain’s coat. “If they don’t have hands, how will they pin me down?”

Marchosias slowed to a halt. He looked down at the sweaty, leopard-print bundle under his arm.

Zac smiled up at him weakly, a delirious, pain-killer-needed grin on his face.

Marchosias’s eyebrow twitched. “They could just nail your hands to the headboard.”

“Do you think stigmata is sexy?” Zac questioned, his eyes widening with a sudden, feverish thought. “I’m not big into body mods, but if you wanted me to have another hole to-”

“AVATAR!” Marchosias yelled, his voice cracking. He quickly covered his mouth with a cough, looking scandalized. “Bad! That is… sacrilegious! And gross!”

He glared down at Zac, trying to regain his authority. “Just tell me who gave it to you. Tell me who is going to be learning how to live without thumbs.”

"You'll have to torture me!" Zac wailed, throwing his head back dramatically. "It's a deathstyle choice!"

Marchosias set his rugged jaw, his eyes flashing. "WHO GAVE YOU DRUGS?"

The voice wasn't the gravelly growl Zac was used to. It was the Command Voice, sweet, melodic, and terrifyingly absolute. It slid into Zac's ears like liquid gold, bypassing his conscious mind and wrapping around his will.

Zac squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, fighting the overwhelming compulsion to spill his guts (figuratively, though literally was also a distinct possibility given his current state).

"It was..." Zac choked out, sweat beading on his forehead. "It was... a sexy demon."

"WHO?" Marchosias's voice washed over him again, a tidal wave of authority.

"The one," Zac gasped, his eyes watering from the effort of resistance, "whose dick I want to see."

"MORE SPECIFIC!" Marchosias growled, the beautiful resonance cracking just slightly with annoyance.

"He..." Zac stammered, "is the one with muscles bigger than mine... and I think he wants to bang."

Marchosias let out a frustrated howl that echoed down the corridor. "THAT DOESN'T HELP ME! STOP MESSING AROUND!"

Zac shuddered. Even with his guts cramping like he had swallowed a live lobster, he couldn't help but find March's rage incredibly hot.

"You'll have to bend me over and force it out of me," Zac tried to sound defiant, though it came out more breathless than he intended. "Tie me up... choke me... spank me... kiss me on the mouth... whatever you do to me, I'm not gonna rat on Halphas!"

Zac slammed his hands over his mouth, his eyes wide above his fingers. Oops.

Marchosias’s eyes narrowed into slits of amber fury. "That flying rat," he growled, the vibration resonating through Zac's chest.

"Uh, I mean-" Zac sputtered, squirming in the Captain's iron grip. "Ha ha! I got you! You see? Torture never works! I just said the name of the guy who obviously didn't do it, and you totally believed me! Classic reverse psychology!"

"Do you think I was born yesterday, Avatar?" Marchosias growled as he began to stalk down the hall with renewed, murderous purpose.

"Of course not," Zac said, batting his eyelashes. "I'm into daddies. Born yesterday is way too young."

"THAT'S NOT WHAT I-" Marchosias stopped himself, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep, centering breath that rattled his armor. "If they break the rules and I do not admonish them, how will they understand that I will annihilate them for this insubordination?"

Zac pouted, crossing his arms over his churning stomach. "Rules are made to be broken."

"And that is why there are so many demons," Marchosias said softly. His voice had lost its commanding edge, replaced by something hollow and uncomfortable.

Zac looked up, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. "Oh, demons are rule breakers?."

"Yes," Marchosias grumbled, his gaze fixed on the middle distance.

"So if there was, like, a really important rule... a demon would be extra sure that it was broken?" Zac pressed, sensing an opening.

"Probably."

"Like a rule that was passed down from a higher power? Maybe to do, or not to do, something to someone?"

Marchosias’s pace slowed. His grip on Zac loosened slightly, his amber eyes clouding over as if he were seeing something far away… something bright and glorious that he had lost a long time ago.

"Like the 'no fucking the virgin' rule!" Zac shouted triumphantly. "You can't get mad at them for how they were made! Demons break rules! It's in all of your natures!"

"NOT IN MINE!"

Marchosias snapped, dropping Zac abruptly. The human hit the floor with a grunt. The wolf loomed over him, a towering monolith of rage and self-loathing.

"All of these demons are disgusting, used tampons clogging the sewers of reality, and I will not be associated with them!"

"Whaaaaa?" Zac questioned, staring up at the furious wolfman. 'I haven't been yelled at like this since that time in high school history,' he thought dizzily. 'Welp, at least I know why I'm getting a boner this time.'

"They have no self-control!" Marchosias cut him off, his voice rising. "They have no fucking idea how to control their urges, and it's sickening!" He leaned down, his scarred muzzle inches from Zac’s face, his breath hot and angry. "Just because you are a virgin means nothing to me. Your body, your scent... they are just more tests. Tests that will prove that I am worthy."

Zac’s brain tried to process the sheer gymnastics of the Captain’s statement. Worthy of fucking me? That’s some circular logic. Like, ‘I must prove I am good enough to not eat the cookie by staring at the cookie until the cookie goes bad’? Zac’s smile lasted for all of three seconds.

"I will not fuck you now, and I will not fuck you when this farce of a punishment is finally over," the wolf growled, straightening up and adjusting his cuffs with sharp, angry jerks. "Just because Ose tossed a virgin soul to us does not mean you are truly pure. You are in Hell, which means you are just as reprehensible as the rest of those animals. You’re broken and broken things are never the same even when they are fixed. It is my mission to make sure that you-"

Sob.

It was a wet, choked sound. A sound of genuine heartbreak that echoed softly in the stone corridor.

Marchosias froze mid-rant. The haze of righteous fury that had clouded his amber eyes evaporated instantly, replaced by a look of sheer, ice-cold panic. He whipped his head around, scanning the shadows.

Zac, craning his neck from his position on the floor, saw it too. Just at the edge of the intersecting hallway, a long, midnight-blue tail whipped around the corner and vanished. It was moving fast, the speed of a creature trying desperately to hide its tears.

"Bune?" Marchosias whispered, the color draining from his face. He looked down at Zac, then back at the empty hallway, his ears flattening against his skull.

"BUNE!"

Marchosias scrambled, his boots skidding on the stone as he launched himself down the corridor. "WAIT! I DIDN'T MEAN THAT! I WAS TRYING TO TEACH THE AVATAR A LESSON! BUNE!"

Zac watched the Captain disappear around the corner, listening to the heavy footsteps fade into the distance.

"I have no idea what that was about," Zac wheezed, clutching his churning stomach, "but..."

He lay back on the plush hallway rug, staring up at the flickering torches. The pain in his gut was still sharp, a rhythmic reminder of his hubris, but his mind, ever the coping mechanism, began to drift. The sounds of the castle faded, replaced by the imaginary hiss of tires on wet pavement.

It was raining, Zac thought, his eyes fluttering shut. Pouring rain in the city. Bune, wearing a trench coat over his butler uniform, was trying to board a Greyhound bus, clutching a single suitcase with all four hands.

Marchosias would appear out of the mist, running alongside the moving bus, his wet fur plastered to his chest. "STOP! STOP THE BUS!" he would howl.

The bus would screech to a halt. March would rip the accordion doors open with his bare hands, ignoring the driver's protests. "It will only take a minute!" he’d snarl, before his eyes desperately scanned the rows of seats.

And there he was. Bune, sitting in the very back near the toilet, trying to make himself look small, both heads turned toward the window.

March would storm down the aisle, dripping water on the linoleum. He would reach the back and fall to his knees, ignoring the gum on the floor. "Bune!" he would yell, his voice raw. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! You aren't disgusting! You complete me!"

Bune would refuse to look at him. "You have already pushed me away, Marchosias," the Left Head would whisper tragically. "Go back to your war."

"I push everyone away!" March would howl, grabbing Bune's hands. "Because I am afraid! But without you... I wouldn't be as hot! My outfits wouldn't be creased! My armor wouldn't shine! I need you to polish me, Bune! I need you!"

Slowly, Bune would turn. Tears would be streaming down both snouts. "You... you mean it?"

"Yes!" March would cry.

And then they would kiss. It would be a messy, complicated kiss involving three heads, but it would be beautiful. The entire bus… nuns, business people, rebellious teens… would stand up and begin to clap.

Zac smiled beatifically, rolling onto his side and curling into a ball around his pain.

The passengers were a bit less enthusiastic when March and Bune began ripping each other's clothes off right there in the aisle, but hey... love is messy.

Zac's fantasy fizzled as he tried to figure out the logistics. Who would top? Damn, why are they both such hunks? Sorry Bune, but Marchosias has those 'I'm a dom top' eyes that could melt steel beams. A shame though... three claspers and all...

Zac finally got up. He couldn't just lay in the middle of the hallway and fantasize while nursing his wrecked gut; he needed to go and see if March and Bune were having messy make-up sex. That was critical reconnaissance.

He shuffled down the hallway toward the intersection where Bune had vanished, his leopard-print onesie muffling his steps on the stone. He peeked around the corner and saw Marchosias standing in an open doorway. The Captain looked... repentant. It was an odd look for the macho military wolf, almost vulnerable.

Zac sneaked closer, straining his ears.

"Absolutely not," the wolf demon said, his voice low and intense. "We know we will never be the same. We will always carry the weight of what has fallen upon us."

"Leave me," Bune's shaking voice came from inside the room. "How could I have thought you were any different than the others?"

"Because I am not a lunatic!" Marchosias pleaded, stepping halfway into the room. "You cannot give up. I will not allow it."

"Allow it?" Bune’s voice rose in volume, trembling with rage. "Allow it?! And why should I care what a demon says? Demons break the rules!"

"No," March barked. "The rules are in place for a reason. You know this."

"What I know is demons have no self-control!" Bune’s middle head roared, the sound echoing violently. "Why torture myself if it is meaningless?!"

"It's not meaningless!" March yelled into the room. "Just look at your progress! Don't give in to your base desires. There is more to existence than gold!"

A draconic roar, three distinct tones harmonizing into a chord of pure fury, erupted from the open doorway. "I AM NOT YOU! I AM NOT WORTHY!"

A cone of violet fire erupted from the room, engulfing Marchosias. Zac shielded his eyes and felt the heat wash over him from halfway down the hallway, singeing the fleece on his onesie.

Bune burst from the doorway, tackling the now-ablaze Captain. The dragon was fully transformed, three heads snarling, scales bristling. Two of the heads bit down hard onto the wolf's shoulders, teeth sinking deep into the uniform.

Zac quickly pressed himself into one of the closed doorways. Oh fuck, lovers' quarrel. I've heard domestic disputes are the most dangerous to walk in on. He watched voyeuristically as the demon daddies grappled. Don't eat him, Bune! No one should die a virgin! Especially not him!

Much to Zac's surprise, Marchosias was not moved by the dragon's body slam. He stood like a statue amidst the flames.

"YOU ARE A SEWER TAMPON!" Bune's Middle Head roared, recycling the Captain's earlier insult.

Zac’s eyes went wide. A bright white light suddenly filled the hallway. Pure, blinding radiance that felt like staring into the heart of a star. Zac felt like he’d been flash-banged, spots dancing in his vision. But through the glare, he saw it.

A pair of pure, shining silver wings slowly grew from Marchosias's back near his shoulders. Not feathery, but made of light and sharp, geometric angles, floating behind him like glowing neon blubs.

Bune roared again, and the Middle Head blasted March point-blank in the face with another torrent of purple fire. "YOU LIAR! YOU MADE ME BELIEVE!"

Marchosias grabbed the necks of the heads biting his shoulder, ignoring the onslaught of fire washing over his face.

Zac started to step out from the doorway he was hiding in. No, Wolf Daddy! he mentally pleaded. Don't kill the Dragon Daddy!

However, what happened next stopped Zac in his tracks. Marchosias didn't strike. He didn't tear. Instead, he slowly engulfed himself and the raging dragon with the silver wings. It was like a big, luminous hug, the blinding light of the wings wrapping around them both, creating a cocoon of brilliance.

Zac had to brace himself against the wall. Was March hugging Bune? Holy shit, I knew it. My ship is the canon ship. I am the prophet of gay demon love.

The dragon's roars of anger and rage were quickly cut off. Bune's Middle Head began to growl, low and confused. "Stop that... enough... you... you... STOP IT!"

Marchosias stepped closer to the dragon within the circle of wings. Bune's Left and Right heads released the wolfman's shoulders and pulled back from the radiant light, squinting.

Bune looked flustered, his scales shifting color. "Stop that! You're... you're going to stain your clothes! The soot!"

Marchosias grabbed Bune's shoulders and pulled him closer, pressing his forehead against the central neck. "You are more important than some fucking clothes."

Bune's Middle Head shrank back into his body with a wet squelch.

"Stop it, you mutt!" the Right Head huffed, though its voice wavered. "Your fur..."

"You lie," the Left Head whispered. "You don't care."

Marchosias's wings flashed again, illuminating the hallway as if the sun had been focused into the keep with a million magnifying glasses. When he spoke, it was with the beautiful, commanding Command Voice. "IF I DIDN'T CARE, THEN WHY AM I HERE?"

Bune's faces twisted in emotion. Grief, longing, and shame warring for dominance. "Stop it!" he yelled. "Extinguish those wings right now! You'll burn yourself out!"

"NO," March barked, his voice filled with a deep, resonant pain that matched the light. "This is nothing. I know you're fighting much worse."

What was Zac hearing? Despite reading over five thousand erotic fanfictions online, he was confused. This wasn't as sexy as he thought it would be. It was… really... earnest.

Bune shook his heads, his body trembling in Marchosias's grip. "You are a bastard! A lying bastard!" The dragon theatrically wailed, gently pounding on March's chest with his clenched fists, much like a toddler who is too tired trying to reject being carried to bed.

"Those words I said," March said softly, "they were not for you."

Zac strained to listen, leaning out just a little further from his hiding spot.

"I was upset," March continued, his voice thick with regret. "I had thought the Avatar was defiled. When I had found him with you nowhere to be seen... I was rash." March struggled, trying to find the right words before finally saying, "I know how much the Avatar's presence has been helping you these past few days. I cannot let the others kill him."

Kill me? Zac thought, affronted. No one's tried to kill me but YOU, March. I'm literally dying of thirst over here. Why can't I slurp you up?

Bune's heads looked down at March's feet, unable to meet the wolf's gaze. "I am sorry, too. He was not in the room I left him in. I was trying to find him when I overheard your... words."

"Look at me," March said. "In the eyes."

Bune slowly lifted his heads.

"We suffer so that we might overcome," March said, his voice finally beginning to return to its normal cement-mixer rumble. "If there was no struggle, it would only mean the goal was not worthy."

Bune sniffed, a small puff of smoke escaping each nostril. He nodded his heads slowly, repeating the mantra back to March in a whisper. "We suffer so that we might overcome."

The blinding light in the hallway finally started to subside. March's ethereal silver wings flickered and then began to fade out of existence, dissolving into motes of light that drifted away like dust in a sunbeam.

March stood in front of the dragon butler, both of them looking disheveled from the brief quarrel. March's uniform was singed and rumpled, and Bune's scales were still shifting colors slightly.

"Now," Marchosias said, smoothing down the front of his coat with a rough hand. "We should probably go find the Avatar before he drinks any more coffee."

"NO!" Zac suddenly shouted, emerging from the doorway like a leopard-print avenging angel. "THIS IS THE PART WHERE YOU KISS!"

The hallway went dead silent. Marchosias and Bune slowly turned to look at the human, who was now marching straight at them, his fists clenched and his face twisted in fanfic-fueled fury.

"THIS IS THE PART WHERE YOU HAVE NASTY, PASSIONATE MAKE-UP SEX!" Zac screamed, gesturing wildly between them.

Bune and Marchosias looked at each other, a flash of shared panic in their eyes, before quickly separating themselves as if they were repelling magnets.

"Avatar!" Bune sputtered, his Left Head looking scandalized. "How did you escape your room?"

"You look like you're feeling better," Marchosias growled, his voice a low rumble as he crossed his arms, trying to regain his composure. "Good. No excuses for your lessons."

Zac stopped dead in his tracks. "Lessons? Lessons? Wait... again? Really? I thought I learned everything I needed to know about monotheism and all of its many gods."

Marchosias let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing his temples. "Bune, did you not give him a dictionary to help follow along with the lecture?"

"I did not," Bune said, frantically trying to pin the tatters of his newly ripped shirt together. "But that is a wonderful suggestion."

"Good," March added, looking down at Zac with a stern eye. "And he has already used the bathroom, so he shouldn't need a restroom break until lunch."

"Hey, wait a sec!" Zac tried to say, waving his hands. This was quickly turning from fun voyeurism to educational enlistment. "I never agreed to-"

"Perfect," Bune said, shaking off his earlier emotional vulnerability like water off a duck's back. He marched over to Zac, his demeanor shifting back to that of the efficient, slightly harried butler. "I will be sure he does not leave my sight." He rubbed his face with two hands, his expression resolute.

"But... but... but..." Zac’s mind was reeling. The hot demons just had some real, profound emotional breakthrough shit, and now they weren't even gonna kiss or anything? It didn't make any sense. Where was the payoff? Where was the smut?

"I will be back at lunch," Marchosias growled, finally turning in the opposite direction. His boots crunched on the stone. "I need to have a word with a certain gutter bird about unauthorized beverage distribution."

Bune gently but firmly took Zac’s arm, leading him away from the scene of the almost-crime. Zac looked back over his shoulder, desperate for another fleeting glimpse of the increasingly caring, increasingly emotionally mature, increasingly hot wolf man.

He saw Marchosias's back as the Captain walked away. The fabric of his uniform coat had been burned away in two large patches near his shoulder blades, revealing grey fur that looked singed and patchy where the angelic wings had manifested.

It was tragic. It was badass. It was so hot Zac nearly tripped. The wolf's wings were a personal debuff he used to console his dragon friend.

"Time for fun with books," Bune chirped, dragging Zac toward the library.

Zac was sitting in the library, his chin resting on a stack of leather-bound tomes, a thin string of drool connecting his lip to the open page of a demon-to-English dictionary. He was hovering in that fuzzy, twilight state between consciousness and a coma.

“...and so, initially, there were 613 commandments,” Bune’s Left Head droned on, pacing back and forth in front of a massive chalkboard that was rapidly filling up with diagrams. “But God, in His infinite... well, let’s call it pragmatism... realized that the squishy, biological human brain simply did not have the RAM to process that much compliance. So, he compressed the file down to ten. Ten is a simple number. You have ten fingers. Even the dimmest shepherd could count that high without taking off his sandals.”

“Mmm,” Zac murmured, his eyes half-lidded. “Does it count as coveting my neighbor's wife if my neighbor's wife is a stacked werewolf?”

Bune ignored the blasphemy with the ease of a parent ignoring a toddler’s babbling. “The redundancy was inefficient anyway. Why have a rule about not boiling a kid in its mother’s milk and a rule about dietary restrictions? Just say ‘Keep Kosher’ and move on.”

The dragon stopped, tapping a piece of chalk against the board. “Though some were quite specific. Like the prohibition against passing children through the sacrificial fires of Molech.”

“That seems reasonable,” Zac yawned.

“And,” Bune continued, his voice rising with passionate intensity, “the prohibition against wearing garments with fringes on the corners!”

Zac blinked, lifting his head slightly. “Why do those not really sound equivalent? Burning kids versus a fashion faux pas?”

“You noticed too?” Bune sniffed disdainfully, looking down at his own perfectly tailored (though currently tattered) suit. “Fringes are just asking for rips and tears! They snag on door handles, they unravel in the wash, and they are mathematically impossible to keep symmetrical! It is chaotic design!”

Bune got worked up, all four arms moving in a blur as he began to aggressively chalk out the specific laws regarding laundry and fabric blends from the Mitzvot. Zac watched the dust fly, genuinely impressed. It was truly awe-inspiring how anal-retentive God was. The idea that there were souls currently burning for eternity because they mixed wool and linen, or didn’t wash their tunic on the gentle cycle, was a level of pettiness that Zac had to respect.

The rhythmic tack-tack-tack of the chalk was hypnotic. Zac’s head grew heavy again. He was just about to drift off into a fantasy about Marchosias enforcing a strict dress code when he felt it.

A chill.

It wasn't the air conditioning (Hell didn't have any). It was a deep, biting cold that prickled the skin beneath his leopard-print fleece.

Zac sat up, wiping the drool from his chin. He looked around. Bune was too busy ranting about the structural integrity of tassels to notice the temperature drop.

Then, Zac saw him.

Skarg was tip-toeing into the library.

It was a sight that defied physics and reason. A ten-foot-tall, muscle-bound wendigo, trying to be stealthy. He moved with exaggerated care, lifting his massive, hoofed feet high and setting them down with delicate precision. His antlers, which Marchosias had brutally ripped off the day before, were only half-grown back, stubby, velvet-covered nubs that made him look oddly youthful, like a demonic teenager going through a growth spurt.

Zac smiled, a wide, delighted grin spreading across his face. He gave a little wave at the sneaking monster, who was now only a few paces away.

Skarg froze mid-step. He brought a massive finger to his lips, making the universal signal for shut the fuck up.

Zac nodded enthusiastically. He didn't know why the caribou was being so sneaky… it seemed a bit out of character for the primal himbo who usually announced his presence by breaking furniture… but Zac didn't mind. He liked roleplay.

Skarg crept closer, the air around him shimmering with cold. Finally, he reached the desk. He placed a heavy, clawed hand on Zac’s shoulder.

Zac’s body reacted instantly. The chill of the wendigo’s touch didn't register as cold; it registered as a memory. The memory of Skarg holding him down in the snow, the weight, the pressure, the breaking. It was as clear and visceral as the moment it had happened in the dream.

“You didn’t even count down from ten this time,” Zac moaned softly, leaning into the touch. “You know, some asshole named Leviticus said not to have homosexual relations.”

“That is correct!” Bune said happily, spinning around to face his pupil, completely oblivious to the towering wall of muscle standing right behind the human. “He was quite specific! Do not forget, he also said not to have homosexual relations with your father! And he also specified not to have homosexual relations with your father's brother!”

The Right Head nodded vigorously. “Very thorough regarding the patrilineal line! But interestingly vague about step-bro-”

Bune’s voice trailed off.

His four eyes widened as they finally registered the massive, furry shape looming over the desk. Skarg had already moved; he scooped Zac up by the waist, tucking the human under his arm like a leopard-print football.

Zac swung slightly in the grip, his tail swishing.

“What are you-” Bune managed to gasp.

He never finished the sentence. Skarg slammed his free hand onto the library floor.

CRACK-BOOM.

A massive, jagged wall of glacial ice erupted from the floorboards. It surged upward, encasing the dragon butler in a prison of solid, transparent blue frost. Bune was frozen mid-gesture, one hand raised in admonishment, his mouths open in a silent scream of bureaucratic outrage.

Skarg straightened up, looking at his handiwork with a satisfied grunt. He turned, holding Zac tight against his side, and began to run toward the exit, his hooves thundering on the floor now that stealth was no longer required.

“Leviticus was a bitch!” Skarg bellowed in triumph as he kicked the library doors open.

"Where-are-we-going-Skarg?" Zac managed to get out, the words punched from his lungs as his body swung back and forth like a pendulum with every stride.

Skarg didn't answer. He was too busy sprinting down the hallway, bellowing in primal triumph. His hooves struck sparks on the stone, a rhythmic thunder that echoed through the keep. Zac, flagging behind him like a leopard-print cape, watched the castle stream by in a blur.

Suits of armor became streaks of silver. Doors blurred into dark rectangles. Torches were mere smudges of orange light. Staircases spiraled past dizzyingly fast.

And then, suddenly, the air changed. The scent of old books and stone was replaced by the ozone-rich, metallic tang of the Pit.

They burst through the main doors.

"Oh, hey, spiky flower bush," Zac thought idly as they rushed past the spot where Bune had knocked him over upon his arrival. The thorny plant was still there, looking a bit worse for wear but blooming with vibrant, arterial-red roses. Does March like flowers? Zac wondered, a soft smile touching his lips despite the G-forces. He seems so sophisticated. I bet he prunes them himself.

Zac was getting a bit dizzy, the world spinning around him, but he was thoroughly enjoying being kidnapped. It felt... proactive. It felt like progress.

His mind, naturally, wandered into the gutter. Oh, he's bringing me back to his crypt. Maybe the incubi just weren't enough to keep him satisfied after our little dream-romp. Incubi probably have to do kegels just to keep things interesting... those sluts. I hope March doesn't kill him too much after he's had his way with me... but that is a price I'm willing to let him pay.

"Thanks for taking one for the team, stud," Zac managed to get out as Skarg finally began to slow.

They were approaching the massive iron gate at the edge of the keep's grounds, the same spot where Andras had fought off both Nock and Skarg days ago. The gate was closed, its heavy bars looming against the red sky.

Skarg skidded to a halt, his chest heaving. He looked down at the gate, then back at the keep, his blue eyes wild and victorious.

"I told you," he panted, grinning down at the dangling human. "I told you, you're mine."

Zac smiled up at Skarg, his eyes half-lidded. "Fuck me."

Skarg’s fur seemed to darken around his muzzle, and he looked away, clearing his throat with a rumble that shook Zac's bones. "In due time, you whore," he growled, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He gave Zac a gentle shake. "But you're too thin. You feel like a bag of twigs."

"I'm a twink," Zac explained patiently, swinging slightly. "I'm supposed to be toss-aroundable. And being little makes your dick look bigger when you're filming. I know I'm a bit tall to be a classic boy toy, but you're so big... I think this is what short princes feel like when they get hit on by basketball players."

Skarg looked down at Zac, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. The cultural references were flying completely over his antler-nubs.

"Not just any basketball players, either," Zac continued, undeterred. "The beefy ones. That are proportional and not all elbows and knees. You know, centers."

"What the fuck is basketball?" Skarg finally asked.

"Oh, I can teach you," Zac said dreamily, reaching up to pat the wendigo's chest. "Get your balls out."

Skarg barked a laugh, a harsh, joyful sound. "In due time."

He turned his attention to the massive iron gate. He didn't bother with the mechanism. He simply grabbed the bars with his free hand. Frost spread instantly from his grip, coating the black metal in a thick layer of rime. The iron groaned, then shrieked as the thermal shock shattered its structural integrity. With a grunt of effort, Skarg wrenched the gate. The metal twisted, shrank, and finally crumpled like tin foil. With a deafening crash, the massive barrier fell forward, reduced to a twisted, frozen pile of scrap.

"Ouch," Zac said, eyeing the wreckage. "I guess the cold makes everything shrink. Not just me."

Skarg dropped to all fours, the movement fluid and terrifyingly fast. With a quick toss, he flung Zac onto his back. "Hold on if you don't want to die."

Zac scrambled for purchase on the thick fur, his legs gripping the wendigo’s powerful flanks. He looked at the back of Skarg's head. "Can... can I hold your antlers? They seem like good handlebars."

Skarg didn't answer. He launched himself forward.

Zac nearly tumbled backward off the demon's rear as Skarg accelerated, his hooves finding impossible purchase on the sheer stone walls of the chasm. They were galloping upward, retracing the path Zac had ridden down with Nock, but this time, the speed was raw, unbridled, and terrifying. The wind screamed in Zac's ears as the Pit city blurred past below them.

The ascent was a blur of sensory overload. The Pit wasn't just a city; it was a living, breathing organism of vice and industry. They passed forges carved into the cliff face spewing rivers of liquid red hellfire, the heat scorching Zac’s cheeks. They leaped over tattered tents made of flayed skin where green, chemical bonfires roared, casting long, sickly shadows.

Everywhere Zac looked, there was chaos. Imps, hellspawn, ghouls, and infernui scurried like rats. He saw souls being tortured in oddly specific, if somewhat cliché ways. One guy was being forced to listen to a demon read his diary out loud through a megaphone, while another was pushing a boulder up a hill made of Legos, barefoot.

But mostly, Zac noticed the fucking.

It was everywhere. Public displays of affection in Hell apparently had zero boundaries. On balconies, in alleyways, pressed against the hot stone of the forges… demons were rutting with a casual, energetic intensity that made Zac’s head spin.

"Was that a minotaur?!" Zac shouted, craning his neck so hard it cracked. He’d caught a glimpse of a massive, bull-headed figure railing a smaller demon against a crate of weapons. "Holy shit, Skarg! Turn around! We need to go back! I need to ask for directions! Or a phone number!"

"Skarrrggggggg!"

Skarg ignored him completely. The wendigo was a locomotive of muscle and frost, his focus absolute. He bounded up a sheer vertical rise, his hooves striking sparks, and scrambled onto a wide, black-stone plateau.

Directly ahead, a dark, squat building loomed. It looked like a bunker built from obsidian and bad vibes, solid enough to survive a nuclear blast. And Skarg was running headlong at the front door.

"Uh, brakes?" Zac yelled, tightening his grip on the demon’s fur. "Do you have brakes?! That wall looks really solid!"

Skarg didn't slow down. He didn't even flinch. He charged until he was mere feet from the heavy iron door, and then-

SCREEECH.

Skarg stopped. It was instantaneous. One moment they were a blur of motion; the next, they were statues.

Zac, however, was not a statue. Newton’s First Law of Motion took over, and Zac kept going. He slid forward, right over Skarg’s head.

"Oof!"

He didn't hit the ground. Instead, the back of his onesie snagged on the velvet-covered nubs of Skarg’s regrowing antlers. He swung forward and then swung back, coming to rest upside down, dangling directly in front of the wendigo’s face.

Zac blinked, trying to orient himself. He was face-to-muzzle with the anthropomorphic caribou. He braced himself for a wave of halitosis, surely a creature that ate raw meat and Bicorns would have breath that could peel paint. But as Skarg panted, Zac caught the scent of pine needles, fresh snow, and ozone. It was crisp. It was clean. It was intoxicating.

"You are amazing," Zac whispered, the blood rushing to his head.

Skarg froze. His icy blue eyes widened, focusing on the upside-down human dangling from his antlers. The primal rage and the thrill of the chase melted away, replaced by a soft, vulnerable look of pure longing. He wasn't used to compliments that didn't involve his strength or his brutality. To be called amazing just for existing...

"You're amazing," Skarg murmured back, a low rumble that vibrated through Zac's chest. "It's nice... someone finally realizes."

Zac smiled, a soft, genuine expression. "Do I get to say thank you this time?"

He reached out, cupping the wendigo’s furry cheeks. He pulled himself up slightly, moving in for an upside-down, Spider-Man style kiss that was destined to be the romantic climax of his afterlife.

CLANG.

The iron door of the building swung open violently, outward.

It slammed directly into the back of Zac’s head and Skarg’s nose with the force of a battering ram.

"OW!"

Zac flew off the antler-nubs, and Skarg stumbled back. They both collapsed into a heap on the dusty ground, a tangle of leopard print and fur.

Zac groaned, rubbing the back of his head. He looked up to see who had ruined the moment.

Standing in the doorway was a six-foot-tall housefly. It was wearing a greasy, blood-stained butcher’s apron. Its multifaceted eyes shimmered with iridescent malice, and it was wiping its front legs together in a sinister, rhythmic motion.

"BZZZZZZZZZ!" the fly buzzed loudly, vibrating with impatience.

Zac looked at the giant bug, then over at Skarg, who was holding his nose and blinking away tears. "Uhh..."

The fly man buzzed again, louder this time, and gestured aggressively with one spindly leg toward a sign hanging above the door that Zac couldn't read.

Skarg sighed, a long, defeated sound. He pushed himself up, dusting off his knees. The romance was gone, replaced by the crushing weight of capitalism.

"I know, I know," Skarg growled, reaching into a pouch at his waist that Zac hadn't noticed before. "I've got money this time."

Zac groggily watched the giant fly snatch the pouch from Skarg's hand, its multifaceted eyes twitching. This was not exactly what Zac thought would be happening. He had seen plenty of non-sexy beings in Hell so far—the imps, the spirits, the amorphous blobs of meat that had too many mouths and eyes—but the fly man was disturbing in its own special way. Much like no one should ever put a cute ladybug under a microscope, this fly was very high definition.

The fly ran its mouth bits over the pouch, tasting the currency or the leather or something gross.

"That should cover my tab from last time," Skarg growled, clearly annoyed.

The fly buzzed its wings aggressively and pointed a spindly leg directly at Zac.

"Oh, me?" Zac said, trying to be charming despite his upside-down headache. "Do you give discounts for souls under a thousand years old? I'm practically vintage."

The fly slowly lowered its arms. Its mouth parts stopped twitching. "No," it said, its voice silky smooth and shockingly baritone, catching Zac completely off guard. Why hadn't it just used its words from the start? "We all know you are not a minor, Ose. Don't be weird."

"And you shouldn't be a cunt," Skarg snapped, grabbing Zac by the onesie and shoving past the insectoid bouncer. "If you keep crying I'll tell Baal."

Skarg hauled the heavy iron door open. As they passed through, the fly yelled after them, "KING BAAL SAID YOU CAN'T RUN A TAB ANYMORE, FURFUR!"

Zac stepped inside, and his brain stuttered. He was expecting a dank cave or a butcher shop. Instead, he was in... a five-star demonic bistro.

The interior was a study in gothic opulence. Dark red velvet drapes hung from the obsidian walls, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and expensive incense. Near a bubbling fountain of blood, a set of disembodied, ghostly hands played a mournful tune on a massive pipe organ. Waiters—more human-sized flies in tuxedos—buzzed between tables, carrying silver platters laden with horrors Zac didn't want to examine too closely.

"A lunch date," Zac thought, delighted, as Skarg flipped off a fly in a maître d' outfit near a podium and strode right into the dining room.

"Furfur! Pants are not optional in Baal's establishment!" the host fly buzzed indignantly.

Skarg didn't even look back. He casually waved a hand, and the arthropod host’s face was instantly encased in a block of ice mid-sentence.

Skarg led Zac toward a prime booth near the blood fountain. Unfortunately, it was occupied. Two well-dressed abyss constructs sat there, entities made of shifting shadows and void-stuff that seemed to be existing in three-dimensional space only with great effort. They were sipping something that smoked.

Skarg loomed over the table, drawing himself up to his full, imposing height. "This table is taken."

The abyss creatures looked at each other, their forms flickering like bad reception. One of them projected a thought directly into their minds, a voice like static. Yes. By we.

Skarg slammed his hands down on the table. Frost crept rapidly across the wood, freezing the silverware to the tablecloth. "Don't make me tell you my name."

Furfur, the abyss creature’s mental voice was flat and unsurprised.

Skarg bellowed in anger, the sound shaking the glassware. "DON'T CALL ME THAT!" The frost spread aggressively, beginning to creep up the constructs' legs, trying to freeze them to the booth. "If you know who I am, then fuck off!"

The void demons didn't flinch. They simply absorbed the cold, their forms rippling slightly. They looked profoundly unimpressed.

Zac tugged on Skarg’s fur. "Hey, babe, it's okay. We can go sit at the bar. I think I saw another minotaur over there getting milk. Maybe we can share a stall."

The two creatures in the booth froze. They looked up, their void-eyes widening as they finally registered the leopard print. They visibly tensed, their forms shrinking back against the cushions.

Oh. President Ose, one of the voids projected, the static suddenly sounding very apologetic. Our apologies.

Without another word, the two constructs scrambled out of the booth, bowing low to Zac and murmuring mental apologies for their rudeness before dissolving into puddles of shadow and fleeing toward the exit.

Zac frowned, watching them go. "Wow. First Timon and Pumbaa, and now this." He looked down at his fleece pajamas. "What the fuck did that asshole leopard demon do down here to make everyone fear him so much? Did he make them watch Cats?"

Skarg looked deflated. He slumped into the booth, the ice on the table melting into a puddle. He looked genuinely upset that he hadn't been the one to intimidate the lesser demons.

"Stupid void-trash," he grumbled, picking at a frozen fork. "No respect for the classics."

Zac slid into the booth across from Skarg. "Oh, this place is kind of nice," he thought, running his hand over the crushed velvet upholstery. "And Skarg even bullied some underlings to get me a nice seat. Such a gentleman."

He looked over at the wendigo, who was now absentmindedly scratching his armpit with the frozen fork. "Such a gentleman."

The seat was plush and comfortable, and the pipe organ music, while definitely evil, created a surprisingly intimate atmosphere. The other fancy demons seemed sophisticated, nibbling on delicacies with clawed hands. Well, some of them did. Others were a bit too wet and oozing to be fully fancy, leaving slime trails on the velvet.

Zac kicked his feet back and forth slightly in the big booth. "This place seems classy," he said, eyeing a nearby table where a demon was eating something that was screaming. "I hope it's not too pricey."

Skarg picked a clump of armpit fur from the tines of the fork and flicked it onto the floor. "Don't worry about that. You need to eat."

Zac nodded slowly. "Yeah, I've kinda been a waffle-holic for the past few days. I usually have chicken nuggets too. It’s all about balance."

Skarg growled at a passing fly waiter. "Hey! Waity! Get your thorax over here!"

The waiter paused, balancing a tray of steaming entrails. "One second, sir, I need to deliver these to table four—"

"NOW!" Skarg bellowed, slamming his fist on the table again. "You dare make royalty wait?!"

The fly looked quite unimpressed. It couldn't roll its multifaceted eyes exactly, but Zac could feel the spiritual eye-roll radiating from it. The waiter sighed, a buzzing sound, and walked over to the table. Then it finally noticed Zac.

"Oh my," the fly squeaked, nearly dropping its tray. "Ose! Sir! Please forgive me!" The massive insect avoided looking directly at Zac, bowing its head so low its antennae touched the table. "The host did not inform me that you were here! We will have your meals brought out right away!"

The fly waiter didn't even wait for an order. It turned and practically sprinted back toward a pair of double doors at the back of the dining room.

Behind Skarg, a pair of demons sitting at the next booth began to complain loudly. "Unbelievable! We've been waiting for our appetizers for twenty minutes!"

Skarg turned in his seat, snarling. "Shut the fuck up!"

The larger of the two demons stood up. He was a classic specimen—black fur, massive curled horns, leathery bat wings. He looked like he walked straight out of a heavy metal album cover. He turned to face Skarg, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Do you want to die, you oversized reindeer?"

Skarg laughed, a harsh, grating sound. He stood up to his full height, looming over the other demon, chest to chest. "What's someone from Heresy doing here? Shouldn't you be poking prisoners with a pitchfork or something?"

The black demon hissed. A fiery circle appeared in mid-air next to him, and he pulled a wicked, glowing pitchfork from the void. "I'll poke that little fucking bitch you're trying to wine and—"

The demon’s voice trailed off. His eyes had drifted past Skarg and landed on the spotted feline pattern of the onesie.

The demon went pale. His wings drooped. The pitchfork dissolved into ash in his hands.

Skarg was already winding up for a headbutt when Zac coughed politely.

"Leave 'em alone, Skarg," Zac said, leaning back and putting his feet up on the seat. "They are probably just hangry and jealous you're a famous celebrity who gets special attention. It's hard being an icon."

The black demon’s face contorted in confusion as he looked at Zac again. "Wait," he squinted, peering at the fleece ears. "You're not Ose. What in the hells is—"

Skarg’s hand shot out, grabbing the other diner by the mouth. A mask of thick, glacial ice began to spread instantly from his grip, silencing the demon mid-sentence. "That is Ose," Skarg growled, his voice low and dangerous. "And if you say one more thing, I'm gonna face-fuck you with an icicle."

"Oh, don't be dramatic," Zac said, still leaning back casually. He looked the classical demon up and down appraisingly. "The classic look is kinda nice, actually. He’s like a werewolf-vampire mix. Very vintage."

Skarg and the half-frozen demon both looked back at Zac.

Zac smiled, batting his eyelashes. "Just imagine... if he defiled me, then March wouldn't have to kill any of you guys. Just putting it out there. Loophole?"

Skarg’s eyes narrowed with sudden, intense jealousy. The ice in his hand surged. "If anyone is getting killed for fucking you, it's me."

CRACK-BOOM.

A massive ball of ice expanded instantaneously inside the black demon’s skull. His head exploded like a dropped watermelon, showering the booth, the floor, and his dinner date in gore and ice shards.

The date screamed, a high-pitched, banshee wail.

"Sorry about that!" Zac called out, giving a little wave. "Skarg, tell them you're sorry for killing their date. It's rude to ruin lunch."

Skarg pushed the headless, bloody corpse away from himself, wiping icy slush from his chest. "Yeah, I'm sorry this ass-clown was asking to get skull-fucked. I didn't realize his gag reflex was so strong."

The date stood up. They were a slender, terrifying creature made of what looked like polished porcelain and razors. They moved toward Zac and Skarg, shaking with fury. "Asmodeus will hear about this!"

Zac noticed Skarg flinch. The wendigo actually looked nervous. "Uh," Skarg grunted, glancing at the exit. "Maybe we should get that to go."

"Hey," Zac said, leaning forward. "There's no need for tattle-tales."

"Tattle-tales?!" the furious demon roared, pointing at their ruined outfit. "HIS SKULL IS IN MY HAIR!"

Zac frowned. There was, indeed, a lot of exploded cranium covering the incensed diner. "True, true," Zac panicked, his mind racing. "But, uh, that wasn't our fault! Don't you know demon's heads just kind of... explode now and then?"

Zac felt a sudden, profound chill coat his tongue. It was heavy, metallic, and cold. He felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him, as if his energy was being physically sucked out of his body and poured into his quick, unthoughtful words.

The dining room went silent.

Skarg slowly turned to Zac, his eyes wide. "Did you just—"

POP.

The demon standing at the table’s head spontaneously exploded. No ice, no fire, just a wet, fleshy pop as their cranium detonated for absolutely no reason. Their body crumpled to the floor next to their date.

The restaurant descended into instant, screaming chaos.

It started as a ripple. The demons at the nearest tables, who had overheard Zac's declaration, stared in horror at the headless porcelain body. Then, one of them, a stout toad-demon in a tuxedo, grabbed his own head. His eyes bulged. POP.

Panic spread like a shockwave. Fancy lesser demons overturned tables, scrambling for the exits, their screams cut short by the wet, sickening sounds of cranial detonation. It was a domino effect of spontaneous combustion. A succubus near the blood fountain shrieked, then pop. A ghoul trying to crawl under a table—pop.

Zac sat frozen in the booth, a frown on his face. A chunk of grey matter slid slowly down the shoulder of his leopard onesie. "Uhm," he said, his voice small. "What the fuck is happening right now?"

The dining room became a slaughterhouse. Demons yelled, cried, and bargained with invisible gods as more and more heads popped like balloons, leaving a mass of twitching, headless corpses strewn across the plush carpet.

Skarg sighed, a long, weary sound, and sat back down heavily in the booth. He looked around the massacre with the bored expression of someone waiting for a bus.

"Did I do that?" Zac asked, his voice trembling.

He suddenly felt incredibly weak. The world tilted sideways. His vision grayed at the edges, and his limbs felt like they were made of lead. He collapsed onto the table with a groan, his cheek resting in a puddle of spilled wine and... other fluids.

"Avatar," Skarg growled softly. He reached out, his massive hands gentle as he scooped Zac up and pulled him into his lap.

Zac curled into the warmth of the wendigo’s chest, feeling the steady thump of Skarg’s heart. "I did a woopsy, I think," he mumbled, his words slurring.

"You," Skarg said, stroking Zac's hair with a clawed finger, "didn't do anything wrong. That Karen was asking for it."

Zac lay there, feeling like he was in the throes of a low-sugar diabetic attack. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the carnage. He had the power of lying. Ose had said his words would carry the weight of truth. He had just made a little joke, a deflection. He hadn't even really thought about what he was saying since he knew Skarg would just beat up anyone who messed with him. He did not plan on becoming a serial killer while waiting for the appetizer menu.

The kitchen doors swung open with a bang. The fly waiter emerged, carrying a tray of drinks. It took one look at the headless devastation, dropped the tray with a crash, and buzzed its wings in fury.

"FURFUR! OSE!" the insect screamed. "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

Zac hated Mondays. Doesn't everyone?

He sighed as he looked out the broken windows, wiping down the corner booth table with a rag that smelled faintly of rum and regret. Outside, the docks of the small seaside town were bathed in the cold light of a full moon. The air was thick with salt, the sound of waves slapping against the pylons a constant, rhythmic lullaby.

Zac had used to dream about setting sail. Living a life of adventure with a ragtag group of pirates, stealing gold from corrupt empires, helping downtrodden locals, making friends of all shapes and sizes... finding the Uno Piece... and maybe getting to romance a bara shark fish-man who would rescue him every time he clumsily fell overboard.

"Oh, Junbei," he sighed wistfully, wringing out the rag. "Do whale sharks have proportional reproductive organs, or are they extra large?"

He straightened his barmaid outfit, wincing as the leopard-print thong rode up uncomfortably. It was tight, it was drafty, and the corset was murder on his ribs, but it brought in the tips. And in a town like this, tips were survival.

Zac carried the stack of empty mugs to the bar. Behind the counter, Mac, an octopus-man with a weary expression and an eye-patch over one of his three eyes, was polishing glasses with six tentacles simultaneously.

The bar was dark, smoky, and loud. The clientele were anthropomorphic demons of the seafaring variety—shark-men with jagged grins, crustacean brawlers with chitinous armor, and seagull-folk screeching over dice games. Some were quietly drinking in the shadows, nursing grievances along with their grog. Others were loudly singing along with the piano player in the corner, a tune about drowning and syphilis that was surprisingly catchy. In the center of the room, a fistfight had broken out over a spilled drink, but no one paid it much mind.

"Thanks, Mac," Zac said, taking a fresh tray of drinks from one of the bartender’s slimy appendages. "This is for table four."

Mac just nodded, sliding a foaming tankard down the bar to a thirsty walrus-man.

Zac navigated through the crowd, dodging a flying stool and a drunken embrace. He thought about quitting. He thought about it every night. Once he made enough money, he’d buy his own ship. Or at least a ticket on one. This small seaside town was suffocating him. He watched the travelers, the sailors who came and went with the tide, and felt a pang of intense jealousy. They were so free. So uninhibited.

Oh, how I wish I could just be free to be myself, he thought, adjusting his tray as he approached a table of hardened sailors hunched over a high-stakes card game.

"A fresh round, gentlemen," Zac announced, his voice cutting through the din. He began placing the drinks on the scarred wood table, careful not to disturb the piles of gold coins and wickedly sharp knives scattered among the cards.

The sailors eyed him over their hands, their gazes lingering on his exposed legs and the corset that pushed everything up and out. Zac ignored them, used to the stares. He turned to head back to the bar for the next order.

A taloned hand shot out, grabbing him firmly by the waist.

"Whoa!"

Zac tripped, the empty tray clattering to the floor. He landed hard, right in the offender’s lap.

"Hey, asshole!" Zac yelled, struggling to keep his barmaid outfit from riding up even further and exposing everything to the room. "I'm working! Hands off the merchandise unless you're paying!"

He looked up, ready to slap the jerk who had gotten handsy.

He froze.

Looking down at him, a smirk playing on his beak, was Andras.

The owl demon looked magnificent. He was dressed like a dangerous pirate captain, a tricorn hat perched rakishly on his head, a long coat with gold braiding hanging open over a loose white shirt and his trusty cutlass strapped to his hip. He was smoking a cigarillo, the ember glowing red in the dim light. His golden eyes were filled with a familiar, predatory amusement.

Zac blinked a few times. Sexy evil owl man... wait... oh fuck, is this a dream? When did I fall asleep?

Andras looked back at the eel-man across the table before blowing out a perfect smoke ring. "Let's make the bet a bit more interesting," he drawled, his voice like velvet over a rusty blade. "How about this: whoever wins this hand gets a dance with this little piece of ass."

Zac looked at the eel-man and gagged a bit. The proportions were off, all neck and no chin, all teeth and no lips. Zac shuddered. Even though he was a bottom, he had standards, and the eel looked like he would give the most awful blowjobs of all time.

"You better have a winning hand," Zac whispered up at the owl, gripping Andras's coat. "I don't think I wanna jig that sailor's hornpipe."

Andras gave Zac a squeeze, his talons digging just slightly into the human's hip. "It's a game of luck," he murmured. "Let's see if we get lucky, little wench."

The eel narrowed his eyes, his slimy skin glistening in the torchlight. "That human isn't worth the gold on the table."

Zac felt a bit hurt. "I'm totally worth more than-" His voice trailed off as he actually looked at the pile. It was a dragon's ransom in gold coins and glittering jewels. "Oh... Well... fuck you still."

Andras laughed, a smoky, wicked sound. "When I say dance, I mean getting to bend this tight little thing over in the tavern room upstairs." He waved at the bartender. "Hey, Octavius! We are borrowing your waitstaff for a bit."

"Not this time, you dirty bird!" the octopus bartender yelled back, slamming a mug down. "That little hoe is on the clock! Who's gonna serve the drinks?"

Andras waved a hand dismissively. "Oct, you've got plenty of arms. Don't be a lazy cunt."

THWACK.

A knife landed on the table, vibrating, right next to Andras's hand. Zac looked up to see the octopus ready to throw another, six tentacles armed with blades.

"Fine, fine," Andras drawled. He reached into the pile, grabbed a particularly large, glittering gem, and tossed it casually at the enraged cephalopod. The octopus caught it with a spare tentacle, inspecting it greedily. "Don't say I never do anything for you." Andras's eyes narrowed, the gold turning cold. "Now, if you try to raise a blade against me again, you'll be a quadrapus."

Zac giggled. "Good one. I never thought of what you'd call an octopus with four of its legs cut off."

Andras chuckled darkly. "I meant that I'd stab him in the crotch four times."

Zac’s chuckle slowly died as the cruel owl began laughing.

"Hey, fowl owl," the eel hissed, pointing a webbed finger at the reduced pile. "That was part of the pot. What are you gonna put in to even it back out?"

Andras looked up lazily from Zac, cocking his head to the side like a bird examining a worm. "Oh, yes. How about this: shut the fuck up and show your cards or I'll kill you."

The eel looked nervous, swallowing hard.

Andras hooted a laugh and unbuckled his scabbard, slamming his cutlass onto the table with a heavy thud. "You're right. It wouldn't be fair to not match your bet."

The eel-man looked a bit pissed, but he grumbled, eyeing the fine steel. "That's more like it."

The owl and the eel stared each other down, cards held tight, the air crackling with tension. The other scallywags and rogues watching went silent, sensing blood in the water. Zac, however, felt a bit bored. Without any sense of fear, the tension fell flat. He just waited to see the owl-man put down a royal flush and win the dream scenario.

"Read 'em and weep," the eel-man laughed, slamming his cards down. "Full house. That little human is gonna hate you for dragging him into this." He stood over the table, leering at Zac. "Gonna drain him till he begs me to stop, and then I'm gonna fuck 'em."

"Pshh," Zac laughed, rolling his eyes. "I doubt you'd get me off unless you fucked me and we both had blindfolds on."

The eel looked furious, but then an evil grin split his toothy face. He snapped his fingers, and a blue spark arced between his webbed digits. "Ever heard of e-stim? Because your prostate is gonna get to know it real well."

Zac swallowed hard. "Oh fuck."

Andras laughed, a low, confident sound. "Well, too bad. You lose." He fanned his cards out on the table with a flourish. "Guess I'm gonna be milking this bitch the old-fashioned way."

"Yeah!" Zac pumped his fist. "Suck it, loser! Now give us the gold so we can spread it out on the bed and screw on it!" He looked up at Andras, eyes shining. "You're so fucking hot and cool. I bet you shave with a bowie knife."

The eel-man stared at the table for a second, then burst into wet, coughing laughter. "What the fuck, Andras? I had a full house!"

Zac and Andras both looked down at the cards the owl had spread out.

It was just two pairs.

Andras quietly hissed, "Shit. I palmed the wrong one."

"That soft pink hole is mine now!" the eel jeered, starting to walk around the table, unbuckling his belt. "Hey boys, gather up the goods. I'll be back in an hour. Don't think it will take much longer to make this soft thing forget his name and beg for my silver eel." He grabbed his crotch lewdly, thrusting his hips.

Zac looked around in panic. "What?! What the fuck?!"

The eel's anthropomorphic fishy crew began to gather the pile of winnings, cackling and slapping each other on the back. Zac looked up at Andras, expecting a plan, a trick, a hidden ace... anything. But the owl just looked annoyed.

"Well," Andras said, reaching for his cigarillo. "Can't win 'em all."

"Really?" Zac squeaked.

Andras looked down, smoke curling from his beak. "Oh. Do you want me to save you or something?"

Zac grabbed the owl's coat lapels, shaking him. "I want you to fuck me, you idiot! Not some random dream douche!"

"Hey!" the eel shouted. "I can hear you, asshole!"

Andras sighed, a long, weary sound. "Do you really? You seem like you'd let anyone rail you. So desperate."

Zac clenched his fists and yelled in frustration. He grabbed Andras's sword off the table and pointed it shakily at the eel. "I'm not your prize! There is no way I'm wasting this dream getting toothy head from some rando who thinks electrocuting my prostate would be enjoyable! I'm not a cow!"

The eel looked down at Zac with a mixture of amusement and anger. He easily backhanded Zac, the blow knocking the human to the floor with a thud.

"Ow! You bitch, you got me with your nails!" Zac groaned, rubbing his cheek.

"Hey, fish-face." Andras rose from his chair, his voice low. "No need to rough him up. It's not like he can defend himself."

The eel crossed his arms, smirking. "So what? I'm gonna be pinning him down and fertilizing him in a few minutes. He's gonna get a few bruises anyways."

Andras's feathers ruffled indignantly. "I was talking about my sword." He reached down and plucked the cutlass from Zac’s limp hand.

Zac sighed into the floorboards. "He's such an asshole. I hate that it makes him even hotter in a rougy-asshole sort of way."

The eel laughed. "Fine. You can have it back. I didn't want that rusty piece of junk anyways. Too boring for a real pirate."

The eel reached down to grab Zac when a few cards fluttered out of his sleeve and landed on the floorboards.

Zac, Andras, and the eel all looked down at the dropped cards. A flush, a straight, and an extra ace.

The eel looked back up at Andras, sweat beading on his slimy forehead. "Uhh... how'd those get in there?"

Andras's feathers puffed out, doubling his size, and the shadows in the room grew noticeably darker. "You try and cheat me?"

"Hey, you did the same thing, buddy!" the eel held his hands up defensively.

"But I didn't win," Andras hissed.

A couple of the eel's crew came over—a scallop-man and a sunfish-man. Zac didn't know if this was serious; an anthropomorphic scallop was just way too stupid to be real. It was literally a shell with legs.

"So," Andras continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I'll be nice. You can keep the gold. But the human is mine."

"Fat chance of that," the eel-man sneered, seemingly more confident with his goofy crew behind him. "I won, not fair but square, and the human was only part of it because you-"

SHINK.

The eel's head slid off his neck and hit the floor with a wet thud.

Andras reached down and picked up the disembodied head by its slick hair. "Cheat me again and I'll turn you into a quadrapus."

"I think killing him is worse," Zac said, pushing himself up and dusting off his maid outfit. "But then again, I've died before. It could be worse."

The scallop and the sunfish gurgled in outrage. The sunfish-man pulled out a strangely spinal-cord-looking whip, while the scallop-man clicked his shell aggressively, looking like a demonic pair of castanets.

Andras looked exasperated. "Really?"

The two fishy fighters attacked. Andras casually threw the decapitated head at the sunfish, hitting it square in the face with a wet smack. As the scallop charged, Andras used his sword to stiff-arm its shell, holding the flailing mollusk at bay.

"Bastard!" the sunfish yelled, trying to wipe the electric eel's blood from his eyes. He cracked his bone whip, aiming for Andras's head. Andras quickly pulled back his sword, causing the scallop to fall forward.

CRACK.

The bone whip struck the shell with the sound of a gunshot. Andras smoothly spun around and shoved the off-balance shellfish backward, right into his partner.

The sunfish yelled as the large scallop shell fell onto him with a sickening crunch.

Andras looked down at the pathetic pile of seafood. "I don't have time for small fry."

The scallop-man kicked his legs, howling from beneath his shell. "I'm gonna filter feed you to death!"

Andras sighed in disgust. With a quick, downward chop, he severed the flailing legs.

Zac winced. "That looked a bit painful."

Andras turned back to Zac, lighting his smoke as the two defeated and now quite disabled pirates cried in agony. "Once their captain died, I thought they would have been wise enough to scram. I can't abhor such stupidity."

Zac was practically drooling over the pirate owl. So violent, so detached, trying to act like he was above it all. But I know deep down he just wants a hug, Zac thought, his eyes tracing the line of Andras's coat. And maybe someone warm to thrust into. He watched Andras flick the blood off his cutlass. Mmmmm, stab me right in the rear with your pokey stick, you absolutely despicable asshole.

Before Zac could try to make a move, Andras was yanked backward.

He stumbled into a circle of enraged fish pirates who had seemingly materialized from the shadows, a sea dragon, a catfish-man with writhing barbels, a pufferfish blown up to the size of a beach ball, and a pulsating jellyfish-woman.

Andras's feathers puffed out as he regained his balance in the middle of the corsairs. "You fucked up."

The owl pirate kicked the decapitated eel head at his feet, sending it skidding across the floor. The sea dragon dodged it easily and laughed, a wet, bubbling sound.

"You fucked with the wrong crew," it gurgled. "Now you're gonna be chum."

However, the head kept soaring. It hit a nearby table where a gaggle of sharks were playing five-finger fillet. One of the sharks howled in pain as the sudden impact made them stab their own hand, driving the blade clean through the webbing.

Zac watched, a bit stunned. Is he really going to fight an entire pirate crew for me? Oh, he loves me too, doesn't he? He just doesn't have the vocabulary or the emotional maturity to say it, but I can tell.

The shark-man was yelling for the dead man who interrupted them, but as Zac watched, the other sharks at the table did not seem to be looking for the head-kicker. They were looking at the blood. They were looking quite... hungry.

The shark demons began to vibrate, their eyes rolling back into their heads until only the whites showed. They looked feral. The other patrons in the bar slowly grew quiet, the piano player faltering mid-note.

"You missed!" the jellyfish laughed, in a strangely jelly-ish voice… Zac didn't know what jelly sounded like, but this was definitely it: wet, squelchy, and condescending. "Now prepare to die!"

Andras smoothly sidestepped a poisonous tentacle. "Did I miss?"

A yell of fear ripped through the tavern. Zac looked over. The sharks were attacking their bleeding comrade. It wasn't a fight; it was a massacre. They tore into him with rows of serrated teeth, blood spraying across the room. Then, tasting blood in the water (or air), they turned outward. They began to randomly attack anyone close, overturning tables and biting anything that moved.

The privateers surrounding Andras finally looked over, their faces losing the confidence that being part of a gang gives weak men.

"FEEDING FRENZY! RUN!" the octopus barman yelled, ducking behind the counter.

Before Zac could even comprehend the idea of a demonic shark attack on land, the bar erupted into absolute madness.

Zac passively watched as the wave of carnage quickly approached. Customers were yelling and scrambling out the doors and windows, the sharks biting anything they could get their teeth on. Blood and viscera flew around like confetti at a particularly morbid parade.

Well, I guess this is why March doesn't want drinking in his keep, Zac thought, wiping a stray drop of blood from his cheek. Some people really can't hold their alcohol. I would have thought demons would have had plenty of time to build up some sort of tolerance.

A disembodied dorsal fin splattered onto the floor next to him with a wet thud.

As Zac turned to tell Andras that he seemed to have upset the other bar-goers, he saw the owl blocking the pirate crew's escape. Andras stood between the fish-man gang and the door, looking quite annoyed while holding his sword out. The fishy freebooters looked absolutely terrified but unable to get past.

"Those sharks will kill you too!" the catfish-man squelched, his barbels vibrating. "Are you insane?!"

Andras laughed, a low, confident hoot. "I already deal with a mutt every day. Do you think some angry sea-dogs can faze me?"

The yells and bubbling of multiple customers being bitten to death filled the air. Zac rolled his eyes. So dramatic. I can't even hear the swindler Strigiforme being all detached and cool.

Half a torso flew by, hitting the pufferfish-man and knocking him into the sea dragon. The sea dragon howled in pain as the pufferfish’s spines sank in. The pufferfish tried to dislodge himself, but he was like velcro, the half-body and his crewmate pinned cushioned to him in a grotesque embrace.

"Fuck this!" the jellyfish shouted, trying to run past Andras.

Andras’s sword flashed. He easily sliced a third of the jellyfish off, causing the semi-translucent anthropomorphic invertebrate to collapse into a mushy, quivering blob. "You wanted to play, didn't you?" Andras said, his voice cold. "So let's play."

The catfish-man looked over from trying to peel the sea dragon off the pufferfish, his eyes wide. "They'll kill you too, you moron! Everyone knows sharks can't control their bloodlust!"

Zac glanced over. The scene was gruesome... sharks ripping apart a shrimp-man, eating the roe out of a sturgeon demon, crushing the shell of a lobster brawler like it was made of paper. A red eyed bull shark, noticing the group of living bodies foolish enough to have not evacuated yet, turned and began running toward them, jaws snapping.

Hmmm, Zac thought, eyeing the frenzied predator. Better than the eel guy. Maybe they aren't Junbei hot, but... Zac shivered. Claspers. Just like Bune.

The shark launched itself at the group, and not even a second later, splashes of blood flew up and soaked Zac.

Wait, Zac thought slowly, where did Andras go? He tried to get a closer look at the pile of thrashing fish, but he couldn't see any feathers. "No, you can't die yet! You haven't even pulled my hair yet!"

"If you like your hair pulled, I'll make sure not to."

Zac sighed. I hate not being startled. He would have gotten me so good. He turned to see Andras standing next to him, also watching the very violent and gory shark attack.

"I really hate getting my butt eaten and being passionately slow-fucked while we hold hands and you look into my eyes," Zac countered smoothly.

Andras shuddered visibly. "You're such a whore. It's really quite impressive."

Zac smiled. "So what are you going to do about it, bad boy?"

They looked into each other's eyes, the pained shrieks of fish being eaten alive fading into background noise. Andras’s large, golden owl eyes searched Zac’s face, while Zac’s dilated pupils tried desperately to convey the sheer depth of his thirst.

"I'll make you cry," Andras said. The tone was all wrong, though. It was less I'm a heartless demon and more... Zac tried to categorize it. Was it self-defeat? Resignation?

Another loud, wet roar cut off zac's thought process as another shark ran at the vulnerable human in the leopard thong.

Andras's sword swished through the air without him even looking away. A heavy thud followed as the shark fell in two distinct pieces.

"So are you gonna march yourself up those stairs to the overnight room," Andras murmured, his gaze intense, "or am I going to have to drag you?"

Zac was afflicted by a sudden, intense wave of anticipation and goosebumps. "When you say drag, do you mean-"

Andras snorted. "I'm done talking."

The demonic owl grabbed Zac by the waist. Just as another shark crash-landed where they were standing, the floor seemed to dissolve. They sank down into the shadows beneath their feet, leaving the bloodbath behind.

The dirty tavern room materialized around them, the shadows coalescing into peeling wallpaper and a single, grime-encrusted window. Zac shook his head, feeling only a slight bit dizzy from the teleportation, and looked around.

"Nice," he said, eyeing the rickety wooden frame in the corner. "A bed. I don't think we need anything else." He looked up at Andras with an excited smile, ignoring the muffled cries of agony filtering up through the creaky floorboards from the massacre downstairs. "So, how do you wanna do it? Now that we have a bed, you could totally mating press me until I'm-"

Zac’s eyes went wide as the owlman suddenly kissed him. It wasn't gentle; it was a collision.

All the muscles in Zac’s body contracted at once. His hair felt like it was standing on end, charged with static electricity. His eyes slowly closed, his brain short-circuiting as he instinctively brought his arms up to embrace the man who had, only minutes ago, tried to pimp him out over a poker game. The feathers of Andras’s coat were soft against his fingers, a stark contrast to the hard, demanding pressure of his beak-like mouth. Zac felt like he could melt right into the floorboards if not for the raging erection pinning him in place.

"Now that you've shut the fuck up," Andras growled against his lips, pulling away abruptly.

Before Zac could chase the sensation, the owlman spun him around and shoved him forward. "Be a good fuck-hole for me."

Zac stumbled and fell face-first onto the mattress. It smelled like mildew, stale ale, and an old, crusty bilge pump, but Zac’s heart fluttered like a hummingbird. So fucking romantic, he thought, burying his face in the grime. Skarg didn't get a room. The harem competition is totally heating up.

He felt a sharp, cold point at the small of his back. With a sound like tearing parchment, Andras’s talon hooked the leopard-print thong and ripped it cleanly in two. The scraps of fabric fluttered to the floor, leaving Zac bare to the cool, drafty air of the room.

Zac turned his head to look back over his shoulder. Andras hadn't bothered to undress fully; he had only shoved his breeches down enough to free himself.

Zac swallowed audibly. He had heard that most birds did not have penises in the typical sense—a cloacal kiss and done—but Andras, blessedly, was not most birds.

His dick was shaped a bit like a rolled tongue, smooth, tapered, and slightly flattened... but not just any tongue. It was the tongue of the lead singer of a corny metal band that wore lots of black leather and monochrome face paint. It was dark, substantial, and intimidatingly big.

"Eyes front," Andras hooted softly. He shoved Zac’s face back down into the mattress, his heavy hand pressing the human's cheek into the bedding. "Try not to scream too much, little virgin. We don't want those idiots downstairs thinking they get to join the fun."

Zac opened his mouth to retort that screaming would only happen if the owl was putting in the effort, but the words died in his throat.

He felt it.

Zac went limp, his body shuddering violently as Andras forced his way in. It was a fluid, relentless pressure. It hurt—hell yes, it hurt—but it also felt so, so fucking amazing. The shape was alien but perfect, filling him in a way that felt entirely different from the wendigo. The texture was incredibly slick, sliding past his resistance with terrifying ease.

He couldn't remember what it felt like when Skarg had fucked him in the snow, but if it was anything like this... if it had this same electric, nerve-frying intensity... he understood why he had been so upset about forgetting the sensation when he woke up.

"Holy shit," Zac moaned into the mattress, his fingers clawing at the sheets. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit..."

SMACK.

Andras’s free hand connected with Zac’s ass cheek, a stinging, possessive spank that echoed in the small room.

"Nothing holy about it, you hole," the owl snarled. He reached down, his talons tangling in Zac’s hair, and yanked his head back, forcing Zac’s back to arch and driving himself deeper.

Zac let out a broken, high-pitched moan of absolute pleasure, his eyes rolling back. "Unholy shit... unholy shit!"

Andras chuckled darkly, the vibration resonating through Zac's skull. "You're awful at dirty talk. Why don't you just shut up while I fuck you?"

Zac attempted to nod, his movement restricted by the vice-like grip on his hair. "Yes... sir," he gasped.

His legs began to wobble as Andras started thrusting in earnest. Each time the owl's feathery hips met Zac's ass, it felt like some hidden, sensitive button inside his body was being pressed. And every time it was pressed, Zac wanted nothing more than to have it mashed down harder. It was like some bit of him had been smushed his entire life, and the owl was finally relieving a pressure he never knew existed. It was the feeling of finally unclenching a hand that had been held in a fist for twenty years.

This wasn't the instant, overwhelming explosion of pleasure that Skarg had forced upon him. This was more like sinking into a scalding hot tub on a freezing day. Yes, it was a bit painful, a bit shocking, but right next to the pain lived the most intoxicating sensation Zac had ever felt outside of that one time he had accidentally accepted a sip from a stranger's water bottle at a rave in Miami.

As Zac’s hand reached down, desperate for friction, Andras spanked him again, hard.

"Don't you dare," the owl growled greedily, pinning Zac’s wrist to the mattress. "You're my prize. This isn't about you."

Zac just whimpered and closed his eyes, his hips instinctively rocking back to meet the owl's thrusts. His brain felt like mashed potatoes. His ass felt like mashed potatoes. It was so fucking perfect.

A minute passed. Two minutes. Three.

Zac was panting, sweat slicking his skin and soaking into the dingy sheets. Oh, it was so good, but he was running out of steam. His core muscles were screaming.

"Don't you dare loosen up before I'm done," the owl said headily. Andras's cruel, detached tone was gone, replaced by a deep, needy drawl that made Zac's toes curl.

Zac’s legs quivered violently, but he held on.

Andras's breaths grew heavy and erratic. Suddenly, he threw his head back and hooted in triumph, a wild, primal sound.

Zac felt a flood of warmth, a torrent of release, and the owl pushed into him further than before, pressing his lean hips hard against Zac's ass, grinding in a way that threatened to shatter him.

Zac groaned, his body tensing for his own release. "I'm gonna... I'm gonna-"

He suddenly felt empty.

"Hey," Zac murmured, reaching back blindly. "Hey, you don't have to pull out..."

Zac blinked his eyes open.

He saw the small, sterile stone room he had woken up in earlier that day. The bureau. The narrow bed. The slit window with its eternal red glow.

Zac slowly closed his eyes again, a deep frown etching itself onto his face. The warmth was gone. The pressure was gone. The memory of the sensation evaporated like mist in the sun.

"I hate Hell so much," he whispered into his pillow.

Zac desperately tried to go back to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he just grew more and more frustrated. He was so painfully horny, yet so painfully not erect.

"NO!" Zac wailed, throwing a tantrum and getting tangled up in his sheets before rolling right off the bed and hitting the floor with a thud.

If owl dick was that good, what the hell is eagle dick like? Zac thought, face down on the cold stone. If only Halphas didn't get spooked when I walked in on him in the shower... What did I do to deserve this? I wasn't that bad of a person when I was alive, was I? Just because I accidentally uploaded a drawing of King Kong fisting Godzilla to the Las Vegas Sphere doesn't mean I deserve eternal sexual frustration! It was art!

Zac finally, slowly, pushed himself up and looked around. Once again, he was in a different room. The bureau, the bed, and the window were all there, but they had shifted positions again. It was a bit disorienting, but that didn't bother Zac at the moment. He had bigger problems.

He marched to the door and pounded on it with both fists. "BUNE! MARCH!" Zac yelled. "ANYONE! I'M AWAKE! LET ME OUT!"

He waited. Silence. Nothing happened.

Zac sighed, sliding down the door until he was sitting on the floor. How did I even get here? The last thing I remember was sitting in Skarg's lap... Zac's mind fell off a horny skyscraper. Mmm... he was so warm. How is it that someone covered in frost all the time could be so toasty and comfy? Zac wiped a bit of drool off his chin. That Cervidae himbo is so sweet. I wonder if he got my food to go? Or did he just leave me passed out in a booth surrounded by headless corpses?

Zac looked around the room again, desperate for a distraction. His eyes landed on the small bedside table. There, gleaming innocently in the dim red light, was a small bell. It was silver, and upon closer inspection, the surface seemed to be made of shifting, screaming faces.

"Oh yeah," Zac muttered, scrambling over to grab the bell. "Bune said this was the pee-pee alarm."

Zac suddenly began violently shaking the bell. "BUNE!" he yelled. "THE AVATAR NEEDS ATTENTION!"

The chime was ghostly, a hollow, resonant sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. If Zac could feel fear, it would have sent a shiver up his spine. But without it, the ethereal dings just sounded a bit weak. Like a haunted wind chime.

Zac waited for all of five seconds before he heard the distinct click-clack-slide of the heavy magical locks disengaging.

"Avatar?" Bune's voice came through the door, sounding slightly frantic. "Are you okay? Is your human bladder in pain?"

"No," Zac called back, "but my butt could use a bit of attention!"

The door swung open. Bune stood there, looking quite trim and put together in a fresh, un-tattered tailcoat. Zac approved. The solo-dueling dragon must not have had his third head triggered yet today.

"It is good to see you are awake finally," the Left Head said, peering at Zac through its spectacles. "We were getting a tad bit concerned."

"You had been passed out for two days!" the Right Head scolded, wagging a clawed finger. "You need to control yourself around lesser demons. If you had used any more malevolent mana you could have gone into a permanent state of, uh, death."

Zac yawned and stretched, his arms reaching for the ceiling as he casually strolled past the dragon butler and out into the hallway. "I trust you would have just put me back together like Pumbaa or Timon. What's for breakfast?"

Bune's heads looked at each other with grave concern before hurrying to follow Zac down the hallway. "Nock's squires are demons," the Left Head explained, his tails swishing anxiously. "Their souls are eternally damned. There is nowhere else for them to go when their physical forms are destroyed."

"You are pure," the Right Head added, wringing its hands. "I cannot clean off death, Zachary... It stains horribly!"

"Yeah, yeah," Zac waved a dismissive hand, not really listening. "Tell me all about it after I eat my leftovers. I think I remember Skarg ordering me chicken nuggets before I passed out."

Zac’s leopard-print tail swished happily as he turned and began to walk down the nearest stairwell, completely unfazed by the concept of his own permanent demise.

"Leftovers?" Bune questioned, power-walking down the stairs to overtake the human and assume his rightful place in the lead.

"Yeah," Zac said, following the dragon’s tails. "We were just about to get food when I..."

Zac's voice trailed off. He thought about all the demons he had accidentally killed in the bistro. He waited for a sense of shame or guilt, some sort of negative feeling for snuffing out so many innocent lives. He frowned. Oh yeah, they were demons. Hard to call them innocent. But shouldn't he feel a little bad? He poked his conscience. Nothing.

That's odd, Zac thought. I was worried for Andras in my dream. Even though he is a massive asshole, I didn't want to see him get turned into shark food. His mind, ever reliable, slid off the freeway into a terrible fiery crash. Mmmm... claspers.

"Hey Bune," Zac called out, "when is it your turn in the dream rotation? Because I have some questions about—"

"I am sorry to inform you," Bune said, cutting Zac off as they reached the landing, "but Halphas ate the leftover food in the pantry."

"HE WHAT?!" Zac yelled suddenly, the betrayal hitting him harder than the shame of being a mass murderer had. "JUST BECAUSE HE GOT ME COFFEE DOESN'T MEAN HE CAN GO AND EAT MY FOOD! THAT BASTARD IS DEAD! I'M GONNA SUCK HIS DICK SO HARD THAT HE BEGS ME TO STOP!"

Bune stopped dead, both heads turning to look back at Zac with expressions of horrified scandal. "I'm sure we can get you some Bicorn if you are hungry," the Right Head offered weakly. "It's really quite good if prepared properly."

"ARGHHHH!" Zac wailed, falling backward onto the stairs. He thrashed his arms and legs like a toddler denied candy, slowly, bumpily rolling down the last few steps until he landed in a heap on the floor. "MY NUGGIES! I WANT MY NUGGIES!"

Bune fruitlessly tried to assuage the adult toddler who was making a fool of himself in public for a good minute until a howl ripped through the otherwise silent keep.

"WAR ROOM! NOW! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!"

Zac sat bolt upright, instantly ignoring the dragon. "Wolf Daddy needs us!"

He jumped to his feet, dusting off his onesie.

Bune sighed, but his heads were alert, scanning the corridor. "You are not wrong, Avatar," the Left Head said, "but this is strange. I have never heard the Captain use the word 'emergency' in a summons."

"Everything is of the utmost importance to the Captain," the Right Head nodded, its expression grave. "If he howls... we know it is serious."

Zac grabbed one of Bune's four massive, scaled hands. "Hurry up then! My lupine lover needs me!"

Zac attempted to drag the dragon down the hall, but his footie onesie gained absolutely no traction on the meticulously polished floor. He just skidded in place like a cartoon character running on ice.

"March might be hurt! He might be lonely! He might have his head stuck in the dishwasher and needs us to come and grab his hips from behind to slowly rock him back and forth until he gets loose or moans!"

Bune blinked, both heads looking genuinely confused. "Dishwasher? My necromantic maids take care of the dishes by hand. We do not have such a device."

"Don't ruin this for me!" Zac wailed, flailing his free arm. "Hurry up!"

Bune nodded, his expression turning resolute. He began to walk in the opposite direction with long, purposeful strides. Zac slid along the floor behind him, effortlessly towed by the dragon's strength.

"Whatever the Captain wants," the Left Head said, his voice dropping to a register more serious than Zac had heard without the third head present, "it must be important."

By the time Bune dragged Zac to the war room, Zac had finally felt like he could give a real shot at water skiing. He let go of the dragon's arm and slowly slid to a stop next to the hellish hydra, his leopard-print feet creating just enough friction to keep him from crashing into the wall.

The war room door looked exactly the same as the last time he was in front of it. Zac sighed, remembering how he cried and cried about that bastard leopard demon Ose tricking him into the most sexually frustrating hell that anyone could ever be put into. Even Genghis Khan being turned into a eunuch water boy for a women's roller derby team filled with buff and goth tom-boys would not suffer the way I am right now, Zac thought bitterly.

Bune knocked politely. "Captain, you called?"

The door flew open. Zac dodged this time, he knew that doors were not his friend in Hell after being smacked by them so many times.

Marchosias stood there, looking like he'd just run a marathon through a hurricane. His uniform was half-buttoned, his grey fur flustered and standing on end, his hackles raised aggressively. His amber eyes were bloodshot, and he was nearly panting.

"BUNE!" he roared. "I called for you over a minute ago!"

Zac's knees went weak. Please bite me, angry wolf daddy, he thought, his heart fluttering. Turn me into your little twinky werewolf omega breeding pup and don't let me out of the cave for anything, ever. Bark in my ear. I don't care if you mark me… no, please mark me, master.

"We have a guest," Marchosias yell-talked at his dragon butler, completely ignoring the swooning human. "I want you to be sure that there are no, uh, feral cats that need to be spayed, lurking around the castle."

Marchosias slowly blinked as he finally registered Zac standing next to Bune. His tail suddenly tucked between his legs, and the wolfman went silent, his bravado evaporating like mist. The door slowly creaked open the rest of the way.

Zac peeped around March and looked into the room.

The other demons were already there, silently looking at him. Skarg waved happily, his antler-nubs wiggling. Nock gave a charming smile and coiffed his mane, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Halphas leaned back in his chair and flexed his pecs, while Andras smirked, lazily thumbing the edge of his cutlass.

But they were not the only ones in the room.

Zac's eyes landed on a new individual, and they looked... quite different from the demons he knew.

She was a camel woman, tall and strikingly beautiful. Her fur was the color of desert sand at sunset, smooth and lustrous. She wore a flowing gown of vibrant Middle Eastern silk that draped elegantly over her form, hinting at curves that were both soft and powerful. Around her waist, cinching the silk, was a heavy golden crown worn as a belt. Her eyes were large, dark, and lashed, filled with an ancient, regal intelligence.

As her gaze landed on Zac, her eyes widened. Her hand went slack. The crystal glass she had been holding slipped from her fingers.

CRASH.

The sound of shattering glass echoed in the silent room. She stared at Zac, her mouth slightly agape, as if she had just seen a ghost, or perhaps, something far more interesting.

“Bune...”

The camel woman’s voice was a sultry desert wind, hot, dry, and laden with expensive spices. It poured over the room like syrup. “What... what is... how did this human get here?”

Marchosias yelped, a high-pitched, undignified sound. He practically threw himself between Zac and the newcomer, spreading his arms wide to block her view, his coat tails flapping.

“It must be, uh, one of Bune’s undead servants!” the Captain stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. “A fresh one! Not yet decayed! Bune, why did you bring such a thing here? It smells terrible!”

He whipped his head around, glaring over his shoulder at Zac and the dragon butler. “Get the Avatar the fuck out of here right now,” he hissed, spittle flying from his lips. “What in the Hell do you think you’re-”

“Silence.”

The single word cut through the panic like a scimitar. She rose from the table, her movements languid and terrifyingly graceful. She stood tall, her silk gown shimmering around her like a mirage.

“I was not talking with you, Marchosias,” she said, her dark lashes fluttering as she looked down her long, elegant snout at him. “I asked Bune a question.”

Marchosias whipped his head back to face her, his lips peeling back to reveal gleaming white fangs. A low, vibrating growl shook his chest, the sound of tectonic plates grinding together.

“You dare talk to me like that in my own keep?” he snarled, his hackles rising to their full height. “I am the Commander of-”

“I DARE.”

The camel woman’s eyes narrowed into dangerous crescents of obsidian. The air pressure in the room dropped instantly, making ears pop.

“You will not talk over me, you little Marquis,” she purred, the sweetness of her tone masking the venom. “I am Duchess Gremory! Procurer of the Love of Women! Companion of maidens! Commander of Twenty-Six Legions!”

She took a step forward, the golden crown at her waist clanking softly. She ignored the wolf’s growl completely, turning her gaze back to the dragon butler.

“And I am talking with Duke Bune,” she finished, dismissing the wolf with a wave of a manicured hand. “Why don't you go sit in your chair like a good puppy?”

Zac’s mind stuttered. His brain tried to process the hierarchy, the danger, the sheer, radiating power of the camel woman. But it all snagged on one phrase.

Good puppy.

She just called him a puppy. And not in the sexy, degradation-kink way. She said it like he was a petulant dog who peed on the rug.

Zac felt a surge of heat rise in his chest. It wasn't fear (he physically couldn't feel that) and it wasn't lust, for once. It was indignation. Righteous, defensive fury. This pretty bitch just told his main boy to be quiet in his own house? The gall... the audacity!

Zac stepped out from behind Bune’s legs. He planted his leopard-print slippered feet firmly on the stone floor, crossed his arms over his fleece chest, and glared up at the towering Duchess.

“Hey, Humps!” Zac shouted, his voice cracking with outrage. “Why don't you be quiet? Marchy-poo is the Captain!”

The room went deadly silent.

Nock, Halphas, and Andras all looked nervously between Zac and the towering Duchess, their earlier bravado evaporating. Marchosias’s breath hitched, his growl sputtering out like a dying engine as he stared at the small human defending his honor. Gremory blinked, her long lashes fluttering in genuine shock. She looked like she had just been slapped with a wet fish.

“Sister...” Bune stepped up beside Zac, all four of his hands wringing together nervously. “What... what brings you here on such a... dreadful evening?”

“Did you just call me Humps?”

Gremory ignored Bune entirely. She began to stalk toward Zac, her movements slow and predatory, her silk gown whispering against the stone.

“HEY!” Skarg bellowed, slamming his hands onto the table. “Don't you dare touch the Avatar! He is mine!”

The wendigo didn't wait for permission. He launched himself over the war table, scattering maps and figurines in a chaotic spray, charging toward the Duchess like a runaway freight train.

Gremory stopped. She sighed, a long, exasperated sound, and turned her head slightly to look at the charging caribou. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't brace herself. She simply flicked a dismissive hand.

SHING.

Golden rings materialized out of thin air, spinning around Skarg’s arms and legs. With a sharp metallic clang, they suddenly shrunk, binding his limbs tight against his body. Skarg’s momentum betrayed him. He face-planted onto the stone floor with a sickening crunch and went skidding across the room like a furry bowling ball, coming to a halt at Gremory’s feet.

“I will have words with you later, Furfur,” she said, not even looking down as she stepped over him.

“Of course a bitch would wanna talk instead of fight!” Skarg bellowed into the floor.

SHING.

Another golden ring materialized and snapped shut around his snout, muzzling him instantly.

Zac swallowed hard. Wait... she’s stronger than the other demons? But... don’t women have, like, less muscles or something? He frowned, his rudimentary understanding of biology colliding with the reality of high-level infernal magic.

Gremory turned her dark gaze back to the table. She looked at Andras, Nock, and Halphas, her eyes cold and challenging. “Do the rest of you feel like you want to say anything?”

Nock immediately shook his head, looking very interested in the polish on his gauntlets. Halphas developed a sudden fascination with the ceiling.

Andras just shrugged, still lazily thumbing the edge of his cutlass. “Meh,” the owl said, blowing a smoke ring.

Oh thanks, Zac thought bitterly. Here I was thinking I would have been upset if you got turned into shark food. I really hate that your nonchalance and assholery is getting me hot again though.

“Gremory!” Marchosias barked, trying very hard to keep his howl of rage from breaking through, his fists clenched at his sides. “You cannot come here and assault my men! I will report this to the Lowest Power! This is a violation of—”

Gremory turned slowly to face him. She shook her head, a pitying smile playing on her lips.

“Is that before or after you explain why you used your silver fire to annihilate Baal's Bistro?” she asked softly.

Marchosias’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click. His eyes went wide, and all the color drained from his face beneath his fur. The room was suddenly very, very quiet.

"Now, tell me, human," Gremory said, towering over Zac like a sequoia made of silk and scorn. "You dare address me in such a vulgar manner?"

"Please, Gremory," Bune managed to say meekly, stepping forward but keeping his distance. "This is no mere human."

"This is Ose's chosen Avatar," the Right Head nodded pleadingly. "You know how the deceitful leopard is... how he enjoys playing with words."

"He was just making a joke," the Left Head added softly.

"A joke?" the camel demon asked, eyeing the now-anxious hydra with disdain. "You allow the Avatar of a fledgling President to make jokes? Have you no shame?"

Bune's heads avoided her judgmental gaze, looking down at their scuffed shoes. "No."

"Tisk tisk," the she-demon shook her head, the golden crown clinking against her hip. "Even the Avatar of Paimon himself would not dare to speak to me in such a manner."

"Yeah, because they're probably not a secret weapon like I am," Zac said, jutting out his leopard-print chest. "Some Digimon demon is probably too... Asian... too honorable to understand the nuance of a good zinger, Humps."

The room went even more silent, if that was possible. A heavy, suffocating stillness descended. Then, Marchosias let out a loud, whimpering groan. He slowly walked to the war table, pulled out his chair, sat down, and gently lowered his forehead until it hit the wood with an audible thump.

Gremory looked furious. Her eyes blazed with purple fire. "Foolish human! Do you not know what sort of hellish torment I can afflict upon you? Do you not have any concept of-"

"HUMPS! HUMPS! HUMPS!" Zac yelled, cutting her off and pointing an accusing finger. "I DON'T CARE if you cock ring me until I cry! I'll never respect you for insulting my venerated vincel! March is my final destination, my OTP... my One True Pairing!"

Gremory looked furious, confused, and deeply scandalized all at once. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. "Enough!" she shouted, her voice shaking the walls. "Disgusting man! I'll make you experience every romantic folly! All of the pain you've ever pushed on another! Every selfish fornication you've ever squeezed from another's heart!"

The camel woman pointed a manicured finger at Zac. A dark purple light emanated from it, bathing Zac's body in an evil, royal glow.

Zac clenched up and squeezed his eyes shut. The light was tingly, like a limb falling asleep. He waited for the pain, the suffering, the emotional devastation... whatever the demonic magic was supposed to do to him. He braced himself for a montage of every time he was ghosted and awkward ‘sorry you looked different on your profile’.

However, after a few moments of nothing... he peeked an eye open.

Gremory was staring at him, completely flabbergasted. Her finger was still pointed, but the light had fizzled out. She looked down at her hand, then back at Zac, her regal composure shattering.

"But... but... but..." she said dumbly.

"Gremory," Bune managed to say, his voice strained as he tried to calm the furious Duchess. "Please do not get so upset with Zachary. If Ose learned his chosen avatar was killed, he would be most displeased."

"Stop lying to me, Bune! Do you think I am stupid?" the camel woman shouted, her perfect composure finally cracking like cheap pottery. "If this pathetic runt was truly an avatar, you wouldn't need to dress him up in such a weak and pathetic disguise!"

"Hey," Zac said, crossing his arms and looking genuinely offended. "Leopard print is totally badass and regal. But Ose can lick my ass. That bastard is a total diaper baby."

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Marchosias banged his head against the table a few more times, the sound echoing mournfully in the room.

"What is the meaning of this?!" the camel shouted, her voice rising an octave as she lost it completely. "Bune, what in the hells is going on here? Why are you covering for a human?!"

She raised her hand, the golden rings on her fingers flashing, ready to deliver a demonic backhand that would likely send Zac's head into orbit.

In a blur of motion, Nock and Halphas were suddenly there.

Nock threw himself in front of Zac, his arms spread wide. "Don't you harm pure Zachary!" he cried, his mane bristling with righteous indignation.

Halphas grabbed Gremory's wrist, his talons digging into the silk of her sleeve. "As Second-in-Command, it's my job to dish out corporal punishment!" the eagle squawked, his usual cocky demeanor replaced by protective fury.

Heh, Zac thought, completely devoid of the fear of being slap-decapitated. I knew they loved me. Now this rando camel lady is gonna have to fight the whole harem.

"I WILL TURN YOU ALL INTO COCKLESS VEGETABLES!" Gremory shrieked, her long hair coming undone and her previous beautiful composure was totally nuked from orbit.

A blinding purple light emanated from her form, encompassing both Nock and Halphas in a shockwave of magic. The moment the light touched them, they both fell to the ground like cut marionettes, white foam trickling from the corners of their mouths as their eyes rolled back.

"Oh shit," Zac thought, looking down at the now-catatonic lion and eagle. She one-shot the tanks. That’s bad.

He barely had time to register the loss of his bodyguards before Gremory reached out. Her hand closed around his neck with the force of a hydraulic press, lifting him off the ground until his slippered feet kicked uselessly at the air.

"HNGGG," Zac choked, his vision swimming. "Your hands... so big... and manly..."

"WHAT?!" Gremory roared directly into his face, spit flying. "MY HANDS ARE FEMININE AND SOFT!"

"Gremory, please!" Bune said weakly from the sidelines. "Don't!"

However, the camel woman did not pop the human's head off like a Pez dispenser. Through his breathlessness and watering eyes, Zac saw her expression shift from pure, homicidal rage to pure, utter disbelief.

She stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted a second head that was singing opera. Her grip slackened.

Zac fell, collapsing onto the stone floor in a coughing heap, gasping for air.

"Alright, that's enough," Andras's voice drawled from directly behind Gremory.

The owl demon had emerged from the shadows cast by her silken dress, his cutlass already pressed against the soft fur of her throat.

"That dumb human said he'd walk Goremaw for me," Andras hissed, his golden eyes cold and devoid of humor. "So you're gonna have to die now."

Gremory didn't even move a muscle as another nova of purple light exploded from her body, a sphere of pure, concussive magic.

Zac squinted against the glare, expecting to see feathers fly. Instead, Andras reacted with supernatural reflexes. His wings flared, propelling him backward in a blur, while his cutlass slashed through the air, cutting a literal path of inky blackness through the luminous purple magic.

"Shadow is just as fast as light, Duchess," the owl hissed, diving back into the fray.

He swung at Gremory’s neck, a killing blow. Gremory didn't even turn her head. She simply tilted her long neck to the side, the blade passing millimeters from her jugular.

Are Dukes really this much stronger than Marquises? Zac thought, his eyes wide as he watched the owl demon assault the camel. It was like watching a gladiator fight a force of nature.

Andras was everywhere at once. He popped out of a shadow near the floor, slashing at her legs. Miss. He dropped from the ceiling shadow, aiming for her crown. Miss. He appeared behind her, thrusting for the kidney. Miss. He was playing a high-stakes, stab-happy version of whack-a-mole, dissolving into darkness the moment his blade failed to connect.

Gremory was breathtaking. She dodged gracefully, stepping back from Zac and spinning like a dervish. Her silks fanned out around her, creating a shield of fabric that obscured her true position. She moved with a speed that defied her size, pirouetting through the onslaught as if she were dancing to a 250 bpm trash waltz song that only she could hear.

Zac’s eyes could barely follow the blur of violence. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

But then, the music stopped.

Andras materialized above Gremory, his cutlass raised for a downward chop.

Gremory’s hand snapped up. She didn't block the blade; she caught the hilt. Her hand overlapped the owl’s talons on the grip, stopping the momentum instantly.

"Foolish bird," she said softly, her voice devoid of effort.

A blast of concentrated purple light raced up her arm, jumped to the sword hilt, and surged directly though Andras.

"Did you forget I can sense treasures?" Gremory purred, her eyes glowing with malicious delight. "Don't attack me with such a precious, antique sword next time. It screams its location to me."

Andras convulsed, his feathers smoking. He let out a choked hoot before his eyes rolled back in his head. He crumpled to the stone floor, landing in a heap next to Halphas and Nock, joining their chorus of gurgling, white-foam misery.

Zac looked at the pile of defeated, drooling lieutenants. Then he looked at Skarg, who was still tied up on the floor like a rodeo calf. Then he looked at Bune, who was looking at the floor and wringing his hands murmuring ‘please listen, Gremory’.

Finally, he looked up at Gremory.

"Okay," Zac squeaked. "You win."

The camel woman smoothed down her silken dress and fixed a stray lock of her lustrous hair, her composure returning as quickly as it had been lost. She once again began to walk toward Zac, though this time her pace was less predatory, more... appraising.

"You," she said, her chest rising and falling as she regulated her breathing after Andras's shadow assault. "You are..."

"WAIT!" Bune’s heads both shouted in unison.

The dragon butler moved with surprising speed, planting himself firmly between Zac and the camel Duchess. He spread all four arms wide, creating a wall of scales and desperation. "You cannot take him! He is too precious! He is... he is..." Bune’s voice cracked, a sound of raw, unfiltered panic that made Zac blink.

Gremory stopped. Her furious expression softened as she looked at the trembling dragon. Her eyes, moments ago burning with purple fire, now held a strange, pitying warmth. "Oh, Bune... why didn't you tell me? You know me."

"You know the rules," Bune’s Left Head whispered, refusing to meet her gaze. "This was an order. I could not leak the information. It is too important."

"I WANTED TO!" the Right Head wailed, tears streaming down its snout. "Please forgive me! I can't lose him to the Princes! I... I... I..."

"Hush now." Gremory reached up, her large, soft hands gently cupping the cheeks of both dragon heads simultaneously. "Shh there, Bune. You've been doing so good these past centuries."

Bune’s legs wobbled. The proud, neurotic butler crumbled, leaning into her touch and beginning to sob openly. It was a full-blown draconic breakdown, complete with hiccuping smoke and sniffling.

Wait, what the actual fuck? Zac thought, watching the tender scene unfold over the twitching bodies of the unconscious lieutenants. Are they... related? Or exes? Or is this just how Dukes greet each other?

He noticed Marchosias watching them. The Captain wasn't angry anymore. He was looking at the weeping dragon and the comforting Duchess with an expression that was equal parts sad and profoundly relieved.

"You are lucky I was sent to follow up on the incident at the restaurant," Gremory said gently, stroking Bune's scales. "I had no idea Ose had managed to form a contract with a... maiden."

"Of course you didn't," Marchosias growled from the table, not lifting his head. "It was top secret."

"I'M TALKING TO BUNE!" Gremory shouted without looking away from the dragon. "SHUT UP, YOU MUTT!"

Marchosias sighed, and gently thunked his forehead against the wood again.

Before Zac could defend March and tell the camel woman to stop making the butler cry, Bune managed to contain his wailing. "Do not yell at the Captain! If you insult Marchosias, you insult me!"

"Fine, only because you say so, Bune," Gremory conceded with a shake of her head, though her eyes were still icy. "But that wolf has barely gotten your third head to relax what, maybe one day a month?"

Zac was so confused. What was she talking about? Bune's third head only popped out when the dragon was worked up—like when the furniture was being destroyed or someone was trying to ride a warg indoors.

"Even if he is just an expired methadone patch," Bune sniffled, wiping his eyes with the back of one hand, "he has been the only one willing to help me. Even you," he said, sounding a bit more in control, "could not keep my gold hoarding addiction from ruining my afterlife. This avatar, his presence has helped tame my most vulgar self."

Zac blinked. Addiction? Hoarding? Wait, holy shit, how the fuck did I miss it this whole time?

His mind raced back over the past few days. The dragon had mentioned gold. He had mentioned urges. He had mentioned needing to control himself. Was that what the lovers' quarrel with him and March in the hallway was about? March wasn't just a bossy prick; he was Bune's addiction sponsor. The whole butler job was basically an eternal Gold Hoarders Anonymous meeting, and somehow March was helping Bune wean off his drug of choice.

Zac’s eyes grew unfocused as the realization hit him like a sack of bricks. My virginity. Fuck.

He thought back to all the times Bune said Zac must remain pure. All the times the dragon had sniffed him and seemed to relax. Bune literally saying that lusting after Zac was better than the gleaming of gold. And even Halphas had said that March would put him into a "program with Bune" after he drank all of that coffee.

Zac’s eyes welled up. March wasn't a harsh captain verbally and emotionally abusing a subservient dragon man; he was helping his friend through such a difficult problem. And Bune wasn't a wimpy demon who preferred to be a butler over being a warrior; he was a demon fighting his own... demons.

"I'M SORRY BUNE!" Zac shouted, his voice thick with emotion. "I DIDN'T KNOW!"

He sprinted forward and threw his arms around the dragon man’s waist, burying his face in the back of Bune’s tailcoat. "I thought you were just a fussy neat freak! I didn't know you were battling your inner Smaug! You're so brave!"

"It was really so good to see you, Sister Gremory," Bune said. The dragon butler had finally regained his composure, standing tall and looking almost lustrous, his scales shimmering in the ambient light.

"Of course," Gremory replied, her voice smooth once more. "It is so wonderful to see you looking healthy and... clean." She smoothed her silk gown, looking composed as if she hadn't been trolled by a human in a leopard onesie just minutes ago.

Zac smiled and looked up at the two demons towering over him. They totally don't look related, he thought. I bet the 'sister' thing is just how Dukes and Duchesses talk. But... if they are... maybe there is a demon dragon with two humps out there. He was still hugging Bune, his mind wandering off while Bune's tail happily wagged and battered his side. Mmm, I will take as many humps as you can give me, camel-dragon-daddy.

He suddenly shook his head. Wait, I can't just throw away my virginity now. It would cause Bune to relapse or something. And... Bune really has been so kind to me. Even if he kept the others from fucking me. And he didn't get me coffee. And he made me read a book. Zac’s frown deepened. Wait, why am I worried about the emotional well-being of a demon from Hell who is literally infinity times older than me?

"I wont report that the new avatar is a virgin," Gremory continued, "for you, Bune. But I really must tell the Princes that Ose has finally done something useful for once."

Bune looked nervous, wringing his hands. Zac muttered under his breath, "That lying pussy didn't do shit."

Gremory looked down at Zac with an amused expression, her long lashes fluttering. "You are quite lucky my magic does not work on maidens, little human. Or else your outsides would be inside, and your insides would be on fire."

Zac nodded sagely. "I keep asking the others to do stuff to my insides, but they are all prudes."

Gremory cracked a smile as she looked around the war room. The unconscious demons were still sprawled on the floor in a heap of limbs and drool, and Marchosias was still face-down on the table, seemingly having given up on the day entirely.

"Can I get your number?" Zac asked, finally loosening his hug on the dragon butler. "I need someone to gossip about all the hunky demons with."

Gremory laughed, a rich, melodic sound like wind chimes in a desert breeze.

"You really are Ose's chosen, aren't you?" Gremory giggled. "But it is best if we do not talk too much more. I'm already taking a risk by not turning you over to Belial."

"Is Belial hot?" Zac asked instantly.

Bune stiffened. "Zac, please do not ask such things. Belial is the Lowest King. Were you not listening when I told you that he was the first to follow Lucifer down?"

Gremory smirked and shook her head. "It appears you will have your hands full with this one, Bune. It is a good thing you've always been so competent at multitasking." She leaned in and gave the dragon man a quick, chaste kiss on both of his heads' cheeks. "Farewell for now, brother."

Gremory turned and swept out of the war room, her silk gown trailing behind her like a royal train.

Bune stood frozen, slowly raising a hand to his Left Head's cheek. "Brother..." he said softly, a note of wonder in his voice.

"Later, whore! I'll miss you!" Zac yelled, waving enthusiastically at the retreating Duchess.

Bune looked down, horrified. "Do not call Duchess Gremory such things!"

"She is the demon of maidens!" the Right Head hissed, quickly covering Zac's mouth with a clawed hand. "She is very much not a prostitute!"

Zac shrugged off Bune's hand. "That's just how bad bitches like us part ways. It's only bad if you think it's bad. Do you think she's an actual slut or something?"

Bune's two heads sputtered, frantically trying to deny he would ever think such a blasphemous thing.

Oh, Bune, Zac thought, a fond smile spreading across his face. Are you even more pure than March? I can't believe it. In Hell for, uh, nearly all of existence, and you can't even call your own sister a gutter hooker. You're actually so fucking cute it's driving me mad.

As if on queue, Zac noticed the wolf himself walk over.

Marchosias looked around in disgust at the passed-out demons who were still foaming at the mouths. Their collective foam was beginning to converge into a concerningly large puddle on the war room floor, threatening the integrity of a dropped scroll.

"I guess her magic didnt work on any of us huh," Zac said, looking between Bune and March. "Power maiden trio, am I right?"

Marchosias sighed, pinching the bridge of his muzzle. "You are the only virgin. And if you were not, you would have died multiple times."

Not sure that's possible, Zac thought, before his mind helpfully supplied images of Timon and Pumbaa, who had indeed died multiple times and were presumably fine.

"But she kinda blasted the whole room with her magic," Zac murmured.

"Well, as a Duke, I am resistant to magic of equal strength," Bune said, straightening his cuffs.

"And as a dragon, I am naturally resistant to magic," his Right Head added, looking the slightest bit pleased with itself. "The lion and owl are Marquises, and the flying rat is only an Earl. Their resistance is... laughable."

Before Zac could ask why they kept calling the hot eagle man mean names, Marchosias growled. "Bune, this place is a mess. There's white foam everywhere."

"I wish you'd cover me in white foam," Zac said instinctively. He didn't even need to think about it; it was like a patellar reflex, but for his porn-melted brain.

Marchosias stiffened and turned away from Zac, his ears twitching. "Clean this mess up, Bune."

"Of course, Captain," Bune said happily. "But... the others are in the way. We might need to wait a bit until their souls recombobulate."

"This day has already been too long," Marchosias growled. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding.

"WAKE UP, YOU LEG-HUMPING HOMUNCULUSES!"

The Command Voice slammed into the room like a physical shockwave, rattling the windows and sending dust falling from the ceiling.

Andras, Nock, and Halphas twitched on the floor as if the stone had suddenly been electrified in the middle of an earthquake. Zac looked away; it was a bit too Japanese-ghost-horror coded for his western sensibilities.

Nock sat up first. "Worooosow," the lion groaned, clutching his head. "What happened? Is my mane ok?" He suddenly reached up, frantically brushing his gauntleted hands through his thick, voluminous hair. "Oh, thank badness. Still fabulous."

Andras's head turned 180 degrees from where he was seizing on the ground, his golden eyes snapping open. He let out a hooting groan of pain. "Next time I'll just rip her eyes out with my bare hands." He flapped his wings, causing his body to float up like a vampire emerging from its coffin. Zac thought it was a pretty badass move, but the backwards head undercut it a bit.

Finally, Halphas stopped shuddering and coughed out a slice of bread. Zac tilted his head. Uhm, I thought he was on the paleo diet. That... uhm, ok.

"Gremory disrupted the chain of command," the eagle coughed, spraying a few more breadcrumbs onto the floor, which instantly got soggy in the white foam drool mess that covered the ground. "She didn't even sign the guest log. How are we supposed to keep track of supplies if we don't know who has been in or out?"

Zac eyed the demons, who were now standing groggily at attention as Marchosias stood before them with his arms crossed, looking like a disappointed father.

"You ingrates are disgusting," the wolf growled. "You dare lift a finger against a Duchess?"

"She said mean words to you!" Zac shouted before anyone could explain themselves. He marched over and stood next to the Captain, crossing his leopard-print arms. "We are Team March in this keep! Anyone who dares slander the try-hard wolfy deserves death!"

The room went silent. All the demons stared at Zac.

As Zac smiled and puffed out his leopard-print covered chest, the other demons all began to yell at once.

"She was going to dirty fair Zachary with her filthy hands!" Nock yelled, smoothing his mane. "Did you see her nail polish? Vantablack! That was so last decade!"

"It's my job to punish the new guy!" Halphas squawked, jabbing a thumb at his chest. "It says it right in the handbook! Page 6, paragraph 6, subsection 6!"

"Goremaw has been acting off ever since the Avatar gave him belly scratches… I mean, scratched his belly… I mean, uh, cowered in fear from the evil power of my devilish warg!" Andras hooted defensively. "I can't prove that I'm a better dog dad if the leopard slut is dead!"

The other demons changed their focus from Zac to Andras, staring at him in confusion.

Andras looked around nervously, then down at the floor, before quickly lighting a cigarillo with a snap of his talons. "I just like killing people!" he declared, coughing on the smoke and trying to look cool. "Do you losers think I need a reason to attack someone?"

"I don't care about any of your excuses!" March barked, silencing the room. "You know the rules."

Bune nodded, straightening his cravat. "Even though we have a mission, you cannot just go and displease a Duke."

The owl, lion, and eagle looked at each other for a beat, then burst into raucous, mocking laughter.

"Shut up, Bune, you mega-pussaholic!" Halphas wheezed.

Bune looked flustered, his heads twisting. "No, you are the... uhm... dumb... holic..."

"SILENCE!" March howled.

Zac smiled, leaning back against the war table. Oh, life is so good here. They deny it so hard, but this is totally a found family. I called it from the very beginning. They are going to get shipped in so many new and exciting ways. But March is still the dad. That’s never going to change. Mmm, Wolf Daddy is eternal.

Marchosias rubbed his temples, his armor clinking. "You all are filthy, and you smell like complete ass." He turned his amber gaze to Halphas. "You will make sure everyone gets cleaned up and..." March’s eyes darted to Zac.

Zac looked up at the eternal Wolf Daddy with a big, hopeful grin. "Yes daddy? I mean daddy… I mean daddy… I mean, Captain?"

Marchosias’s tail stiffened so hard it looked painful, and he quickly looked away, his fur ruffling in agitation. "Halphas, make sure the Avatar is bathed. He has been in his uniform for days on end."

The harpy eagle man suddenly stiffened, his wings snapping tight against his back. He gave a sharp military salute. "YES SIR!"

Nock’s mane suddenly stood straight up like he went Super Saiyan. "YES! BATH TIME WITH THE AVATAR!" he roared, throwing his arms wide. "IT IS FINALLY TIME FOR THE BATH BOMBS!"

The room went quiet, save for the lion man's happy purr, which vibrated him so much his armor chattered like teeth.

"You all are so fucking unbearably incompetent," March said softly, "if I was not dead, I would want to be." He turned and began walking back to the table.

Zac reached out for the angry wolfman. "But you're dirty too! Why don't you join us? I'll even wash your back... and your front... especially your front..."

Zac’s eyes glazed over as he fantasized about March in a bubble bath where the bubbles just kept popping, slowly revealing the very crystal-clear water that Zac could see right through to the wolf's furry lower belly.

He snapped out of his vivid daydream as he felt himself being lifted off the ground. Halphas was holding him by the waist, grinning.

"Don't you dare summon a towel this time," Zac hissed.

"What are you talking about?" Halphas questioned, tilting his head. "We all need towels after to dry off. Come on, new guy, have you never taken a bath before?" He looked over his shoulder at Nock and Andras. "Come on, you two. Orders are orders."

"I'll pass," Andras said, trying to disappear into the shadows behind a suit of armor.

Nock grabbed him by the tail of his greatcoat. "DON'T RUIN THIS FOR ME!" The lion suddenly sprinted out the door, dragging the now-hooting owl behind him across the floor. "BATH TIME! BATH TIME! CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO... NEXT TO DEVILISHLY HANDSOMENESS!"

Zac smiled as he watched them go. "Oh, ok. Take me away, Halphas. I wanted this to be a whole family affair, but I guess having an affair with the fun gay uncles is good too."

"What?"

"Just go," Zac said, patting the eagle's bicep. "I'll explain our new family wincest tree on the way."

Zac waved at Bune as he was carried out of the door.

"If you dare defile the Avatar, we will be eating squab," Bune said sternly, his eyes narrowed as he watched them leave. "I will be able to tell faster than any holy wards in the city ever could."

"And you will not enjoy being digested," the Right Head added, licking its chops. "I masticate very thoroughly."

Before Zac could ask if that's why Bune rejected soft vore all those days ago, another shout rang out in the war room.

"NOOO! I WANT BATH TIME TOO!"

Zac twisted in Halphas's grip to see Skarg rolling around on the floor. Although he had finally freed his mouth from the muzzle, the caribou demon was still hopelessly entangled in Gremory's golden rings, looking like a fancy demonic dinner napkin.

Marchosias stood over the raging reindeer, veins bulging in his neck. "YOU'RE THE REASON THERE IS EVEN A MESS HERE! HOW MANY TIMES DID I SAY LOCK DOWN?! WHY DO YOU NEVER LISTEN?!"

Zac felt a pang of genuine guilt for the himbo stag. Skarg had been the MVP of the "Protect the Human" squad since day one. He was the first to throw hands when Gremory got hostile, the first to body-slam the breakfast imps, and the first to loudly and proudly proclaim he was down to fuck. Hell, he was even the first to successfully massage Zac’s prostate via remote dream connection… a feat of magical engineering that deserved an award. Even the jailbreak from the library lessons for a lunch date, while chaotic, had been sweet in a caveman-abduction sort of way.

However, Zac also really, really enjoyed watching Marchosias go full Alpha. The vein popping in the wolf’s neck? The commanding shout? It did things to Zac’s insides that coffee never could. So, he didn't speak up.

Ugh, if only those two could get along, Zac thought as Halphas carried him down the hall. Silver fire and hellish ice. It’s such a badass combination. Isn't that the usual enemies-to-friends pairing in these types of scenarios? Opposites attract, or at least put aside their differences for the vulnerable main character?

As the stone corridor blurred past, Zac’s eyes glazed over. The torchlight stretched into neon beams, and the gothic architecture dissolved into a stylized, cel-shaded cityscape.

Cue the synth-pop intro music.

Suddenly, Skarg wasn't a furry demon being yelled at by his boss. He was sliding into the scene on a massive, conjured ice-bridge, his body transformed into a living sculpture of organic, translucent frozen diamond. He was sleek, he was angular, and his pecs looked sharp enough to cut glass. He struck a pose, snowflakes sparkling off his chiseled abs.

"Chill out, evil-doers!" Fantasy-Skarg announced with a cheesy grin.

And there was Marchosias. But he wasn't in a uniform. He was soaring through the air, engulfed in a radiant aura of microwave energy and silver fire, wearing a tight yellow bodysuit with a fiery mask that did absolutely nothing to hide his identity but did wonders for his glutes. He landed next to Skarg, striking a back-to-back pose.

"Things are heating up!" March declared, his paws igniting.

And then there was Zac. He looked down at himself. He was squeezed into a skin-tight red and blue spandex suit, complete with a stylized Arachne-Weaver symbol on his chest and a full face mask with big white eyes.

Zac-Man and his Amazing Friends! the announcer's voice boomed in his head.

"Look out, Zac-Man!" Skarg shouted as a group of generic, poorly animated angel criminals tried to steal an expensive set of demonic pentagram jewlery.

"I got this, boys!" Zac quipped, shooting a web that was actually just a sticky rope of pure charisma. "Don't get your halos in a twist!"

Skarg blasted them with an ice beam. Marchosias blasted them with a fire beam. The villains exploded into smoke. The day was saved in totally radical 80s fashion.

The three heroes stood atop a skyscraper as the sun set.

"Great work, team," Marchosias said, hands on his hips.

"Yeah," Skarg agreed, melting his ice form just enough to look glistening and wet. "We really pounded them."

"Speaking of pounding," Zac said, leaning against the chimney and peeling off his mask to reveal perfectly coiffed hair. "fighting crime is stressful. I bet you guys are tense. Why don't we go back to the secret base so I can give you both a massage... with happy endings?"

The synth music swelled to a crescendo-

"New guy? You drooling again?"

Zac blinked, the neon city vanishing as Halphas jostled him. They were standing in front of a massive pair of steam-shrouded doors. The fantasy popped like a soap bubble, leaving Zac with only the lingering image of Marchosias in yellow spandex.

"A massage would be nice," Zac murmured, wiping his chin.

Halphas laughed, a sharp sound that echoed in the humid corridor. "Sorry, Avatar, but I've heard you have a hair trigger. Don't want to get accused of defiling you just because you blow your load if I rub your shoulders."

The eagle booted the massive door open with a solid thud.

Zac blinked as a wall of hot, white steam billowed out, momentarily blinding him. "Wow, Nock must have turned all the taps on alre-"

Zac’s mind slowed to a halt. He expected the normal bathroom, the one with the high-pressure showers and the marble sinks where he had brushed his teeth and taken his panic poop. What he saw was not that.

The room was vast, an echoing cavern of black marble and heated stone. Rows of fluted columns marched into the misty distance, supporting a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of glorious, bloody conquest. In the center lay a pool the size of an Olympic swimming pool, the water bubbling and steaming, fed by the open mouths of stone wolves along the walls. Stone benches lined the perimeter, heated from within, and the air smelled of eucalyptus and sulfur. It was a masterpiece of Roman engineering, corrupted and perfected by infernal hands.

"Oh wow," Zac said as Halphas set him down on the warm tiles. "Are we sure March wasn't a frat wolf? This place would be killer for jacuzzi parties."

Zac’s mind quickly slid off the deep end. He imagined the cavernous room filled with oiled-up demons wearing swim trunks (or nothing at all), batting beach balls around while some funky summer tunes echoed off the marble. March in sunglasses holding a red solo cup...

"Oh, this is the caldarium," Halphas said, casually taking off his camo-patterned military cap and hanging it on a bronze hook by the door. He began to unbutton his shirt. "If you wanted a massage, the tepidarium is over that way."

"Tepid-what-now?" Zac murmured, distracted by the sight of feathers and muscle. He reached down to test the water, his finger inching toward the bubbling surface.

Before he could touch it, he was swept up into the air once more.

"Hold your horses," Halphas cawed, effortlessly hoisting Zac away from the pool. "You haven't even scrubbed yourself down yet. You can't just get in the bath all dirty."

Zac looked dismissive, dangling in the eagle’s grip. "Baths are for getting clean. But if you want to scrub my back... and my fro-"

"The caldarium is for relaxing your muscles and contemplation," the eagle sighed, shaking his head. "I guess you really have never taken a proper bath before, have you?"

Zac looked confused. "Sorry, I just didn't think this was going to be like one of those sports anime bath scenes where the characters all sit naked with buckets and brushes in a tiled room before they get to kick back in the hot tub. I'm an American. We just dive right in."

"Gross," was all Halphas said as he carried Zac toward one of the smaller arched openings that led away from the main massive hot pool.

Zac peered into the different arched doorways as they passed. To his left, he saw a massive, open-air swimming pool where the water was so still it looked like glass, reflecting the red sky above. Further down, he caught a glimpse of a dry, intensely hot room where a blast of hot air rushed out like the opening of a blast furnace. Past that, a room filled with small pools covered in thin layers of ice radiated a chill that made his nose twitch.

They finally stopped in a long, rectangular room lined with stone benches and small, recessed cubbies carved into the walls. The air here was warm and smelled of cedar.

"Get that sweaty uniform off, Avatar," Halphas said, gesturing to the cubbies. "You can just toss it in any of the niches. One of Buney-boy's servants will come by eventually to take care of it."

Zac looked up with a wide, blinding smile. "I'm totally naked underneath. I never got any demonic undies."

"Well, that's good," Halphas said, unbuttoning his shirt. "I'd imagine they would be quite crusty at this point if you haven't changed in days."

Zac was too distracted to respond. He watched, mesmerizingly, as Halphas began to strip out of his sharp military uniform. The eagle demon’s arms were dense, corded with muscle and dusted with fine feathers that shifted as he moved.

In Zac’s mind, the changing room was suddenly bathed in a soft, pink glow. Time slowed to a crawl. He watched the fabric of the shirt stretch across Halphas's broad back as he pulled it over his head.

Tank top daddy, Zac thought, practically vibrating. Do eagles sweat? I bet that shirt smells so fucking manly it would knock me out.

"Did you say something?" Halphas asked, glancing over as he tossed his shirt into a niche.

Oh shit, did I say that out loud? Zac still couldn't stop himself from staring as Halphas's talons worked the buckle of his heavy leather belt.

"Yeah, you did," Halphas laughed, the sound echoing off the stone. "Hurry up. I'm hoping we can get a bit of time in the palaestra before we get cleaned up."

"I might need some help," Zac murmured, turning around and feigning a desperate reach toward the small of his back. "I can't reach my zipper."

"Your zipper is in front," Halphas said flatly.

"I want to be unzipped," Zac said flatly.

Halphas snorted, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. But only if you join me in the palaestra and play with some balls before we bathe together."

"I would play with your balls anywhere, anytime!" Zac loudly declared, spinning back around.

Halphas nodded, a smirk playing on his beak. "Good to know. I'll be sure to remember that." He snapped his fingers.

Zac waited for the poof of smoke, the magical effect, something. He turned toward the doorway, expecting a spectral valet. Nothing.

But when he turned back, a lesser demon was standing right next to Halphas, snapping a crisp salute. It was a much smaller bird-man, short and scrappy with grey feathers and its neck feathers were oddly reflecting purple and green light, wearing a slightly oversized recruit’s uniform.

"Remember, Private," Halphas said, his voice dropping into a drill instructor growl that made Zac shiver. "If you touch the Avatar's privates, it's a quick and fiery death for you."

"YES SIR!" the smaller bird demon squawked, his chest puffed out.

Zac frowned. He wasn't much of an ornithologist, but whatever this bird demon was, he was much less sexy than a harpy eagle man. He looked a bit too much like an actual bird, twitchy and bobbing his head. And, Zac shuddered, he looked thin, like a... twink.

The little pigeon demon rushed up to Zac, practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Hello sir! Private Cher Ami reporting for duty! I'm here to assist you! What are your orders?!"

Zac sighed, looking down at the bird. "Can you take some bird growth hormones real quick and maybe be a bit taller than me?"

Private Ami looked quite confused, his head bobbing nervously. He glanced back at Halphas for guidance, but the eagle just shrugged, already busy removing his socks.

"Uhm, I'm sorry sir, but I don't think that's something I can do," the lesser demon's voice quavered nervously. "But I can try very hard if that's what pleases you!"

Zac just shook his head. "Nevermind, buddy. I know the feeling. I thought about getting leg-shortening surgery when I was alive so I could be more pocket-sized."

Both birds looked at each other with great concern.

By the time Zac exited the changing room, he was wrapped in a long white towel that Ami had helpfully tied for him. He stood proudly, striking a pose in his makeshift toga. He had hoped to be fully buff around the demons, but he supposed if he wasn't wearing anything, he couldn't take anything off when he inevitably lost at strip-balls or whatever Halphas had planned.

"So how long have you been working for Halphas?" Zac asked the small bird demon, who was now leading him down a steamy corridor.

"Forever!" the private said sharply, saluting the air.

"And you're still a private?" Zac mused. "Do you just suck or something?"

The demon slouched, his feathers drooping. He pointed silently into a massive, sand-filled room. "This is the palaestra, sir."

The palaestra was vast, a sand-filled arena surrounded by colonnades where other demons were practicing swordplay, wrestling, and lifting heavy stones. It smelled of sweat, dust, and raw effort.

Zac frowned. Of fucking course it's the gym.

Halphas spotted him immediately and rushed over, ushering him into the room before Zac could even think about bolting. "Come on, Zac!" the eagle said happily, clapping a massive hand on Zac's shoulder. "You told me you wanted to get whipped into shape!"

Zac winced. He did, indeed, let those vulgar words slip from his mouth during his disastrous two-mile "run". But thinking about how much his legs still hurt, dull, throbbing aches that radiated from his calves to his glutes, he was already starting to have second, third, fourth, and fifth thoughts.

"It's always good to work up a sweat before bathing," Halphas explained, practically bouncing on his toes. "Gets those impurities out of you and it lets the hot water relax the muscles."

"But working out blows so much," Zac whined, trying to dig his heels into the sand.

Halphas leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Andras said you nearly collapsed after only a few minutes of getting railed."

Oh god damn it, Zac thought, his face flushing hot. He just had to go and hit me where it hurts. My pride as a power-bottom.

Zac gave Halphas serious side-eye. Well, at least he's in a toga too, he reasoned, eyeing the way the white fabric draped over the eagle’s muscular frame. Mmmm, maybe I'll get to see up his skirt if playing with our balls gets a bit competitive.

"Fine," Zac finally conceded, crossing his arms. "Show me your balls."

"Oh, we only need one ball," Halphas said cheerfully. He snapped his fingers, and with a puff of smoke, a follis appeared in his hand, a large, inflated leather ball, roughly the size of a basketball but softer. "Since you're so weak and fragile, we can just play a bit of Ourania."

Zac nodded confidently. "It's been a while since I played RuneScape, but I'm pretty good at clicking runes."

Private Ami practically had to drag Zac out of the hellish gym. The game of Ourania had been surprisingly familiar, basically just a variation of Jackpot where one player would hurl the ball into the stratosphere and everyone else scrambled to catch it as it fell back down to earth... or hell. But it had been so long since Zac needed to use any sort of hand-eye coordination that didn't involve a touchscreen that he was left winded, tired, and covered in sand.

Halphas had decided to stay behind and work out a bit more so he could get his own, much more developed muscles properly straining before he bathed, leaving Zac in the apparently capable hands of a lesser officer who had been a private for... ever. It did not give Zac much confidence in the skinny bird's abilities.

"Are you sure you're not the one who should take bird growth hormone?" Ami asked as he half-dragged the human down the corridor toward a new room.

"Fuck you," Zac wheezed.

The lesser demon looked a bit smug, his head bobbing. "No. I'm under strict orders to not do exactly that."

Zac looked over, offended. "Well I'm not into you either, so we don't have to worry about that."

"Good."

"Good!"

"GOOD!" they kept saying back and forth until Zac found himself pushed into a tiled shower room.

Zac tried to shoo away the private so he could wash off his sandy, sweat-drenched body, but found he was denied any privacy from the Private.

"I'm to make sure you're clean," the bird-man said, rolling up his uniform sleeves.

"Fine," Zac sighed, leaning against the wall. "Didn't know you were a voyeur. I'm sure getting to watch a virgin avatar of a demonic President is quite..."

Zac's voice trailed off as he watched the grey bird approaching with a scrubby brush on a long handle and a sudsy mop bucket that smelled like industrial bleach.

"That, uh, looks very bristly," Zac said, backing away.

Private Ami grinned wickedly, his small beak clicking. "As just a lowly private, I'm used to scraping barnacles off of Leviathan-class transports. I'll be sure you're spotless."

Zac swallowed hard. "But I'm a cute little leopard boy. I can't change my spots!"

…

As Zac stepped out of the shower room, he felt clean. Violently, aggressively clean. In fact, he was fairly certain that the top three layers of his epidermis were currently floating in a drain somewhere, leaving him looking less like a human and more like a boiled lobster in a towel. He felt raw, exposed, and medically vulnerable.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about bacteria," Cher Ami cooed mischievously, noticing Zac inspecting his bright red arm. "Bacteria are living things. This is Hell. Nothing lives here that doesn't have permission."

"What about viruses?" Zac asked, wincing as the rough towel rubbed against his sensitized skin. "Is the plague a virus? Or some sort of prion?"

"What is a prion?" the private asked, tilting his head as they walked back down the corridor toward the hot pool room.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Zac sighed, adjusting his toga. "How am I the only one who's up to date on modern information? Are you all stuck in ye olden times? I feel like I'm the only one here who knows what a router is."

He reached out to steady himself against one of the massive black columns lining the hall. The stone was cool and smooth, carved from obsidian fluted with gold in a style that screamed 'Roman Empire but make it Goth.' It was impressive, ancient, and very much not modern.

"Master Halphas is quite hip!" Ami squawked defensively, puffing out his chest. "He finds human warfare quite intriguing! He keeps up with the trends!"

"Yeah, sure," Zac said, wincing as his raw palms touched the cold stone. "Vikings and boomsticks. Very trendy. Next you'll tell me he's into muskets."

"Pshh!" The small bird demon waved a wing-arm dismissively, looking insulted on his master's behalf. "Boomsticks are not nearly as effective as the Earl's Turkish walnut Mark XIX Desert Eagle, .50 Action Express with its custom 10-inch barrel and Weaver-style optical rail! It’s quite the versatile platform that allows for barrel, bolt, and magazine conversion!"

Zac stared at the little bird, who was practically vibrating with ballistics enthusiasm.

"Like I care about his expensive Counter-Strike skins," Zac hissed, leaning down. "I only care about his high-caliber eagle dick."

Cher Ami’s feathers puffed out so hard he looked like a grey dandelion. He opened his beak to sputter some sort of defense of his commander's honor, or perhaps the tactical advantages of the .50 AE round, but his spatial awareness failed him completely.

THUNK.

The private walked face-first, at a brisk pace, directly into the black marble column. He bounced off and landed on his tail feathers, looking dazed.

"Boom, headshot," Zac said flatly.

He stepped over the concussed lesser demon and pushed through the heavy doors, walking back into the steam-filled embrace of the caldarium.

Zac waved away some steam as his eyes looked across the bubbling pool. His breath hitched. Guncles.

There was Andras, arms spread wide along the edge of the hot tub, his head thrown back. The water had flattened his wet feathers, but instead of looking like a pathetic, drowned rat, he looked incredible. He was lean and wiry, tight and coiled like a European soccer player who smoked too much but could still outrun you. He radiated a "musky bad boy" energy that was palpable even through the sulfur. His head feathers, however, were perfectly dry and fluffy, defying all laws of physics and humidity.

However, before Zac could question the owl's hydro-phobic coiffure, his breath hitched again, and he choked on a bit of spit. There was the lion zaddy.

Nock was floating in the center of the pool on an inflatable raft shaped like a majestic white stallion. He was wearing a tiny, gold lamé speedo that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Slices of cucumber covered his eyes, and his mane was wrapped in a protective towel turban. He looked like a pampered king on vacation.

Zac began running.

His toga slipped, tangling around his legs for a second before he kicked it free, leaving it in a heap on the wet tiles.

"NO RUNNING IN THE BATHS!" Ami's panicked coo echoed from the doorway.

Zac didn't care. He reached the edge of the pool and launched himself into the air, knees tucked to his chest.

"CANNONBALL!"

As Zac hit the water, sending a huge splash outward towards the lounging royal demons, a new thought passed through his mind. In these sorts of situations in most media, the person who jumped into the water would immediately launch themselves out in a comedic reverse-dive. But unfortunately, physics in Hell were way too much like Earth.

HOT.

Zac's tender, over-scrubbed skin immediately screamed at him as he sank into the pool. It wasn't just hot; it was literally boiling. He gasped, taking a deep breath of the hot, seasoned stew jacuzzi water, and immediately passed out.

....

"ZACARY NOOO!"

Zac lay on his back by the side of the pool, his eyes closed. His skin felt tight, hot, and incredibly unhappy with him. Did I die again? he thought groggily. Did I get reincarnated as a lobster? His mind was still seizing from the nearly first-degree burns that encompassed more than one hundred percent of his body, since he had the misfortune of breathing in the scalding demonic hot tub water.

"Don't go to the light! It sucks so much up there!"

Zac felt something on his lips. It was scratchy. He felt air being pushed into his lungs, tasting faintly of metallic ice cream and cucumber water. His eyes fluttered open. At least his body had the presence of mind not to open them under the much-too-hot water.

His vision slowly came into focus. Nock was looming over him, performing CPR.

"Oh no," Zac whispered, his voice raspy. "There's something in my airway. You might have to loosen it with your tongue."

His vision grew clearer. Nock looked... strange.

The lion was soaking wet, dripping onto Zac’s chest. The majestic, gravity-defying mane was now a sodden, heavy mess, falling down in sickly, wet clumps. The golden color of his fur seemed to be running, streaking down his chest like cheap hair dye. And his body... the sculpted perfection Zac had admired was marred. His chest and arms were covered in old, jagged scars and patches of bald skin where the fur refused to grow. He looked smaller. Vulnerable. Broken.

Nock locked eyes with Zac.

Oh, hello, Zac thought, his heart doing a strange little flip. Are you really a scrappy white lion who's been fighting to create your own pride?

He brought his hand up to Nock's muzzle. He traced a spot where part of Nock's upper lip was missing, exposing his large fangs to the world in a permanent snarl. Zac couldn't help himself. The lion Adonis aesthetic was great, it truly was ten-out-of-ten perfection, but right now, Nock looked so fucking ferocious. Dangerous. Like a beast who had fought off an entire pack of wildebeest and lived to see another day. Not a picture-perfect statue, but a real beast. A creature who took what it wanted, ate what it wanted, fucked what it wanted, and didn't care who watched or complained.

"I thought you were Mufasa," Zac whispered, tracing a scar that ran down Nock's cheek. "But are you really Scar?"

Nock blinked. "Scar?"

He brought a trembling paw up to his face, feeling the wet, matted fur, the exposed skin, the jagged edges of his own history. His golden eyes went wide with dawning horror.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"Don't look at me!" Nock leaped off Zac as if he'd been scalded. "DONT LOOK AT ME! It's not what you think! It's an optical illusion! A… a… a mirage from the steam! AHHHHHHHHH!"

Nock stumbled backward, his paws slipping on the wet tile, and fell straight back into the boiling hot tub with a massive splash.

Zac sat up, hacking and coughing, and promptly vomited a quart of hot pool water onto the pristine marble floor.

"NO! I JUST SCRUBBED THE DECK!" Private Ami yelled from somewhere in the mist. "FILTHY HUMAN!"

Zac totally ignored the bird demon. He scrambled on his hands and knees to the edge of the pool where Nock was floundering. More and more golden hair dye was seeping into the water, creating a swirling, metallic cloud around the lion. He looked like a true laconic lion demon now, scraggy, scarred, and desperate, clawing at the slick marble edge.

"Avert your eyes, pure Zachary!" Nock wailed, trying to shuffle down the edge of the pool to escape Zac's wide-eyed stare. "This... this is just a dream!"

"Sir Nock!" Zac yelled. He threw his hands on top of Nock's massive, wet paws, pinning them to the edge.

"Avatar, don't help me!" Nock cried, trying to pull away.

Zac gripped the paws even harder, looking down at the panicked lion with intense determination. "LONG LIVE THE KING!"

"NOOOOOOOO!" Nock cried as the human heaved backward, pulling the sodden, dye-streaked lion out of the pool and onto the deck.

Nock lay dripping in his speedo on the tiled floor next to Zac, whimpering and trying to cover himself with his large, scarred paws. "You weren't supposed to see me like this," he sniffled. "This... this isn't me."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU SEXY BEAST!"

Zac's yell echoed around the caldarium like a gunshot.

Nock sniffled again, looking up with wide, teary eyes. "You don't need to lie to me to make me feel better. I'm hideous. I'm... a monster."

"FUCK YEAH YOU'RE A MONSTER! A FUCKING HOT ONE!"

Nock looked down and away, his ears flattening. "Of course you think I'm ugly. I am just a disgusting demon, not worthy of such a radiant and pure vessel such as you."

"I SAID SHUT UP AND SHOW ME THAT LION DICK!"

"I'll leave," Nock bubbled, beginning to slink away toward the changing room on all fours. "You don't have to ask me twice. I will give up my spot in the dream rotation. A dirty plague-haver such as myself should have never held out hope for-"

Zac tackled him.

"Is all the blond hair dye frying your brain?!" Zac screamed, grabbing the lion by his scruffy, ill-kempt mane. He tried to shake the much stronger demon, but only ended up with a few handfuls of wet, dyed fur. "I already said you could plague the shit out of me! Poz me up, you dumbass! This dirty, devil-may-care, carnivore bad boy look is making me so fucking wet!"

Nock looked at Zac, blinking slowly. "I am sorry for dripping my revolting wetness on you."

"AHHHHHHH!" Zac screamed directly in Nock's face. "Get your fucking condom on right now! How dare you hold out on me like this?! Scary slam me until I'm preggo!"

Nock tilted his head, confusion warring with hope in his golden eyes. "Oh. Uhm."

"Fuck me fuck me fuck me," Zac chanted, practically vibrating. "You're scary hot. Holy shit, I didn't even realize that was missing from the demon harem."

"I uh, um, wait." Nock blinked. "Really?"

"Does it look like I'm joking?" Zac demanded, looking down at his naked self.

Nock looked down. And blushed. Hard. Zac was, indeed, not lying.

"Oh Zachary, my pure lamb," Nock sobbed, pulling the avatar into a bone-crushing hug. "You really are sent from above, aren't you?"

"Only one floor above, not two!" Zac wheezed, his ribs groaning under the pressure.

Nock gently let Zac go, patting him on the head with a massive paw. "Of course. Above as in Earth. Heaven could never create someone as perfect as you are, Avatar."

Zac tried to catch his breath and assess the structural integrity of his ribcage at the same time. "So does that mean you'll get your rubber so we can bang before I go to the demon pharmacy to get a prescription for plague prophylaxis?"

Nock looked down again, his expression tragic. "That may have worked in the dream, but... if I entered your fragile body, my demonic magic would not be held by a mere latex or sheepskin."

"Then put two on!" Zac cried, desperate. "Stop making excuses! I'm literally going to die of blue balls!"

"Don't you dare die on me!" Nock said dramatically. The zombie-ish, dye-streaked lion man swept Zac up in his arms, holding him tight against his scarred and battle-torn chest. "I will find something! Something that can contain this demonic curse! A barrier so pure and strong that even my copious and virile and viral seed poses no harm to you!"

Zac hugged Nock's neck, nuzzling into the wet fur. "You had me at copious."

A squawk of confusion echoed from the other end of the pool.

"What the fuck is going on with them?" Halphas asked as he emerged wearing his towel toga, staring at the scene with wide eyes.

"Don't know," Andras replied, floating on his back in the water, his head still dry as a bone. "Don't care."

Halphas shrugged and shouted, “no defiling the Avatar!”

Neither Zac nor Nock heard the eagles shout, they were lost in their own discussions on what might be a good candidate for the most powerful rubber ever conceived.

“SAY… AHHHHHHH!”

Zac blinked as a gob of necrotic spit and a loose, yellowed tooth launched from the doctor's mouth and landed squarely on his cheek.

“Ahhh,” Zac said flatly, wiping the debris away with the back of his hand. His tongue felt like a piece of dry leather that had been left in the sun for a week.

He was sitting on a cold, unforgiving leather inspection bed that smelled of antiseptic and fear. He was wearing a paper hospital gown that was somehow more humiliating than the leopard onesie, mostly because it tore every time he breathed and offered zero protection against the drafty room.

The keep’s medical bay was less a place of healing and more a place where injuries were bullied into submission. True to Marchosias’s aesthetic, there were no comforting pastels or motivational posters. The walls were lined with racks of surgical instruments that looked suspiciously like interrogation tools, bone saws arranged by size, forceps that looked like crab claws, and jars of leeches that were organized by hunger level. The lighting was harsh and clinical, provided by glowing white crystals that hummed with a headache-inducing frequency. It was a room designed for field repairs on soldiers who didn't have time to bleed, not for treating a boiled human.

The doctor looming over him was a testament to the dangers of DIY biology. He was seven feet tall, green-skinned, and held together by thick, black stitching that looked like it had been done by a blind tailor using fishing line. Two massive bolts protruded from his neck, sparking occasionally. Zac knew that Frankenstein was the name of the doctor and this was the monster, but apparently, his demon roommates hadn't actually read the book.

“THE TONGUE IS BOILED,” the monster-doctor shouted, his volume stuck at an eleven. “LIKE A LOBSTER.”

Bune stood behind Zac, hovering like a nervous, two-headed helicopter parent. The dragon butler was furiously scribbling notes on a clipboard, muttering a duet of dissatisfaction.

“I cannot leave him alone for five minutes,” the Left Head grumbled, adjusting its spectacles. “Not five minutes! I turn my back to fetch a dictionary, and suddenly he is being boiled alive in the caldarium.”

“They should know better!” the Right Head hissed, wringing its hands. “The volcanic hot springs are far too intense for a human’s delicate epidermis! The tepidarium would have been more than sufficient! Just a gentle steam! A light scrubbing!”

The Left Head paused, leaning in to inspect the back of Zac’s neck. “Though I must admit, Halphas did an excellent job with the exfoliation. You are glowing, Zachary. Literally. That red hue is quite vibrant.”

“WE MUST AMPUTATE,” the Zombie Doctor bellowed, producing a rusty pair of shears from a pocket in his bloodstained lab coat. “THE TONGUE IS COMPROMISED. WE CUT IT OUT.”

“No!” Zac squeaked, recoiling on the leather table and clutching his paper gown. “I need that! For... for French things!”

Bune’s heads stopped arguing and looked at Zac in confusion.

“French things?” the Right Head asked. “I thought you hated crepes? You called them thin, French disappointment.”

“I’m not talking about crepes!” Zac yelled, his voice raspy and painful. “I need my tongue! How else am I supposed to lie to people? Or talk dirty? Or swallow?”

He locked eyes with Bune, giving the dragon a meaningful look. “Imagine if you had your tongues cut off, you'd only be able to do liquid vore!”

Bune’s cheeks flushed violet.

“He makes a valid point,” the Left Head conceded. “The contract specifies he is a liar. Removing the tongue would breach the terms of service.”

“IT WILL ONLY TAKE A SECOND,” the doctor roared, revving up a gas-powered hacksaw he had pulled from absolutely nowhere. “HOLD STILL, LITTLE MAN.”

Zac scrambled backward, pressing himself against the cold metal cabinets. “Bune! Help! Malpractice suit! Call a lawyer!”

Bune sighed, a sound of profound weariness.

“Really,” the Left Head huffed. “Good help is so hard to find.”

The dragon butler opened his mouth and exhaled a short, controlled burst of violet fire. The flames washed over the zombie doctor. There was no scream, just a sudden whoosh as the reanimated flesh instantly turned to ash. The hacksaw clattered to the floor, spinning harmlessly, while a pile of dust and two metal neck-bolts settled onto the tiles.

“I thought he was a medical professional,” the Left Head sniffed, dusting ash from his lapel.

Bune waved all four of his hands, and the pile of ash was swept away by a sudden spectral wind. “Would you like a second opinion?” the Right Head asked helpfully. “I have many connections in the medical field.”

Bune raised his hands, and the stone floor around the examination table began to crack.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Dozens of gray, decaying hands burst from the ground, they were all holding up pieces of parchment.

“Look!” the Right Head pointed. “Board certified! This one has a doctorate in leech bloodletting! That one is a master of Trepanation!”

Zac looked at the forest of zombie hands waving diplomas at him. He didn't scream. He didn't cower.

He jumped off the table.

“Nope! Nope! No!” Zac shouted, stomping on the hands. He crushed fingers and crinkled diplomas with his bare feet. “I am not getting treated by the Addams Family reject pile!”

He stomped the last hand, which was holding a certificate for ‘Experimental Lobotomies,’ back into the earth.

“I’m fine!” Zac panted, standing in the middle of the room, his paper gown fluttering open in the back. “My tongue is healing! It barely hurts! I just need some aloe! I need lotion! My skin feels like it’s two sizes too small!”

Bune crossed all four of his arms over his chest, looking down at the mostly-naked human with a stern expression.

“We all know what you would do with lotion, Zachary,” the Left Head scolded.

“And it is not good for your eyesight,” the Right Head added solemnly. “You need your vision for spying. We cannot have you going blind from self-abuse.”

“THAT’S JUST A MYTH!” Zac yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “I’ve been doing it since I was twelve and I have 20/20 vision! It helps with stress! It’s self-care! Give me the moisturizer, Bune!”

The heavy iron doors of the medbay didn't just open; they exploded inward under an assault of fur and fury.

Zac looked over, expecting another zombie doctor or perhaps a concerned ghost nurse. Instead, he saw Marchosias and Skarg, both wedged tightly in the doorframe, trying to shoulder-check each other out of the way.

“I'll rip off those morons' eyelids!” Marchosias barked, his voice cracking with rage. “How are they literally more stupid than the animals they look like?!”

“I told you I should have been there!” Skarg bellowed, shoving his massive shoulder against the Captain’s. “I’m the only one who actually knows how humans function! Did you really think some birds or a fucking feline have any idea how weak and pathetic they are?!”

The stone doorframe groaned, cracked, and then gave up the ghost. Masonry crumbled, and the two raging behemoths stumbled into the room, showering the floor with dust.

Yes, yes, yes, Zac thought, his pain momentarily forgotten as he watched the two alphas storm toward him. They are totally in sync when I'm in trouble. It’s so hard to be so fucking loved.

Marchosias and Skarg continued their shoving match all the way across the room, neither willing to let the other reach Zac first.

“Tell me who I’m flaying!” Marchosias howled, his amber eyes wild.

“It was Andras, wasn't it?!” Skarg yelled, his breath frosting in the air. “And Nock! And Halphas! I'll make those three regret falling from grace!”

Zac smiled, his mind wandering far away from the sterile medical bay.

Cue the busines...

The scene shifted. Zac was being led to a fiery stake in the center of a massive wooden amphitheater. The citizens of the kingdom watched in silent weeping as he walked with his head held high.

"I loved you!" Marchosias called from the royal box. He was dressed in gleaming armor, a crown resting on his furry brow, looking every inch the tragic King Arthur.

"But you chose to betray me!"

"I still love you, Wolf Daddy!" Zac yelled up at the kingly wolf. "But when Sir Skarg saved me from the evil angel Malagant, I fell for him too! His lance is just... a lot!"

"You broke my heart!" March shouted, clutching his chest.

Zac put his hands on his hips. "I know I'm your first boy toy since you turned into the Demon King, but come on! Why can't we just have a threesome and high five?"

Suddenly, Skarg burst into the execution grounds, clad in dark, shining armor, his antlers surrounded by a magnificent helm. He was Lancelot, but bigger, hairier, and infinitely more chaotic.

"King Marchosias!" Skarg bellowed, drawing his sword. "The now-not-so-virgin is right! I still wish to serve you as your trusted Knight, but I also can't resist that human bussy!"

"You betrayed me!" March would yell.

"Oh shut up and come down here! Love triangles are completely natural!" Zac said defiantly. "Just because Skarg made me orgasm without my hands before you did doesn't mean I don't want you to knot me!"

March blushed furiously. "But... the purity mission... I mean kingdom!"

"Come now, brave King March," Skarg said, sheathing his sword. "I'll let you have the first round. As your strongest knight, I don't mind sloppy seconds."

Zac was yanked from his Arthurian daydream by Bune pulling him quickly off the exam table.

Just in time. Marchosias and Skarg collided, falling onto the leather table and wrestling for dominance.

“Why are you even here?!” Marchosias growled, pinning Skarg’s arm. “I told you you're on probation!”

“We're all on probation!” Skarg yelled back, trying to buck the Captain off. “You don't let us bring booze into your halfway-house keep!”

“THAT’S PROHIBITION, YOU IDIOT!” Marchosias howled.

He opened his mouth and unleashed a blast of silver fire. It missed Skarg by inches, instantly atomically deconstructing the top half of the exam table. Where the wendigo's head had been a second ago, there was now only floating dust.

Skarg roared and tackled Marchosias. They fell off the ruined table and hit the floor hard, rolling around in a ferocious tangle of fur, claws, and armor. It was very violent, very loud, and involved a concerning amount of property damage.

“STOP IT!” Bune shrieked, waving all four arms. “You're ruining the autoclave! That cost a fortune!”

Zac looked up at the dragon butler, completely unfazed by the brawl happening two feet away.

“Hey Bune,” Zac said casually. “You wanna go get some dinner? I'm hungry.”

Bune’s heads snapped down to look at him.

“But of course, Avatar!” the Left Head said, immediately brightening. “If you were hungry, you just needed to tell me!”

“I don't want you getting hurt,” the Right Head cooed, ushering Zac toward the door. “Come along now. We can leave the children to their play.”

Zac followed Bune out of the medical room, stepping over a stray bone saw. Behind them, Marchosias and Skarg were still fighting, the room flashing with bursts of silver fire and jagged ice, the sounds of their battle echoing down the corridor.

As Zac and Bune walked down the hallway, the sounds of atomic deconstruction fading behind them, Bune raised a hand and snapped his fingers. A spectral maid drifted out of the solid stone wall, curtsied low, and presented a neatly folded pile of leopard-print fleece.

Bune took it gently with one pair of hands and passed it to Zac with another. "Here you are, Avatar. We cannot have you running around in paper scraps."

Zac took the bundle, feeling a wash of complicated emotions. He was a bit upset with himself that he was actually happy to get his clown outfit back. It was ridiculous, it was infantilizing, and it had a tail that got caught in doors. But on the other hand, it was warm, it was soft, and if the reactions of the demons were anything to go by, it was apparently a 'sexy clown' outfit.

"Thanks, Bune," Zac said.

"What are you doing?" Bune sputtered, his Left Head looking scandalized as Zac immediately stopped walking. "Please, Avatar, this is the hallway!"

Zac ignored him. He gripped the collar of his tattered paper gown and ripped it away from his body like Hulk Hogan at Wrestlemania.

"Come on, Bune," Zac said, hopping around on one leg as he tried to jam his foot into the fleece leg-hole without falling over. "This can't be the first time someone has gotten changed in the hallway. Even if March is a vincel, there must have been plenty of times back in his frat wolf days that he was kicking one-night stands out of his room."

"Philadelphia is not a fraternity, per se," Bune said, looking a bit confused as he politely held up a hand to shield his Right Head's eyes while the Left Head watched to make sure Zac didn't fall. "And wolves are not nocturnal, contrary to common misconception. They are crepuscular."

Zac winced as he zipped up the front of the onesie. His skin, still tender from the aggressive scrubbing and the near-boiling, felt a bit sticky against the fleece lining. "March is totally not crepe-anything," Zac grumbled, pulling the hood up over his head. The sewn-on cat ears flopped over his eyes for a second before he brushed them back. "Crepes suck. Thin, French lies. March is hot as fuck. And it's always sunny in Philadelphia, so maybe he kicked out one-day stands."

"Crepuscular means that wolves are active during twilight," Bune corrected, his Left Head settling into lecture mode while the Right Head peeked through its fingers to see if Zac was decent. "It refers to the periods of dawn and dusk when-"

"Ugh, Twilight was so lame," Zac groaned, interrupting the biology lesson. He smoothed down his fleece flanks. "No one got knotted, and the werewolf fell in love with a fetus. How the fuck did I get gaslit into being Team Jacob for three years? It was a dark time."

"That sounds... wait, what?" Bune stopped walking, both heads tilting in genuine confusion as they tried to parse the concept of falling in love with a fetus.

Zac sighed, a long, dramatic exhalation. He leaned against the wall, looked deep into Bune’s eyes, and channeled his inner melodramatic teen.

"About three things I am absolutely positive," Zac recited, his voice trembling with emotion. "One, that Marchosias is a stacked wolf demon. Two, that there was a part of him, and I don't know how dominant that part might be, that thirsts for my body. And three, I am unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him."

There was a long silence in the hallway.

"Are you having a seizure?" Bune asked, genuinely concerned. "Should we go back to the medical bay?"

"No," Zac lamented, pushing off the wall. "I'm just hungry. For March... and for food."

Bune nodded slowly, looking relieved that the Avatar wasn't having another medical event. "Well, we have more of your waffle food."

The dragon butler walked up to a completely random door (one that looked like it should lead to a linen closet) and pushed it open. Instead of shelves of towels, the vast, candlelit expanse of the dining room was revealed.

"I'm getting a bit tired of waffles," Zac sighed as he walked into the hellish dining room and took his usual seat.

Bune looked delighted. "Of course you are! Or you must be!" The Right Head added eagerly, "We have a wonderful selection! Everything a growing Avatar needs. What does your little singular heart desire?"

Zac leaned back in his chair, staring up at the vaulted ceiling where he hoped another cool fight scene might happen later. "I don't really care. Just bring me whatever."

Bune clapped all four of his hands together. "There is a soul soufflé that is setting now! It will be ready in only minutes!"

"Pass," Zac said without looking over at the butler. "Too French."

Bune nodded understandingly. "But of course. What about a nice Bicorn flank? It is very high in protein and evil."

"Pass. I'm not Mongolian."

"Perhaps some of last week's jellied josser? It went over very well with-"

"Pass. Something about jello always made me nauseous. Too jiggly."

For the next five minutes, Bune attempted to offer nearly every dish the infernal kitchen could commission, from abyssal clam chowder ("Too damp") to roasted hell-boar ("Too piggy"). Each suggestion was met with a flat refusal.

"So you do care what you eat," Bune finally said, sounding a bit frazzled after hearing his entire culinary repertoire belittled by a man wearing footie pajamas.

"I don't," Zac turned his head to look at the dragon. "You just don't have anything good."

Bune sighed, a twin stream of exasperated smoke. "What is good then?"

"Oh, you know," Zac said, waving his hand vaguely in the air. "Good stuff. But if you don't know, it makes me think you're not a very good cook."

"I don't cook," the dragon replied, straightening his cravat. "The help I summon does that for us."

Zac settled for waffles. Again.

After dinner, Bune declared it was time for "remedial equestrianism," and before Zac knew it, they were back in the subterranean cathedral of the stables. The air was thick with the smell of musk and damp earth, a stark contrast to the sterile medical bay.

In the center of the aisle, Bune was busy tightening the girth strap on Leonardo, the Pygmy Aspidochelone. The massive snapping turtle looked less like a steed and more like a geologic formation with an attitude problem. He was currently occupied with munching on something that looked suspiciously like a bloody, severerd arm clad in a tatters of a paladin's gauntlet. Crunch, crunch, crunch, went the beak, grinding bone and steel alike with terrifying ease. Leonardo ignored his soon-to-be rider completely, his ancient, hateful eyes fixed on the middle distance as he chewed.

Zac looked at the saddle Bune had procured. It was a custom job, clearly modified from something meant for a much wider beast. But what killed Zac's mild enthusiasm wasn't the saddle itself... it was the straps.

"Is that..." Zac pointed a trembling finger. "Is that a five-point harness?"

"The Captain insisted," Bune said, clicking a heavy iron buckle into place. "It is a safety restraint. We cannot have you falling off."

"It's a seatbelt," Zac groaned. "I'm riding a rock with a seatbelt."

He sighed, resigning himself to his fate, and turned his attention to the beast. He leaned over, hands on his knees, his face dangerously close to the turtle's jagged beak.

"Who's a good mutant demon turtle?" Zac cooed, his voice pitching up into that sickeningly sweet tone usually reserved for kittens or particularly fluffy puppies. "You are! Yes, you are! You're a little snapper, aren't you?"

He reached out a hand to pat the turtle's rocky head.

SNAP.

The sound was like a gunshot. Leonardo’s neck extended with blinding speed, his beak clamping shut on the empty air where Zac’s fingers had been a millisecond before. The wind of the snap ruffled the fleece on Zac’s sleeve.

"AH!" Bune shrieked.

The dragon butler yanked Zac backward by the hood of his onesie, hauling him out of the danger zone just as Leonardo hissed and snapped again. Bune didn't hesitate; he lifted Zac bodily and plunked him into the saddle, immediately beginning to click the buckles of the harness shut.

"You must be careful, Zachary!" Bune scolded, his hands flying as he secured the human. "The Aspidochelone's primary diet is sailors! They lure ships close by pretending to be islands and then drag the unsuspecting crew to a watery grave!"

Zac blinked, adjusting the straps that were now crossing his chest. "Do I look like a seaman?" he questioned innocently.

Bune paused, his two heads looking Zac up and down critically. "Well," the Right Head mused, "you certainly don't smell like one now that you've been bathed and your uniform has been cleaned. But sailors are usually quite... human. Crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside."

Zac shook his head, struggling against the restraints to lean forward once more. He thrust his hand right back into the dangerous snapping zone near the turtle's head to give it a scratch behind the jaw.

"Ignore him, Leonardo," Zac whispered to the beast, who was now eyeing his hand with renewed hunger. "Something tells me all of the demons here are dying to eat virgin human semen."

Leonardo stretched his neck backward, his jaws snapping shut inches from Zac’s wrist.

"Bad turtle!" Bune scolded, rapping the beast lightly on the shell with a knuckle. "No maiming the Avatar!"

"See?" Zac said with a grin, winking at the frustrated reptile. "No denial. He’s just jealous you might get the first taste."

After Bune spent another ten minutes lecturing Zac on proper posture, "Back straight! Engage your core! Stop wiggling," he handed Zac a riding crop. It was a wicked-looking thing, made of black leather wrapped around a flexible spine of bone.

"Oh, kinky," was all Zac had to say as he inspected the tool, giving it an experimental swish through the air.

"Not kinky," Bune corrected sharply. "It is how you will direct your mount on how to move and when to stop. This mount will not be able to feel your heels since its shell is so thick and indestructible. It responds to percussive cues."

Zac nodded in understanding, his eyes lighting up. "So if I moan he goes right and if I yelp he goes left?"

Bune frowned, both heads looking deeply unamused. "No."

Once everything was settled and Zac came to terms with the fact that he would need to give his new mount light smacks on his right and left legs to turn, and a smack on the top of the ancient turtle's noggin to start and stop, the rest of the riding lesson seemed to fly by.

But not literally.

Leonardo was quite slow. After half an hour of diligent crop-tapping and Zac shouting "Mush! Mush you geological formation!", they had completed exactly one circle around the stall. It was like riding a tectonic plate.

After riding lessons, Zac gave his new turtle buddy a few too many treats. He felt a bit gross about reaching into the bloody bucket (what even was that squishy grey thing? A pancreas? A spleen?) but the way the ancient, murderous turtle actually seemed to acknowledge his existence when bribed with snacks was worth the slime. He tossed one last glistening organ into Leonardo’s waiting maw.

"You're a very good boy," Zac cooed, wiping his hands on his leopard-print flanks.

Back in the hallways of the keep, as Bune led Zac to his small room for the night, Zac couldn't help but ask if Bune knew whose turn it was in the dream rotation.

"I am not sure," the dragon said, both heads looking slightly preoccupied. "All I can say is it is not me. After the incident in the baths, I need to make sure the caldarium is drained and scrubbed down."

Zac followed the tall, two-headed demon, frowning. "I was only in there for like, a few seconds before Nock rescued me. And I heard that there are no bacteria in Hell since they are technically alive or something. I wasn't that dirty."

"It is not because of you, little Zachary," Bune said as he began ascending a seemingly random staircase that definitely hadn't been there yesterday. "Nock's little hero stunt has dirtied the water. It is no longer clean."

The Right Head looked back at Zac, a look of profound fastidiousness on its face. "All of the fur dye has turned the water blond. Could you imagine the Captain being stained gold after his evening bath? It would be a disaster."

Zac nodded, his mind immediately conjuring images of a Californian Marchosias with big aviator sunglasses, looking sun-kissed and relaxed. "Beach bum March would totally be a surfer," Zac murmured dreamily. "Catching waves and breaking hearts."

Bune snorted, a twin puff of amused smoke. "You have such a wonderful imagination. As if anyone could envision the Captain wasting time with such trivialities."

Zac sped up to walk next to Bune as they made it to the second (or twenty-second… the layout of the keep made absolutely no sense) floor. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull daddy," he teased, nudging the dragon's arm.

"It has nothing to do with being dull," the Right Head said.

The Left Head nodded in agreement. "You do not seem to understand that idle hands are the Devil's, uhm, playthings."

"But you are all literal devils," Zac retorted.

"But we do not need to act as such," Bune said, his voice unusually somber. "After an eternity of fornicating and feasting..."

"...of manipulating minds and molesting mankind," the Right Head said.

"...of being seduced by our base instincts," the Left Head whispered.

The Right Head looked at the Left Head pityingly. "Having a clear head, and tangible goals and relationships, is quite appealing."

"Yeah fucking right," Zac yawned, unconvinced. "As if fucking and frolicking could ever get boring. Stop trying to gaslight me. First it was no waffles, then it was waffles, then it was you're fighting a gold addiction, and now you're getting high on my virgin aura."

"That's not-" Bune’s two heads tried to say.

"It's fine," Zac cut the butler off, waving a hand. "Just call it a tolerance break or whatever, but don't treat me like a child. Everyone loves to party."

"No, this isn't a-" Bune tried to interject again.

"I know you really want me to grind against your claspers as you semi-vore me, and I'm cool with it," Zac said, stepping into his room. "I get how life… or uh, death, gets in the way of things. Responsibilities, reality. I really do."

Bune stood outside of Zac's room, his frame vibrating. His scales were rippling, and his neck muscles were bulging ominously.

"You are mistaken, Avatar," the Left Head said, his voice tight. "The warband... we..."

"The Captain has been trying to help us," the Right Head whimpered. "When I was in the throes of my gold fever, I could not control my desires. I was dangerous."

"Well whatever," Zac said, shrugging. "Maybe it's good for you, but don't speak for the others. They definitely all want to get this human semen, and me being a virgin isn't helping them control themselves."

"That's the point!" Bune pleaded. "If you cannot control yourself, are you even an individual? Or-"

"Are you just your weakness?" the Right Head finished.

"Well my weakness is my blue balls!" Zac yelled. "I'm not a therapy device! I've got needs too!"

With a wet, tearing sound, Bune’s middle head erupted from his shoulder just as Zac slammed the door shut.

"I HUNGER! GIVE ME YOUR SEED!" the new head roared, spit flying and making a soft sizzling noise where it hit.

Through the crack before the latch clicked, Zac saw Bune's Left and Right heads’ eyes go wide with mortification.

Zac rolled his eyes, leaning back against the door. "That middle head is the only honest one," he muttered to the empty room. "If only the other two could be honest with what they wanted."

Zac slumped down against the door, his leopard-print tail pooling around him. Fucking demons. Fucking Hell. Fucking Truck-kun killing people and sending them to weird other worlds. This wasn't what the stories said eternal damnation was.

His mind conjured the classic images: rivers of boiling blood where the greedy were stewed like cheap beef; forests of razor-sharp knives where the violent were shredded; raining fire that burned the skin from the bones of the treacherous; barren, icy glaciers where the cold bit deeper than regret. They all seemed so awful, so visceral, so painful… And Zac was truly grateful that he did not have to experience that sort of physical torture. But…

Zac looked around his little room. The stone walls, the narrow bed, the single window looking out onto... nothing. What he got was just a continuation of the torture of his mortal life. A tiny room that cost him every hour of labor he could muster. A total lack of agency, where his days were dictated by other people's plans and neuroses. Seeing exactly what he wanted but being told he couldn't reach out and grab it. Being surrounded by hypocrites who denied that getting spit-roasted by a knight in shining armor and a nudist brute would be peak as fuck.

He sighed as he stood up and let out a deep, rattling breath. He had dealt with this pain for years. The constant, gnawing hunger for something more, something real. And as shitty as it was, he never gave up on the hope that one day it might change. That there would be someone out there who could understand his point of view. Always looking through a window at the things he couldn't have, pressing his nose against the glass until it hurt.

"It is easy for the demons to want to cut back on their gluttony," he whispered to the empty air, pacing aimlessly around the small room. "But here I've been starving for something and I've never even gotten to taste it."

He kicked at the stone floor. "They've all tried everything that they've wanted to. So being able to choose to not do it just means that they've realized they don't want it anymore. I feel bad that Bune was addicted to gold or whatever, but if he wants to be sober from precious metals then at least he is able to do what he wishes. He had his fill. He got to dive into the coin pit like Scrooge McDuck. And now he’s able to make the choice, to decide what he really wants."

Zac stopped, staring at his reflection in the dark red window. A scrawny human in a leopard onesie, looking tired and frustrated.

"How is that even nearly as bad as me wanting my V-card torn to shreds but not having anyone help me out with that?" he asked his reflection. "It's like... everyone’s gone skydiving so much that they’re numb to it and they are telling me that it is fine if I don't do it because it's boring. I want to make that decision for myself after I try it."

Something caught Zac's eye during his self-loathing virginity lament. Gleaming softly in the dim red light on the bureau was the bottle of Celestial Silk conditioner.

"Thought this got left in the shower," Zac muttered, reaching out and picking it up. "Bune had to have known this wasn't mine. Guess he expects me to return it to Nock myself."

He turned the bottle over. The rear label was written in elegant, flowing script: Restores luster and volume to even the most battle-weary manes. Stimulates regrowth in patchy and dead follicles. Effective on all coats, from the most stubborn hide to decaying zombie flesh. Medical Grade. Spiritual Grade. Miracle Grade. Keep out of the reach of non-mammals.

Zac sat on the edge of his demonically comfortable cot, rolling the bottle from hand to hand. For decaying zombies. He thought back to how Nock looked when he had been soaked in the hot tub, the matted fur falling out, the golden hue turning into a sickly grey and white. He had been too worked up at the time, too consumed by the ferocious aesthetic, to really think about what it meant. The hyper-vain lion was completely covering himself in concealer every day.

The memory of Nock trying to slink away on all fours, broken and ashamed, flashed through his mind. Zac frowned. Was Bune not bullshitting him? Was the warband not a found family, but one big therapy session with an overworked single wolf dad trying to keep everyone on the straight and narrow?

"Well, fuck that," he snarled to the empty room. "It's not my problem. All they want from me is to use me as some stealth plane to recon their enemies." He raised the bottle, his arm tensed to throw it against the wall. "Why the fuck should I care? Demons are the bad guys, right? I don't have to do what they say."

The image of Andras, snarling and protective, his cutlass at Gremory's throat after she had choked him.

The memory of Skarg, triumphant and proud, bringing him out for a lunch date, even if it ended in a massacre.

The sight of Halphas, a cocky grin on his face, conjuring him waffles and coffee just because he asked.

Nock's performing CPR after he had pulled Zac from the boiling pool.

And finally, Marchosias, his celestial angel wings burning holes into his own shoulders as he held a sobbing Bune in a desperate, comforting embrace.

Zac’s arm went limp. He sighed, a long, rattling breath that seemed to carry all the frustration and loneliness out with it. He placed the bottle gently on his bedside table.

"At least the nightly entertainment is better than scrolling through gifs on monsterfucker.com," he muttered.

He let out a final, frustrated huff and lay back on the bed. He was asleep the instant his head hit the pillow.

…

Zac blinked, squinting against an impossibly bright sun. It was a harsh, white-gold light, a stark contrast to the eternal crimson twilight of the Pit. He was on his back, the dry, gritty earth digging into him. Above him, a wall of sun-bleached stone rose to an impossible height, its parapets touching the brilliant blue sky. Banners, emblazoned with unfamiliar symbols, snapped in a hot, dusty wind.

He looked down at himself. He was clad in armor of gleaming bronze, intricately worked with scenes of roaring lions and snarling boars. A heavy round shield lay beside him, its face a swirling cosmos of silver and gold stars. The leather greaves on his legs were supple, and the plumed helmet that had rolled a few feet away was impossibly ornate. He was holding a heavy bronze sword, its hilt cool against his palm. He wondered why he had just fallen from the battlements.

"God has forsaken you," a deep, beautiful voice boomed. "Trying to scale the walls, and then this sneak attack? It is exactly what a heathen would do."

A war chariot, its wheels kicking up a plume of ochre dust, thundered to a halt nearby. A man dismounted, and Zac's breath hitched. He was a vision of sculpted, sun-bronzed muscle and dark, flowing hair, and his body was glistening. He was beautiful, a perfect specimen of classical masculinity, and he held a long spear with terrifying grace.

"Oh, uh, hey," Zac said, his voice cracking. "Oiled up and hairy. I like your style."

The man spat on the ground in disgust. "I've heard of you, Patroclus. Look at how the gods have cast you down from the walls so that I may finish you off."

"Wait, that's not my name," Zac squeaked as the man raised his spear, its bronze tip glinting in the sun, ready to deliver a death blow right into Zac's gut.

"HECTOR YOU BITCH! HANDS OFF MY MAN!"

A deep, raspy voice ripped through the air from above. An explosion of dirt and stone erupted next to Zac as a figure slammed into the ground with the force of a meteor, forcing the attacking Hector to stumble back.

"Wait, Achilles, you were supposed to be abstaining from the fight!" the spear-wielding man sputtered.

Zac’s heart fluttered. His savior was wearing nothing but a very revealing white towel wrapped low around his waist… a perizoma… and the simple fabric was straining heroically against a physique carved from divine marble. It was Halphas. As Achilles.

Halphas, although he didn't look that much different since he was already a muscle-bound stud, was looking, ironically enough, a bit blond. His dark feathers had taken on a sun-bleached, golden hue. The big spear and round shield the eagle demon was wielding were also a new sight, much different than the pistols and crossbow he normally used. I guess those muscles are big for a reason other than just making my blood pressure spike, Zac thought. I bet his shaft handling is top notch.

"Did you not see how he was smote by the gods?!" Hector yelled, raising his spear.

"And now the gods will have to watch as I kick your ass, you scrawny Trojan," Halphas replied.

Zac wanted to ask what was happening, but once he realized it was a dream, and once he heard the word "Trojan" and the bad guy call Halphas "Achilles," he put two and two together pretty quickly. Of course the nerdy vending machine eagle brought him to a historical battle. It was totally on brand for the Earl of Violence. What Zac didn't expect was a reimagining of one of history's most tragic gay love stories… and being cast as the twinkish lover of one of the most badass warriors in mythology.

Zac had not just been a fan of Twilight in his younger years; the Greek myths had also caught his attention. Zeus turning into a bull and fucking someone, Zeus turning into a swan and fucking someone, Zeus turning into an ant and fucking someone... the ant thing was a bit odd, but Zac wasn't judging. He just wished Zeus wasn't a weird therian and took the form of anthro animals. But the classics are the classics.

Zac had begun to realize that the Trojan War probably played out a bit differently from what he had read since, as he now knew, God from the Abrahamic canon was a bit more real than the gods of Greek myth.

The CLANG of metal on metal pulled Zac from his memories of famous historical fiction. He looked over at the brutal fight happening only yards away.

The spear fight between Halphas (Achilles) and Hector was a whirlwind of bronze and dust. Both of the extremely buff and well-fed men were really going at it, circling each other, dodging and weaving, their spears nearly audible with how fast they pistoned out towards each other.

However, it seemed like Halphas had the upper hand, both figuratively and literally. Where Hector held his own spear underhanded, basically tucked between his bicep and torso, Halphas had an overhanded grip on his own, using his height as an advantage to rain down blows directly onto the Trojan prince.

Halphas suddenly parried a thrust with his shield, the bronze ringing like a bell. Instead of following up with his spear, he threw what could only be called a punch with the massive shield itself. The heavy, reinforced rim connected squarely with Hector's chest.

Zac winced. He could hear bones cracking from ten feet away as he watched Hector crumple over, the air driven from his lungs in a pained gasp. Zac then winced again as Halphas delivered one final, brutal blow into the wheezing man, who had brought his own shield down to grasp at his shattered ribs. The eagle's spearhead punched clean through Hector's bronze armor with a sickening shunk.

"Die! Die!" the eagle shouted as he stabbed the now very dead man a few more times. "For my part, I will accept my fate whensoever God sees fit to send it!" he yelled as he yanked the spear back with a spray of blood, then added a "Hoorah!" in for good measure.

Zac gave a little clap. "Oh wow. I didn't think you'd actually quote the Iliad. For some reason, I thought it would be illegal for you guys to get into other mythologies."

Halphas turned around and grinned, wiping a streak of gore from his beak. "Ha! As if God could stop a demon from enjoying the magnificent creations of man." He walked forward and lifted Zac's chin with a taloned finger.

Zac's heart beat faster as he looked into the strong, but also somehow very well-read, eagle-man's eyes. "Oh, Achilles," he recited breathlessly, "may the same urn hold our bones." He paused, then added, "Because I want nothing more right now than your eagle bone."

Halphas's grin widened. "Oh, Patroclus," he rumbled, "I shall never bury my bone apart from yours."

Zac’s mind, swaddled like the infant son of the man who Halphas just turned into a pincushion, got thrown off the very walls of Troy. So fucking romantic, he thought. Maybe Nock is a scary-hot romancer. Maybe Skarg is a cuddly himbo. Even Andras is a dashing pirate asshole. But none of them were book-sexy like Halphas.

Zac suddenly felt himself being tossed into the air. He was caught easily in Halphas's massive, muscular arms. He was a bit disappointed that he didn't get that dropping feeling in his stomach from the fear of suddenly being manhandled, but that was okay. He was still lost in the eagle's eyes.

"So, are you going to carry me back to our tent so I can help remove your battle armor?" Zac wanted to say, but Halphas was already spreading his wings and carrying Zac up into the sky. I guess I didn't even need to ask, Zac thought for a moment, but then he frowned as he saw Halphas carrying him over the massive stone wall surrounding Troy instead of back towards the Greek camps.

"Just a sec," Halphas said as he readjusted Zac into one arm and seemed to swirl his other hand in front of himself.

The scene changed from day to night with the same effect as a VCR tape being fast-forwarded. The sun streaked across the sky, leaving a trail of orange and purple, before plunging below the horizon. The moon and stars blurred into place. The sensation made Zac a bit queasy, but it was over just as quickly as it began.

"We just getting some mood lighting?" Zac asked, his voice muffled against the eagle’s chest. "I like how you think."

"Mood lighting?" Halphas questioned, his wings beating a steady rhythm that carried them over the city. "The city didn't get sacked until the night."

Zac looked down as they flew over Troy. Below, the orderly streets had devolved into chaos. There were indeed lots of screaming and fires being lit, casting a flickering, hellish glow on the stone buildings.

Halphas began to point out the various soldiers and the different war crimes being committed as the Greeks slaughtered and raped the Trojans. "See that?" he'd squawk, pointing a talon. "That's Ajax the Lesser defiling Cassandra at the altar of Athena. Classic hubris. He gets a nasty surprise from God on the voyage home for that one."

He banked, giving Zac a better view of a group of Myrmidons setting a granary ablaze. "Standard scorched-earth tactics. Cutting off food supplies to demoralize any remaining resistance. Brutal, but effective."

Zac got bored of the realities of war pretty quickly. The screaming and burning was a bit of a mood-killer. Instead, he just enjoyed being held tight by the macho demon who was nerding out so hard over the historical battle unfolding below them. He rested his head on Halphas's shoulder, feeling the powerful beat of the eagle's heart against his cheek, and let the sounds of massacre fade into a distant, unimportant hum.

After a few loops around the burning city, an idea sparked in Zac’s mind. He needed to get Halphas alone. The eagle seemed like he could endlessly talk about the systematic murder of the Trojan bloodlines and the grueling logistics of transporting hundreds of enslaved people across the wine-dark sea to Greece.

Zac needed somewhere private, somewhere intimate, but also somewhere that would keep the huge history nerd excited enough to stay in the dream. And Zac knew exactly the place.

“Oh, Halphas,” Zac said sweetly, nuzzling into the curve of the eagle’s neck. “There’s still one place you haven’t shown me that I’d really like to see.”

“Lay it on me, Zachary,” Halphas rumbled, his voice vibrating pleasantly against Zac's ear. “Or should I say, my little Patroclus?”

Zac grinned. The eagle hadn’t forgotten the totally gay-positive roles they were playing. “Can you bring me down toward the main gate entrance?”

“Sure thing,” Halphas said. He banked sharply, the wind whistling through his golden-hued feathers as they dove back toward the Scaean Gate. “What do you want to see? How the soldiers are cutting down the stragglers who try to escape through the side posterns?”

“No,” Zac said, pointing toward a massive, looming silhouette that stood alone in the plaza, cast in the flickering orange light of the nearby infernos. “I want to see what it’s like inside of that.”

“Ohhh,” Halphas said, his golden eyes widening with genuine appreciation. “That’s not a bad idea. That old thing has been the genesis for so many human tricks. It’s the granddaddy of the tactical gambit.”

Halphas flared his wings, slowing their descent with practiced ease. He landed softly on the dusty earth, his powerful legs absorbing the impact, and gently set Zac down.

They both looked up, and Zac felt a genuine sense of scale.

The Trojan Horse was a leviathan of timber and deceit. Built from massive planks of silver fir and pine, it stood nearly thirty feet tall, its neck arched in a hollow, silent neigh. Up close, it didn't look like a masterwork of art; it looked like a desperate, hurried construction, rough-hewn and held together by massive iron bolts.

In the moonlight, the wood looked ancient and weathered, its hollow eyes staring blankly at the ruined city it had helped destroy.

“Impressive, isn't it?” Halphas asked, stepping up beside Zac. The eagle was still wearing nothing but that agonizingly small white towel, and in the heat of the Troy fires, a fine sheen of sweat made his bronzed, feathered muscles glisten.

Zac looked from the massive wooden shaft of the horse's leg to the equally impressive view right next to him.

“Very impressive,” Zac whispered, his eyes lingering on Halphas’s thighs. “So... how do we get into the cockpit?”

Halphas took Zac’s hands, his own talons surprisingly gentle, and gave a powerful, singular flap of his wings. They rose slowly, drifting upward through the rectangular trapdoor in the horse's underbelly.

The interior was a dark, oppressive cavern of silver fir. The air was thick and stagnant, smelling of resin, ancient dust, and the sharp, salty musk of forty phantom Greek soldiers. It was cramped and hot, the wooden walls vibrating with the distant, muffled screams of the city’s sack. To Zac, the atmosphere didn't feel like a war zone, it felt like a back-room… dirty, private, and ripe with the scent of "manly exertion."

Halphas moved through the gloom, his bronzed muscles catching the thin slivers of moonlight that leaked through the cracks in the planks. He ran a large hand over the internal scaffolding. "I think they even had someone crammed all the way up in the neck," the eagle murmured, his voice echoing in the wooden ribcage. "The sheer discipline required to stay silent for..."

He trailed off as he realized Zac wasn't looking at the architecture. Zac was staring at him with an intensity that could have set the silver fir on fire.

Zac stepped forward, his boots silent on the timber floor. He reached out, his small palms pressing against the hard, feathery expanse of Halphas’s pectorals. "It’s just so amazing, isn't it?" Zac whispered, his voice dropping into a sultry, low register. "How a big, sexy soldier like you can cram himself into such... tight little things."

Halphas’s golden eyes dilated until they were nearly black. A strange, sharp click came from his beak. "Well, uh... it's a matter of tactical necessity, Zachary."

"This big structure is basically like me, right?" Zac purred, his hands beginning a slow, deliberate descent down the eagle’s chest, tracing the line of his six-pack. "I’m going to be the one sent into the Holy City. A gift they won't refuse. No one will expect that I’m not a holy virgin, but a secret demonic weapon hidden inside a pretty package."

Halphas let out a nervous, high-pitched noise. "Yes... that's right... coo... you're our cheeky little decoy."

Zac’s fingers hooked into the top of the white perizoma. "Do you think any of those Greeks fornicated in here while they waited? It seems like a great way to get rid of... stress."

"It's... it's... coo... it's possible," the eagle stuttered, his knees looking a bit wobbly.

"I've been getting a bit nervous about the mission myself," Zac whispered, leaning in until his lips brushed the eagle’s neck, too lost in his own lust to notice the bird-man’s increasingly avian stutters. "Maybe you could help me get rid of a bit of my own stress."

Zac gripped the fabric of the Greek undies with a determined grin. "I... I... coo... it's not... the Captain said..." Halphas stammered, looking around the dark belly as if a commanding officer might leap out of the timber.

"Shh now," Zac breathed, his heart hammering against his ribs. "It’s just a dream, remember? I know you want me. You called shotgun, after all. Or were you just acting all tough in front of the other demons?"

"NO! Coooo! I'm not an actor!" the eagle squawked, his feathers ruffling violently.

"Then let’s see that eagle dick!" Zac yelled, and with a triumphant heave, he ripped away the loincloth.

Zac stepped back, squinting in the dim light. He had been waiting days for this. He expected a legendary display of demonic anatomy, something that would make a marble statue weep with envy. As the light shifted through the cracks in the horse's flank, illuminating the space where the towel had been, Zac leaned in, his eyes wide with anticipation.

"WAIT I… I NEED A MINUTE!" the eagle demon screamed, but the fabric was already fluttering to the floor. "Oh fuck... coo... don't look... coo coo cooo!"

Before Zac’s eyes could register a single inch of skin, Halphas’s shadowy figure began to bulge and ripple as if he were made of liquid. There was a sudden, violent sound of rushing wind and the deafening thrum of a thousand beating wings.

POOF.

A feathery explosion rocked the interior of the Trojan Horse.

Zac didn't even have time to gasp before he was hit by a tidal wave of grey and white down. He was knocked backward, his arms and legs suddenly immobilized as he was buried in a sea of soft, flapping bodies.

His ears were filled with a cacophony of hundreds of high-pitched, frantic voices.

"I told you he'd rip it!"

"It's your fault! You were too slow with the illusion!"

"Now he knows! He's going to tell the others!"

"Shut up and help me hide the bits!"

"Coo! Coo! Embarrassing! Coo!"

Zac blinked his eyes open, spitting a grey feather out of his mouth.

He was still in the belly of the horse, but "Achilles" was gone. Instead, Zac was pinned against the wooden hull by a literal wall of hundreds of small, bickering pigeons. And right in front of his face, pressed against him by the weight of the flock, was a single, man-sized, anthropomorphic pigeon man wearing nothing but a look of absolute, soul-crushing mortification.

The big pigeon blinked its round, orange eyes at Zac.

"...coo?" it whispered.

Zac’s eyes snapped open, his breath coming in sharp, ragged hitches. The sound of the pigeons, hundreds of them, bickering and cooing in a panicked, feathery heap, was still ringing in his ears, so loud he almost expected to find a stray grey feather stuck to his lip.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

A loud, insistent knocking was ripping through the silence of his small, single-occupancy bedroom, vibrating the very stone of the walls.

Zac didn’t move. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, and slowly brought both hands up to cover his face. His palms were clammy, and his mind was a chaotic static of Greek armor, wooden planks, and the image of a man-sized pigeon looking at him with the eyes of a disgraced accountant.

“Holy shit,” Zac whispered into his hands, his voice a strangled, traumatized rasp. “What the fuck was that?”

The knocking at the door gave Zac no time to ruminate on his dream or the soul-crushing revelation that his hunky eagle demon might actually be a chubby pigeon in a very convincing suit.

Did I get fucking catfished? Zac thought, finally swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He remembered the embarrassed, round-eyed bird from his dream, the way it looked at him with the resigned sadness of a guilty purchaser. Does he even work out? Does he even lift? Is everything I know a lie?

Zac stopped halfway to the door, a look of profound grief crossing his face. Will I never see eagle dick?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Can’t a guy lament his own eternal torment in peace?!” Zac yelled at the wood.

“Stop masturbating and open the door, you leopard slut,” a detached, smoky voice called through the thick, demon-proof barrier.

“Andras?” Zac questioned, his ears perking up. “Why are you here? I thought Bune was the designated team mom.”

Zac reached for the handle and pulled. It was locked tight. He searched the frame, looking for a latch, a bolt, or even a hidden button, but there was nothing. The stone around the door was smooth and seamless.

“If you’re looking for a lock, stop being stupid,” the owl called from the other side, his voice dripping with condescension. “That’s not how magic works in this wing.”

“Then how am I supposed to let you in?”

He heard a loud, weary sigh. “Just invite me in, you simpleton.”

Zac frowned. “Yeah, good joke. As if me saying, ‘I invite you, cruel demon Andras, Great Marquis and ruler of thirty legions and decapitator of all,’ would actually-”

Zac’s voice trailed off as the door swung open silently on its hinges.

Andras was standing in the doorway, leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed. Goremaw was sat at his heel, his massive tail thumping against the stone floor with a rhythmic thwack.

“Well, okay then,” Zac murmured, adjusting his hood. “Guess you were right.”

“Of course I am,” Andras drawled, pushing off the wall and stepping into the room. “Now hurry up. We’re on a schedule.”

Zac took a moment to look the owl up and down. He was still the sexy, asshole pirate-corsair from the waking world. Lean, muscular, and radiating a dangerous, "I’ll kill you after tea-time" energy. Okay, good, Zac thought. At least he’s not a bunch of hummingbirds parading as a psycho killer.

Zac leaned suggestively against the doorframe, letting his leopard tail swish slow and low. “So, it’s fancy meeting you here. What are the chances that you and me would be all alone, in my bedroom, with no one to stop you from defiling me?”

Andras’s golden eyes went wide… or rather, wider, since owl eyes were already fixed in permanent shock. He quickly looked up and down the empty hallway, his feathers ruffling beneath his greatcoat.

“Be careful, human,” Andras hissed, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “If you keep talking like that, I might just have to hold you down and make you scream into your pillow.”

Zac’s grin was blinding. “Like you have the balls to do something so bad. I know you’re a good boy.”

“Oh yeah?” The owl’s feathers puffed out until he looked nearly twice his size, his beak clicking sharply. “I’m the baddest demon out of the whole seventy-two. Even the Kings fear my-”

BARK!

Goremaw’s happy, gravel-crunching bark cut Andras off mid-boast. The motorcycle-sized warg didn’t care about posturing or "bad boy" reputations. He saw his favorite scratching post and he launched.

“Oof!”

Zac was tackled back into the room, hitting the floor with a heavy thud as three-hundred pounds of demonic muscle pinned him to the rug. Goremaw’s massive, wet tongue immediately began its assault, slathering Zac’s face in a thick layer of affectionate warg-slobber.

“Goremaw! Off!” Andras barked, though the authority in his voice was completely undermined by the fact that he was currently blushing through his feathers.

Zac just giggled, pushing at the warg’s furry chest. “See? Even your dog knows you’re full of it!”

“Stop giving that pajama-wearing prostitute attention!” the owl hooted, his voice cracking with a very un-pirate-like desperation as he tried to haul Goremaw back by the scruff of his thick neck. “I’m your master! Me! You should be giving me kisses! Or at least mauling someone!”

Goremaw, however, was in a state of pure, wiggly bliss. He completely ignored Andras, leaning his massive weight into Zac’s chest. Suddenly, the warg gave a wet, hacking cough. Zac’s eyes went wide as several chunks of unidentified, half-digested grey meat spewed out of the beast's mouth and landed directly onto the leopard-print fleece of his chest.

Zac looked down, his lip curling in a mix of fascination and disgust. “Is that... a paladin’s kidney? Wow, you really do chew your food thoroughly, don’t you?”

Before he could offer a more detailed critique of the warg’s digestion, Goremaw shifted his weight and balance. A massive, clawed, rear paw came down squarely on the center of Zac’s lap.

“AGGHHHH!”

The sound Zac made was less of a yell and more of a strangled, high-pitched whistle. His fear-blocker didn’t do a damn thing for his nerve endings. Zac’s entire body spasmed in a reflex of pure agony. In his frantic, pained rolling, his foot hooked around Goremaw’s back leg.

The warg, caught off-balance, let out a surprised yelp and began to topple. Since Andras was still white-knuckle-gripping the beast's neck, the owl was dragged down too.

The result was a catastrophic pile-up of fur, feathers, and fleece. Zac’s small room was suddenly filled with the sounds of hooting, barking, and Zac’s muffled wheezing. They were a chaotic, jumbled knot of limbs on the rug.

As the dust settled, Zac found himself flat on his back, gasping for air. The heavy weight on his chest wasn't Goremaw anymore… It was Andras. The owlman had somehow ended up straddling Zac, his taloned hands braced against Zac’s shoulders, his tattered greatcoat draped over them like a dark tent. His golden eyes were inches from Zac’s, wide and vibrating with a mix of fury and something that looked suspiciously like a panic attack.

“Bad boys... don’t have... happy dogs... you big... feathered liar,” Zac wheezed, his eyes still watering from the nut-crunching incident.

“Fuck you,” Andras snapped, his beak clicking sharply. He tried to push himself up, but his boots couldn't find purchase on the slick, meat-chunk-covered floor.

Unfortunately for the both of them, Goremaw wasn't done playing. Seeing his two favorite people in a pile on the floor was the ultimate "Go" signal. The warg barked happily and launched his three-hundred-pound body onto Andras’s back.

The impact slammed Andras back down into Zac.

“Oof!”

Goremaw began to bounce, his massive tail thumping a frantic rhythm against the floorboards as he "play-mounted" his master. Each time the warg jumped, Andras was hydraulically pressed into Zac’s chest and hips.

“I thought... March was... the Mormon one,” Zac managed to groan, his ribs creaking under the rhythmic assault.

“GET OFF, GOREBOY!” Andras hooted, his hat falling over one eye as he was repeatedly shoved down into Zac’s lap. “And what the hell... do you mean... Mormon?! I’m the Sower of Discord! I’m a prince of the Pit!”

Zac’s words came out in sync with the bouncing pressure. “Then... why... are... you... getting... Gore... maw... to... jump... hump... us?”

“Jump hump?!” Andras squawked, his feathers ruffling so violently he looked like an exploding pillow.

Finally, the owl had enough. He didn't try to push; he simply dissolved. The shadows beneath them surged, and Andras slipped through the floor. He reappeared a second later by the half-open door, leaning against the frame and frantically straightening his coat. He looked completely flustered, his chest heaving.

“What the hell is ‘jump humping’?” Andras demanded, his golden eyes darting around as if looking for the hidden camera.

Goremaw, meanwhile, looked quite confused as to where his master had gone. He tilted his massive head, looked down, and saw that his human play-toy was still there. With a happy huff, he went back to work, his massive, wet tongue slathering across Zac’s face.

Zac tried to fend off the tidal wave of slobber with one hand while gesturing vaguely at Andras with the other. “It’s a... religious loophole!” Zac shouted over a bark. “The definition of sex is so vague! If you just stick your dick into someone and you don't move, it’s not really fucking, right?”

Andras cocked his head to the side, looking profoundly disturbed. “No, that’s... that’s still very much a sex act, you lunatic.”

“That’s just ‘soaking’ your dick!” Zac continued, his voice muffled as Goremaw tried to lick his ear. “But! If you’re soaking, and someone else jumps on the bed and causes you to move in and out of the person you’re soaking in, you’re not really the one humping them! It’s a technicality workaround! Neither the top nor the bottom is doing the fucking, so God thinks that’s A-OK!”

The silence that followed was absolute. Even Goremaw stopped licking, sensing the sudden shift in the room’s psychic energy.

Andras stared at Zac. His beak hung open. His golden eyes searched Zac’s face for any sign of a joke, but Zac was looking back with the earnest, helpful expression of a primary school teacher explaining long division.

“That is the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Andras finally snapped, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and pure horror. “What the fuck is wrong with your Earth?”

Zac sat up, wiping a particularly large gob of saliva from his forehead and scratching Goremaw behind his torn ear. “I thought you were going to Rube Goldberg defile me anyway,” Zac muttered. “Wasn't that the plan? A complex series of pulleys and levers that ends with my innocence in tatters?”

Andras put a hand over his face, slowly dragging it down. “Goremaw,” he said softly, his voice muffled by his palm. “Please bite that human to death. He is evil. He is literally trying to rewrite the laws of morality with his horniness.”

Goremaw looked back at his murderous master and let out a high-pitched, pitiful whine.

“OH DON’T GIVE ME THAT!” Andras hooted, his patience snapping. “If you kill him, I’ll let you sleep on the couch! The good couch! The one without the bloodstains!”

Goremaw looked between Zac and Andras, clearly weighing the pros and cons of murder versus upholstery.

“You don't even let him sleep on the bed with you?!” Zac gasped, horrified. “But he’s so cuddly and warm! Dogs are pack animals! They need physical contact!”

“GOREMAW ISN’T A DOG, HE’S A DEMONIC WARG!” Andras yelled, his feathers puffing out again. “HE EATS SOULS!”

Zac and the demonic warg totally ignored him.

“Who’s a good dog?” Zac cooed, scratching the black hellhound’s chin with both hands. “It’s you, huh? You’re a good dog! Yes you are!”

Goremaw’s leg started thumping against the floor.

“ENOUGH!” Andras roared. “If you're not going to maim him and you're not going to listen, then walkies are OVER!”

The owl waved his arm in a sharp, cutting motion. The shadows beneath Goremaw suddenly turned liquid. The warg yelped as he began to sink into his own shadow like he was standing in quicksand. He tried to grab Zac’s leg with his paws, attempting to drag his new friend down into the void with him, but the shadow swallowed him whole with a soft shloop.

Goremaw disappeared.

“Hey!” Zac complained, standing up and wiping the remaining slobber off his face with his sleeve. “Why’d you do that to Gorem-awesome sauce? He was just getting to the good spot behind his ear!”

Andras loomed over Zac, his shadow stretching long and menacing in the dim light. “He was acting Gorem-awfully like a bad doggo… I mean, dog… I mean, WARG!”

Andras looked furious with himself. He turned around quickly, fumbling in his pocket. With a snap of his talons, he lit a cigarillo, inhaling deeply as if the nicotine was the only thing keeping him from committing a hate crime... against humans... he hated that his pet warg seemed to love the human.

"So, now that we're all alone and the kid has been sent to his room, maybe we can-"

"No," Andras huffed, a cloud of smoke escaping his beak. "I'm here to fetch you. Can't you hear it?"

"Hear what?" was all Zac could say before he actually tried listening.

A deep thrumming was vibrating the floorboards, a rhythmic pulse that he could feel in his teeth. Zac looked up, his eyes widening. "Is that March howling for me? Does the Wolf Daddy need me?!"

Zac jumped to his feet and rushed into the hallway, his leopard-print tail streaming behind him.

Andras followed, sighing heavily. "It's not the mutt howling. Use your ears."

"I don't have owl ears," Zac muttered before closing his eyes.

He concentrated. It was faint, muffled by the thick stone walls, but it was definitely music. A heavy, rhythmic beat drifting up from somewhere below.

Zac’s eyes snapped open. "Is that... a boombox? Is March holding it up at the bottom of the stairs to get my attention?!"

Andras tried to protest, but Zac was already running.

"I GET SO LOST SOMETIMES! IN YOUR EYES!" Zac shouted, sprinting down the corridor, lost in a rom-com melodramatic fervor. "WITHOUT MY PRIDE I REACH OUT FROM THE INSIDE! MARCH!"

"What? Wait!" Andras shouted, chasing after the human.

"THE GRAND FACADE SO SOON WILL BURN!" Zac sang at the top of his lungs as he bounded down the stairs two at a time with a demon serial killer hot on his heels. "A THOUSAND CHURCHES IN YOUR EYESSSSSS!"

Zac followed the sound of the music until he found himself in front of a familiar pair of doors: the War Room. He could feel the bass now, thumping against the wood.

"Sa bet chi lamp, chi tangaay, sa bet maangi ci biir!" Zac belted, butchering the lyrics with passion.

"HAVE YOU BEEN POSSESSED?! DID YOU LEARN A NEW LANGUAGE?!" Andras hooted, grabbing at the back of Zac’s onesie. "Don't go in there! I was supposed to keep you from-"

Zac kicked open the doors.

A sudden, physical wave of music poured out from the room, hitting Zac like a wall of sound and knocking him backward into Andras's arms.

Zac brought his hands up to his ears, squinting against the sonic assault. Inside, chaos reigned. An anthropomorphic unicorn man, dressed in a glamorous outfit of rainbow feathers and glittering sequins, was dancing on the tactical map table. He was playing a trumpet, but the sound coming out of it was a shredding electric guitar solo, accompanied by an invisible, booming orchestra.

Marchosias, Skarg, and Nock were chasing after the one-man band, lunging and grabbing at him as the newcomer twirled and hammed it up on his own imaginary stage. Zac looked over to see Bune in the corner, nodding along to the beat and tapping a clawed foot.

The unicorn pirouetted, dodging a tackle from Skarg and a sword swing from Nock with effortless grace.

"So this is the summons

Stop kissing your cousins

Demons dancing in dozens of new ways!

It's hot as the ovens

Your legions and covens

It's not up for discussions, in a few days

The Goetia Ball is near!

So hear me as I tell you so clearly

It is merely our yearly

Demonic parade!

There will be murder and fervor

Mischief, yes this stuff

Would make a Christian fade!

There will be-"

"WE ARE NOT THAT KIND OF DEMON!" Marchosias yelled, blasting at the dancing unicorn man with his silver annihilation breath. "WE DO NOT SING OUR FEELINGS! STOP IT!"

The blast of fire washed over the table, evaporating the unicorn's trumpet mid-note. The music stopped with the jarring twang of a violin string snapping.

"You murdered Satchmo!" the flamboyant unicorn shrieked, clutching his chest. "My beloved!" He swooned, collapsing onto the map in a dramatic faint.

"Oh, you drama queen," Nock hissed, straightening his mane. "Who the hell names their horn?"

Zac walked into the room now that the deafening music had stopped. He thought it was rich for Nock to be calling anyone else a drama queen, but the unicorn man was clearly... ugh, a musicals guy.

"I've heard of guys giving their horns nicknames," Zac said, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. "But it's usually something like 'Mr. Big' or 'The Hammer' or 'Anaconda.'"

All the demons in the room turned to look at Zac.

Zac yawned, stretching his leopard-print arms high overhead. "Morning y'all."

"Oh my dear Ose!" the unicorn man suddenly trilled before the others could react to the diabolically horny human. "You're finally back, and just in time for the ball!"

The unicorn man rolled off the table and spun over to Zac, a blur of feathers and glitter.

"WAIT RIGHT THERE!" Marchosias howled as he ran forward. "Andras, why did you bring, uh, Ose down here?! Bring him back upstairs so he can, uhm, get dressed! You know how I hate nudity!"

"HEY!" Skarg bellowed. "FUCK YOU!"

"He came down on his own," Andras said, waving a hand and walking past the others to sit at the table. "This human is literally more evil than the rest of you combined. But not me. I'm super evil."

The unicorn man stopped dead in his tracks as he heard Andras call the leopard-spotted figure in front of him a human. He leaned in, sniffing delicately.

"You... you're an Avatar?" he questioned, his eyes widening. "Oh, but of course! You are so teeny tiny! How wonderful! How spectacular! How absolutely morbid!"

Ahem.

The unicorn man waved his hands like a conductor. Another trumpet phased into existence with the sound of an orchestra vamping. "Me-me-me-me-meeee," the unicorn sang, finding his key.

"Uhm, I'd rather you play with your other horn," Zac said.

The unicorn laughed, quickly bringing his hand up to the spiraling horn on his forehead. "This one is only for disemboweling! Now let me serenade you! It's been so long since I've gotten to get someone's first impression on my art!"

"That's not the horn I was-"

Zac was cut off as the unicorn began to bellow a new song, a ghostly band striking up behind him with a crash of cymbals.

"Welcome to the afterlife!

You got what you deserved!

Welcome to the afterlife!

You're dead now, isn't that absurd?

Thinking you followed the word

Thinking you hid among the herd

But your feathers are different than the other birds

Spurred you along with the threat of swords!"

"ENOUGH!" Marchosias howled.

He grabbed the trumpet out of the singing demon's hand and tossed it on the floor. In a moment of rare unity, Nock, Skarg, and March all began stomping on it with a rhythmic, vengeful fury.

Oh wow, I'm not the only musical hater here, Zac thought.

"NO! Satchmo!" The unicorn man dramatically collapsed onto Zac, clutching at his onesie. "Look at what they are doing to my boy! Oh, the horror!"

Zac took a step back, letting the unicorn demon fall face-first onto the stone floor. "Stranger danger! Please help me, Bune!"

Bune looked over. The dragon butler crossed his arms and looked away pointedly, pretending to inspect a smudge on the wall.

Zac cocked his head to the side. "Uhm, Bune? This stranger is trying to get handsy with me."

"I'm doing no such thing! I am merely overcome with inconsolable, wretched anguish!" the unicorn man brayed as he pushed himself back up, dusting off his rainbow feathers.

"That's too many emotions that aren't angry, confused, or horny," Zac said flatly. "We don't do that here."

The unicorn man looked very confused.

"That's more like it," Zac nodded. "So, who are you? Some sort of stripper that got sent for Marchy-poo?"

"I... um..." The unicorn man stood up, looking back at the other demons who were still stomping the remains of the trumpet. Skarg threw in a flying elbow drop for good measure, shattering the brass completely.

The horned horse demon’s shoulders slumped. He turned back to Zac with a sigh. "I am Amdusias. Great Duke of Hell, ruler of twenty-nine legions, the Demon of Music."

As Amdusias prepared to launch into his second verse, magical demonic music swelled in the air, a brassy, chaotic overture. The unicorn Duke began to tap a hoof and snap his fingers, his sequined outfit shimmering.

"Yes I am Amdusias

And Amdusias is me!

Yes I am the great

Singer of cacophony!

I call the thunder

And I bend the tree!

Yes I am Amdusias

And Amdusias is-"

The music ground to a halt with the sound of a record scratch.

In a move of surprising coordination, Skarg and Nock performed a textbook double-reverse suplex on the oblivious unicorn. Amdusias hit the stone floor hard, his glittering horn piercing the obsidian and getting stuck fast. He flailed his legs in the air, his rainbow feathers ruffling indignantly.

Marchosias stood over the flailing musician, crossing his arms. "How many times do I need to tell you? This isn't Singing and Dancing Hell. This is Hell Hell."

Zac's mind wandered off as he imagined March in a black-and-white ref's uniform, blowing a whistle while Skarg and Nock pinned him down in an aided reverse spider hold. Mmm, Zac arched his back slightly, imagining the caribou and lion in tight lycra shorts and not much else. Is that your knee in my back or are you just happy to be twisting me into a pretzel?

"You dare assault a Duke?!" the unicorn man yelled as he wrenched himself free from the floor. A chunk of stone flew across the room as his uni-horn emerged completely undamaged. "I'll report you for this! I'll bring it right down the chain!"

"You dare threaten me in my own keep?" Marchosias grabbed Amdusias’s horn, yanking the unicorn’s face down until they were nose-to-snout. The silver light of holy fire peeked out from March's growling, bared fangs.

Amdusias let out a yelp of terror. "BUNE!" the unicorn man shrieked. "I'll only talk with Bune! Do you think I would lower myself to speak with a lowly Marquis?!"

Skarg and Nock walked up on either side of the unicorn, punching their palms menacingly, looking like old-timey gangsters intimidating a poor shopkeeper. March’s growl grew louder, the silver light intensifying.

However, before they could shake down the obviously very limp-wristed horn-tooter, Bune walked over. He grabbed the equine by the shoulder and spun him around.

"I am not joining the Infernal Chorus," Bune's Left Head said flatly.

"But why?!" Amdusias yelled suddenly, apparently forgetting all about the cocked-and-loaded atomic destruction breath that had just been held against his head. "You can sing three-part harmony all by yourself! You're a natural baritone-tenor-bass combo!"

Zac walked over and stood next to March as the newcomer dramatically tried to convince the hydra to come to one of the weekly community band practices.

"You were really nice to Humps when she visited," Zac noted.

"Who?" Marchosias looked down at Zac, momentarily forgetting his distaste for the maddening minstrel.

"Oh you know," Zac said, waving his hand dismissively. "Gremory. My bitch bestie."

Marchosias’s tail tucked in sharply. "Do not call Duchess Gremory such things."

Zac rolled his eyes. "I forget how pure you and Bune both are. But calling her a crusty camel cunt is totally cool because me and her are tight. We are BFFs and we totally talk all about the rest of you behind your backs when you're not listening."

"No you do not," March said, glancing around nervously as if the Duchess might materialize from the ether.

Zac grinned. "So tell me, why are you all bullying this one?" He gestured to the unicorn, who was once again wailing and sobbing while clinging to Bune’s tailcoat. Bune’s two heads looked at each other with an expression of profound exasperation.

Marchosias looked at the unicorn, then back to Zac. There were a few seconds of heavy silence.

"He has theater kid energy," the Captain finally rumbled.

Zac blinked a few times. "True."

As Zac contemplated where March might have learned to hate theater kids and their energy, a new wave of music suddenly began erupting from the unicorn, who had somehow manifested a fresh trumpet in his hands.

"Oh he's a treasure

A soul without measure

A plaything not for leisure

One who’s never had the pleasure!

Ose, you cheeky vermin

Your words, much like a surgeon

Infinity did converge in

Your avatar, is a virgin!"

Marchosias howled. Bune's middle head popped out with a wet tear and roared. Skarg crouched low, ready to tackle. Nock unsheathed his sword with a hiss of steel. Andras looked up from where he was methodically sawing through one of the legs on March's chair.

"I'm totally not a virgin, man," Zac said instinctively. It was a habit ingrained in him from life on Earth… he didn't know why so many people asked him all the time, but his response was hard-coded. It's not like he gave off some weirdo sexless energy… right? Right?!

Amdusias turned and grinned, his rainbow feathers shimmering. "Oh Avatar of Ose, so quick with a lie! Just like our most... abhorrent Felidae."

The other demons didn't wait for permission. Skarg, Marchosias, and Nock tackled the unicorn man all at once, a chaotic pile of fur, feathers, and armor crashing onto the floor.

A few minutes later, Amdusias was bound to a chair placed precariously on top of the tactical map table. He had a gag in his mouth, but he looked remarkably cheerful for a hostage.

Marchosias glared at the captive, both hands on the map, his claws digging holes into the wood. "If you tell anyone that the Avatar is a virgin, I will rip off your horn and you will be the Demon Horse of Music."

Amdusias chewed through his gag with a wet crunch and spat it onto the map. "I just came here to remind your pathetic warband that the Ball is only a week away! The Princes will be most upset if you losers are a no-show again. Attendance is not optional."

"Yeah, I'm not going," Andras drawled, flicking ash onto the floor.

"We are fighting a war," March barked. "As if we have time to waste on pageantry and appearances."

"Oh, I forgot about the Ball!" Nock declared, his eyes lighting up. "I only brought thirty going-out outfits!" He looked around frantically. "What is the theme this year?"

"I would rather not be at a party," Bune's Left Head said, shuddering.

The Right Head nodded vigorously. "That idiot Valac tried to ride me three hundred and eighty-four years ago. Do you know how embarrassing that was?"

Skarg crossed his arms, looking disgusted. "Fuck dress codes. Balls are for ditsy bitches who can't get fucked. 'Oh, who has my glass slipper? Oh, people don't know who I am if I have a little mask on a stick! Oh, look at the rich asshole who slowly walks down the big staircase in some faggy silk outfit while everyone watches!'" The wendigo demon shuddered. "So performative."

"Is it a tribute to ritualistic murder this year?" Nock asked, seemingly ignoring Skarg entirely. "Or is that next year? Oh, I have the perfect black robes and golden mask to wear."

"Please no," Bune whimpered, clutching his stomach. "If I was forced to wear a golden mask..." The dragon man looked a bit sick.

"There are going to be other demons at a big party?" Zac asked, perking up. "That sounds like the perfect chance for me to get defiled by some side character who can get murdered by Captain Daddy without anyone really caring about them dying."

"NO," March growled. "If the Princes want a progress report, they can schedule an audience with me. Officially. That's why we have an agenda and a guest log. Isn't that right, Halphas?"

"A week will be plenty of time for me to send Timon and Pumbaa out to have a new outfit commissioned," Nock mused, rubbing his chin and ignoring March completely. "I must maintain my position as most fashionable feline. Vine keeps a list, you know, and I am at the top of it despite Vapula's desperate attempts. Everybody wants to be a cat, and all cats want to be me."

Andras chuckled. "Of course Vine keeps a list of queer kitties."

"Wait," March growled, looking around. "Where is Halphas?"

"Yeah," Skarg laughed, "that puss still thinks he's a king. There's no way Purson would keep some lame list of-"

"LORD FURFUR!"

The bickering in the room went dead silent as the doors slammed open. Everyone turned to see who had burst in.

Zac’s brain struggled to process what he saw.

A very cute, very chubby baby otter with leathery bat wings was hovering in the doorway. It flapped its wings comically hard to keep afloat, its little paws paddling the air.

"LORD FURFUR!" it yelled again in a very squeaky and adorable voice.

The color drained from Skarg's face. A sudden, sharp chill filled the room as demonic ice began to spread across the floor from the wendigo's feet.

"The stained glass wings have appeared again!" the woodland critter cried. "It's on the battlefront near the Jordan River, Lord Furfur! It's heading this-"

Skarg suddenly grabbed the cute little flying otter baby by the neck and began to choke it. "MY NAME IS SKARG!" he bellowed right into its face, his spit flying. He shook the otter violently as he throttled it.

"Hey, leave the cute little animal alone!" Zac said, rising to his feet and pointing a finger. "Animal abuse is not sexy at all!"

The room went silent, save for the squeaking gasps of the little water pup. Then, all the demons burst into laughter. Zac looked around, confused. Even Amdusias was giggling.

"That's not an animal," Bune's Left Head said, a hand in front of his mouth trying to hide his own grin. "It is a demonic Cherub."

His Right Head snorted. "It is one of Furfur, I mean Skarg's, legion."

"That cute little thing is one of your soldiers?" Zac questioned. "I thought you'd have an abominable snowman or like, a horde of Krampuses or something."

The demonic music once again vamped as the prisoner unicorn on the table looked to the ceiling and opened his mouth.

"After the boring date, and its time to defer

But you've found across the table is an amateur

If you find yourself in a state of longueur

It might be time, to summon Furfur!"

"SHUT UP YOU!" Skarg bellowed.

"Like a Viagra he will help spur

Your lover, even though the liqueur!

Oh he will be your smashing chauffeur

The Demon of Love, his name is Furfur!"

"I'M WARNING YOU!" Ice radiated from Skarg, and the room went instantly cold.

Zac looked over at the total macho deer demon. "Wait, Demon of Love? I thought he was the demon of ice or something." His brow furrowed.

"If you cant get any from him or her

There's just one demon who you should confer

His fiery tail, I mean hart, for sure

He is passion's saboteur, his name is Furfur!"

"SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!" Skarg put his hands over his ears and ran out of the room. He didn't run out through the door, though; he ran right through the nearest wall, Kool-Aid Man style, leaving a huge pile of rubble and dust in his wake.

Bune sighed. "Why does everyone think it's okay to punch holes in the drywall?"

"The plaster always stains so terribly," his Right Head lamented.

Zac looked back up at Amdusias. The unicorn man was now standing and bowing, having somehow freed himself from captivity through the sheer power of song.

Zac noticed March. The wolf demon was not laughing with the others.

"Duke Amdusias," Marchosias howled, "you have caused enough misfortune in my keep! I cast you out!"

The room went silent again. Zac put a finger in his ear to try to clear the ringing; the day had had quite volatile volume dynamics.

"HA!" The unicorn man gave a very performative stage laugh. "As if you could repel me, little Marquis. A sad little puppy begging for your old master's approval could never-"

Zac winced as he watched Bune suddenly and violently grab the unicorn's legs and rip him from the table. The horned horse-man smacked his chin on the wood before Bune tossed him towards the door. Amdusias smacked the polished floor sideways, landing on his ribs with a sickening crunch.

"Arghh!" the horse whinnied. "I am not a stunt man, Bune! What was that about?!"

The demonic lead singer slowly stood. An ominous music, sounding like violence, started to grow in volume as the unicorn looked enraged. "I will tell everyone you have a virgin avatar here! I don't care if you think he is helping you with-"

Huff.

Bune rose to his full height and stalked over to Amdusias. "I hate you so much."

Bune's two heads coughed and then breathed in deep. Zac nodded. That's right, Bune, spray that bitch with some of your fire.

However, when Bune opened his mouth, purple flames did not come out.

"A war is not won with many ships

(it is won with dirty tricks)

A battle is not fought with swords and whips

(it is fought with words from lips)

A fight is not settled due to an armies size

(it is settled by who can apprise)

A brawl is not lost when your last soldier dies

(it is lost when you fall for lies)

Our allies may agnize over all the ships that capsize

They’ll chastise every unwise use of surplus supplies

And that is why we will lose

A melee is not hopeless against an ascender

(it is hopeless when you surrender)

A skirmish is not pointless even with a blender

(it is pointless if your goal is splendor)

A conflict is worthless if you’re afraid of the char

(but it is worth it if you will go so far)

A struggle has no purpose if you wont risk a scar

(so are we willing to burn out the stars)

Par is not enough, we must raise the bar

Our bizarre avatar will be our spy from afar

And that is why we will win"

Zac smiled. The dragon man's ability to harmonize with himself really was quite amazing, and the operatic singing was actually pretty good. He started clapping.

Bune looked back at Zac and blushed before quickly looking back at the unicorn man, who was also clapping and yelling about how Bune must join the demonic carolers.

Bune crossed all four of his arms, his posture rigid. "I do not have the time for such trivialities. Unlike some, my position does not involve... entertainment."

"But you could!" Amdusias said, leaping up and trotting around the dragon. "You're a Duke! You are above this front-line Marquis business. Not to toot my own horn, but I could pull some strings with the Kings and-"

"I do not have time for such trivialities," the dragon butler's heads said in tandem, cutting off the musical sales pitch.

"I do appreciate your offer, brother, but I cannot leave my current post," the Left Head said, its tone softening just slightly. "Although you do not understand the pride I feel in my current role, it is... vital."

Bune's Right Head nodded solemnly. "The Broken Antler may not have the best track record, but I hope you understand the importance of the work we are doing here."

The glam unicorn man looked at Zac, his rainbow eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "I would not have guessed that Ose would have actually done something useful finally. Every time he gets audited he just lies and tricks the Princes. You know, I've overheard that they are going to put him on a memorandum of reprimand for shirking his duties."

"Good!" Zac yelled from across the room. "That bastard is a total dork. He's not even as hot as he looks!"

Amdusias raised an eyebrow before slowly turning back to Bune. "If you do not wish for me to tell the others about this, I can try my best to keep the secret."

"That is all I can ask of you," Bune said.

"But," the horned horse said, dramatically holding a hand high and closing it into a fist, "there is no way you will be able to keep this a secret from the others at the Ball. And I will be informing the Princes that their invitation has been delivered."

Bune groaned, a sound of profound social anxiety. "Fine. I will attend."

The unicorn man's feathered outfit ruffled as he turned and walked to the door. With one hoofish hand on the handle, he looked back over his shoulder, a mischievous glint in his eye. "The Princes will expect all of you. Including your... surprise guest."

The unicorn whinnied with laughter as he quickly exited stage left, the door swinging shut behind him.

Bune and Zac both turned to look at March to get his reaction, and it was basically what they expected… the wolf was rubbing his temples and looking very, very tired and disappointed.

Before Zac could offer the stressed-out ultra-dad a shoulder rub, Nock gave a little cheer. "Huzzah! Everyone loves a party!"

"Ugh," Andras said, leaning against a wall now, "there better be an open bar."

Marchosias slowly walked toward his chair, looking like he was carrying the weight of the entire infernal bureaucracy on his shoulders. "A room full of drunken demons. Every year they waste time with this nonsense. And now they expect us to bring Zachary along with us? To what, stand there silently? He is just an Avatar. It's not like he is the first human to be conscripted to a demon."

"But I'm the cutest, right?" Zac said as he watched the very responsible wolf standing in front of his seat. "Am I going to meet any other humans there? It might be cool to see how others are dealing with Hell."

Marchosias gave a tired sigh. "I am not sure who else is working in the recruitment office this century. So many humans are banal, there is very little reason to bother with contracting them."

Zac nodded somberly and whispered, "The only reason I was recruited was my lack of anal."

"I said banal," March groaned.

As the wolf was about to take his seat, a high-pitched, very cute voice called out from the floor beside the table. "Lord Furfur! It's not what you think!"

Marchosias suddenly stood up straight. The otter cherub pulled itself up onto the table and rubbed at its throat where Skarg had choked it into temporary unconsciousness.

"Of course the deer didn't finish the job," Andras said, drawing his sword with a hiss of steel. "I'll take care of it. I haven't gotten to kill anything yet today."

Marchosias held his hand up as he looked at Skarg's underling. "What do you have to report? You had said something about the angel who deconstructed Glasya-Labolas."

Zac's ears perked up. He had been thinking about how he might slip Marchosias an adult beverage at the Ball and whether or not a drunk wolf would sing karaoke or lose his clothes (hopefully both at the same time) but the mention of that odd hyphenated name reminded him of his first dinner in Hell, watching the eternal battle and seeing a dog-man in a black leather harness being split open like a piñata.

"It's not what it appears," the baby otter squeaked, rubbing its neck. "The stained glass wings, the gavel, the perfect unmarred white body..."

"Yes, the angelic soldier," Nock said with a growl. "After all this eternity, how dare they suddenly renege on the rules that they had put forward? Have they no honor?"

"That's just it," the cherub said, its eyes wide. "It's not an angel."

The room was silent for a few moments before the high demons all let out a collective sigh of relief.

"Of course it wasn't," Andras said while pulling out a fresh smoke. "As if those bores could stomach even the chance of pain."

"Indeed," Bune said, sounding relieved. "It's not like there is any concept of change up in the Seventh Throne."

"And I didn't recognize them," the Right Head said, putting a clawed hand under his chin. "It's not like corporealizing would make them give up their god-given appearances."

"Would it really be so bad if you had to fight some angels?" Zac questioned. "Isn't that like, just the expected script for the apocalypse? Angels v Demons in a massive, world-destroying cage match?"

"My sweet Zachary," Nock said grandly, "the angels are God's most favored, and controlled, creations. He would not let them be defeated, especially not in front of the eyes of humankind."

"I thought we covered this in our lessons," Bune said, turning to Zac. "God is omnipotent, omnipresent, and He is omniscient. If the angels were down here it would be by His command, and He would not allow them to take even the slightest loss. The war would be as good as finished."

Zac nodded slowly. So God is basically the Dungeon Master, he thought, hiding behind his DM screen and just making up the shit as he goes, and if he decided to, he could totally wipe the entire campaign. That does sound pretty bad.

"If it wasn't an angel," March growled menacingly, cutting off the chatter, "then what, the fuck, is it?"

"They call it... a simulacrum," the cherub squeaked, looking around in a panic. "The Holy City has constructed it, my Lord."

Marchosias's jaw hung open. "The paladins built it? How the fuck..."

"This is not good," Bune said slowly, his tails lashing. "If they built one, and it killed Glasya... what happens when they build more?"

The room went silent. The demons looked at each other, the realization dawning that instead of God deciding to kick the table over and ruin the long-standing game, the humans had actually built a WMD. They weren't facing divine wrath; they were facing a tech upgrade.

Zac was oblivious to the extreme tension in the room and blurted out, "So, little cutie, do you know anything else about the scary robot thingy?"

The otter finally looked over at Zac. "You are the Avatar that Lord Furfur has been gushing about? You, uh… look kind of basic."

Zac clutched his heart and fell to the ground in a dramatic heap of leopard print. "I'm not basic!"

"This isn't the time for that!" Marchosias howled. "Just tell us if you know anything else!"

The otter cherub snapped to attention, its little wings fluttering. "I only know one more thing, sir. The humans named it."

After a few moments of tense silence, Marchosias growled, "And?"

"Its name is," the cherub swallowed hard, "REPENTANCE."

Marchosias looked shaken. His amber eyes went wide, and the color drained from his face. He slowly sank down into his chair, the weight of the revelation pressing him into the seat. With a loud crack, the chair leg that Andras had sawed through earlier finally gave way.

Marchosias fell to the ground with a heavy thud, landing right next to Zac.

As Zac watched Marchosias chase Andras out of the room yelling how he was going to strap the owl to the breaking wheel, he couldn't help but smile. Sorry, Andras, he thought. I know you were supposed to keep me from running into that Amdusias guy, but no one could ever keep me from the Wolf Daddy. It’s just fate. It’s magnetic attraction. Gravity.

However, this train of thought did bring up a good point.

“Hey Bune,” Zac questioned, “how can a demon be a unicorn? Aren't unicorns like, even more pure than me? Don't they cure disease and neutralize poisons or something?”

Bune looked over from where he was directing a few spirits in fixing up the large, Kool-Aid Man-shaped hole in the wall where Skarg had made his dramatic exit not even fifteen minutes ago.

“God created our demonic forms as a curse and a joke,” the Left Head said, quickly looking back at his work.

“Amdusias was an angel of healing before the Fall,” the Right Head added, not looking at Zac. “The unicorn form is to constantly remind him of what he once was. We have been marked forever. Tainted.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nock said, picking at a piece of dirt under his nails. “I'm fabulous.”

Zac looked over at Nock. The lion looked once again like the pampered king, his fur gold, his mane voluminous, his armor shining. “I do appreciate all the time you put into your make-up,” Zac said thoughtfully, “but I do think your all-natural look is much hotter. It’s scary sexy.”

Nock looked aghast. “Ever since I began my regimen, the others have respected me so much more! The suit makes the demon, you know.”

Bune laughed, a dry sound. “We all know who you are, Sabnock.”

As the pampered lion man began wailing about the dragon not understanding the benefits of contour and proper mane extensions, something in Zac's mind began nagging him to stop staring at the hunky demons and think for a second. Amdusias was a unicorn. Unicorns were creatures who were so pure they cured disease. And the hunky lion man before him had the Detectable Plague.

“Nock!” Zac shouted, cutting off the cosmetics clash. “Would a unicorn-skin condom work?”

Bune finally looked at Zac with both heads, horrified. Nock looked at Zac, contemplating.

Before either could voice their opinion on the absolute horror that would be a unicorn-skin condom, Halphas entered the room. The harpy eagle demon looked a bit winded and on edge, his feathers slightly ruffled.

Bune’s heads turned to the eagle, immediately beginning to grill the Earl on why he wasn't in attendance for Duke Amdusias's visit.

"Oh, I hate that guy," Halphas said, aggressively tucking his white tank top into his cargo pants and fixing the brim of his camo hat. "Don't tell me, he was singing again, wasn't he?"

"Of course he was," Bune lamented, his hands fluttering in agitation. "And I needed to sing right back at him to make him leave."

"It was awful," the Right Head said sadly, drooping low. "My ears are stained terribly."

"Ha, sucks to suck, Buney-boy," Halphas sneered, trying to sound tough as he leaned against the table. "Maybe if you just grew some nuts you would have just bit him to death. You know the Captain would give you a commendation for that, right?"

"I'm not a glutton," Bune said with a huff, turning back to his work patching up the Kool-Aid Man hole in the wall.

"I have four more testicles than you do," the Right Head added sharply over its shoulder.

"Yeah, but they are little baby girl testicles," Halphas said, puffing out his chest to its maximum, feathery expansion. He snapped his fingers, summoning himself a massive protein shake in a poof of black smoke and grey down feathers. "Not big, badass eagle balls."

Halphas took a swig, his boast dying off in his throat as he noticed Zac staring at him with an unreadable expression. The eagle choked mid-gulp.

"I... I didn't see you there, new guy."

"So, big badass eagle," Zac said sweetly, taking a slow step forward, his eyes locking onto Halphas's beady ones. "Care to explain what happened in the Trojan Horse?"

"You uh, woke up before I could make you beg me to stop, I guess," Halphas said, immediately starting to chug his drink.

"Oh is that what happened," Zac said, taking another step closer to the apparently very dehydrated demon. "Because I remember it a bit differently."

Nock and Bune watched intently.

Halphas finally had to take a breath. "You know how the human brain is," he said, snapping another drink into existence and putting it to his beak. "All mushy living cells, it's bound to make a mistake every once in a while."

Zac walked quickly up to Halphas. "Are you a pigeon?"

Halphas fully choked on his drink and spat it out everywhere. "Cough! What makes you… cough, think that, cough-coo-cough! I'm an eagle!" Coo. He coughed out a piece of bread. "Just look at me! An eagle!"

Zac wiped the soggy, half-digested piece of sliced bread from his shoulder and yelled, "Just tell me the truth! Am I never going to see eagle dick?!"

Nock and Bune grimaced in pure vicarious cringe from watching the second-in-command of the warband being sexually questioned by a scrawny human who was half his size.

Halphas spewed protein shake across the table, the liquid dripping off his beak and onto his meticulously ironed camo pants. His eyes were wide as he looked at Bune and Nock, then back at Zac, and in a voice that was just a bit too macho, he said, "What do you mean? Did I sex you so well that you have amnesia? Haha... coo."

Zac, once again wiping himself clean, crossed his arms. "Was that before or after the part where you had a panic attack and exploded into a thousand pigeons?"

"Oh, you must have been dreaming," Halphas said, looking around the room with frantic eyes. "Isn't the Avatar such a joker, guys?"

"It's not a joke," Zac said flatly. "You built up my expectations just to rug pull me. I've been fantasizing about what your dick looks like since you nearly shot me with your crossbow when I first arrived! Is it long and pointy? Is it thick and short? Is it pronged? Is it colorful? Do you have balls above the shaft? Do you have some weird fist-like dick that's bulbous near the tip?"

Halphas’s beak hung open. "You saw it last night in your dreams when I totally dicked you into a state of insanity! Bune, Nock, the virgin has lost his mind!"

"Is it perpetually slick and wet from hiding under your feathers?!" Zac yelled over the eagle. "Is it twisted like a corkscrew? Is it detachable? Is it flexible like a tentacle? Is it internal? Does it have secret muscles that would let you punch me from the inside? Is it like a pyramid, all sharp and angular? Or is it boring and shaped like a human’s?!"

"Detachable?!" Halphas squawked. "What does that even-"

"Does it start small and inflate when you get it in me?! Is it flat?! Does it have four heads and you only use half at a time so your refractory period is over by the time you blow your load so you're ready to go again right after?! Does it have a drill tip?! Is it armored?! Does it explode when you use it?!"

"IT DOES NOT EXPLODE!" Halphas yelled.

"WELL HOW WOULD I KNOW?!" Zac yelled back. "You're not even an eagle, are you?! And now I'm going to have to start thinking about what a pigeon dick looks like! You totally rug pulled me!"

Halphas sputtered, looking like he was about to lay an egg. Zac looked back at Bune and Nock, who were now very much trying to appear that they had not heard the conversation, Bune inspecting the ceiling with intense interest and Nock polishing a smudge on his gauntlet that wasn't there.

"I was promised eagle dick," Zac said through gritted teeth. "How can I trust anything? Is Bune actually a two-headed humanoid brontosaurus? I just got over learning Nock was covering himself with makeup to keep himself from being too sexy, now I have to totally reevaluate the butch dad rankings."

"You are very kind, but everyone finds a majestic golden lion with great hair much more appealing," Nock said, smoothing his mane.

"I am a dragon," Bune said.

Zac looked back at the previously mute demons. "That's not the point! He lied to me! He catfished me! I ordered big buff military eagle cock and I got served something different!"

Halphas looked mortified. "Stock doves used to be totally badass," he whispered, his voice small. "War messengers... but the only message that humans remembered was the one that told them the war ended... even though they carried the message that started the war too." Halphas looked at Zac with ashamed eyes. "I'm the Earl of Violence, and stupid humans made me into a symbol of peace! It's total bullshit!"

The eagle-man turned and power-walked out of the room, his wings sagging.

Zac closed his eyes and put a hand to his face. "Wait, Halphas..." He reached out a hand to the retreating avian.

Before Zac could call out that he was an equal opportunity monster fucker (as long as the monster was humanoid, hot, tall, and hung), a hand on his shoulder made him look back.

Bune shook his heads and muttered, "It's lesson time, Avatar. Time to learn."

"Oh fuck," Zac said. "I forgot about stupid learning."

The atmosphere in Marchosias's demonic library was usually one of oppressive, dark academia, but today it just felt exhausting. The towering shelves of petrified wood and the floating globe-lamps did little to hold Zac's attention, and even Bune seemed unusually distracted, pacing in front of the chalkboard with a sluggishness that suggested his emotional bandwidth was completely tapped out.

"The messengers are what most humans think of as angels," Bune’s Left Head droned on, staring blankly at a spot on the wall. "They look like humans and are actually often mistaken for squishy, weak humans until their holy nature is revealed, either by their wings unfurling, their beautiful, resonant voices, or even halos appearing over their heads."

Zac nodded absentmindedly, hunched over his desk. He was sketching out a new drawing with the blotchy quill. It was supposed to be a majestic, muscular eagle to commemorate Halphas's big reveal, but the beak was too short and the eyes were too round. It looked a bit more like a fiercely muscular man with a pigeon head. Zac frowned at it. Still kinda hot, actually.

"Next, there are the Seraphim," Bune continued, not bothering to look back to see if his pupil was paying attention. "They are from the highest order. They are beings of pure holy energy held together by six wings. Two wings cover their face, two cover their feet, and two, of course, are for flying."

"Did the simulacrum look like one of them?" Zac asked, tapping the feathered end of his quill against his chin. "The REPENTANCE thingy, or whatever killed the doberman demon?"

"No. That mechanical monster had all six wings on its back," Bune sighed, a puff of tired smoke escaping his nostrils. "Why something would need three sets of wings just to fly makes absolutely no sense. It defies aerodynamics."

"It appeared to be some odd, mutated messenger," Bune's Right Head chimed in, sounding equally weary. "At first, we thought it might be some hybrid with a Cherubim."

Zac half-looked up from his buff-pigeon masterpiece. "Like Skarg's cute little otter baby?"

"No, not like Skarg's legions," Bune sighed again, pinching the bridge of his snout. "Cherubim are guardians. They bear the divine throne, draw the holy chariots, and stand at the intersection of heaven and earth."

"They are incredibly powerful," the Left Head said, finally turning to look at Zac. "They possess four faces: human, lion, ox, and eagle. And they have four wings completely covered in eyes."

Zac finally looked up fully, his quill pausing. "Four faces? That sounds like something out of, I don't know, some Indian religion. Can you imagine how hard it must be to find a comfortable position to sleep if one of your faces is always getting smothered by your pillow?"

"You learn to adapt when you have multiple faces," Bune said flatly, the two heads looking at Zac with deadpan synchronicity. "And they never sleep."

"Does the lion head get hungry when the ox head gets a bloody nose?" Zac mused aloud, genuinely curious about the biological logistics of a holy chimera.

Bune let out a loud, drawn-out groan that echoed up into the vaulted ceiling. He turned back to the chalkboard.

"Finally, there are the Ophanim. They are quite the unique heavenly existence." Bune's Left Head began drawing overlapping circles on the chalkboard with quick, agitated strokes. "They appear as wheels within wheels, covered entirely in eyes, and are able to move instantly in any direction."

"What," Zac said flatly, dropping his quill. "You're telling me there are angels, fire angels, four-faced angels, and holy fidget spinners?"

Bune stopped drawing. He stared at the chalkboard for a long, silent moment. Slowly, he placed the piece of chalk on the tray. He raised two of his four hands and aggressively rubbed both of his faces, letting out a muffled sound of utter defeat.

Without another word, the dragon butler turned and headed straight for the heavy wooden doors.

"Lessons are over for the day," Bune muttered, not looking back.

"Already?!" Zac cheered, pumping his fist in the air. "Is it time for lunch already?! Oh man, I could totally crush some waffles right about now!"

Bune silently walked out of the room, leaving Zac alone with his thoughts, his appetite, and a very ripped pigeon drawing.

"Hey, wait up, Bune!" Zac shouted, jumping up so fast his chair tipped backward with a clatter.

He scrambled out of the library, his leopard-print footies sliding slightly on the polished floor, and looked up and down the corridor. It was completely, utterly empty. The flickering torches cast long, lonely shadows against the gothic arches.

"That's odd," Zac thought, scratching one of his fleece ears. "Where'd he go?"

He took a few steps down the hall, peering into the gloom. "Hey, Bune? Did you have to go poop or something? I can just wait for you here if you've got the runs!"

No answer. Just the distant, ambient groaning of the demonic keep settling on its foundations.

Zac crossed his arms and leaned against the cold stone wall to wait. And wait. As the minutes ticked by, the hallway seemed to play tricks on his eyes, the perspective warping like a camera trick so that the corridor looked like it was actively stretching longer and longer the more he stared down it.

After thirty minutes of standing alone in the spooky, stretching hallway, Zac started to feel a bit dumb.

"He ditched me," Zac muttered, blinking in realization. "He actually just straight-up left me alone."

His eyes widened. The implication finally set in. "Oh. Am I free to do whatever I want now? Fuck yeah. I'm gonna do some bad dog shit and finally have some fun."

He pushed off the wall, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he marched down the hall, ready to unleash chaos upon the Broken Antler's pristine headquarters.

Ten minutes later, Zac was not having very much fun.

He wandered aimlessly, the harsh reality of Marchosias's monastic lifestyle crashing down on him. There was absolutely nothing to do in this giant, obsidian halfway house.

He mentally ran through his options. He could go to the dining hall, but Halphas was definitely avoiding him… or worse, plotting revenge for the pigeon-shaming incident. If Zac asked for food now, he’d probably just get served a raw Bicorn head or a bowl of gravel.

He could take a bath or a shower, but both of those options currently resulted in him losing several layers of his epidermis. His skin was still tender from Private Ami's barnacle-brushing and the near-fatal boiling in the caldarium.

He could try to find the other demons to hang out with, but they were all currently avoiding him or nursing their wounded egos. Skarg was probably still frozen in a block of his own shame after getting muzzled by a camel. Andras was off brooding in the shadows because his dog liked Zac better. The only one who didn't seem actively upset with him was Nock. But Zac had a sneaking suspicion that Timon and Pumbaa would be a bit salty about being cast as disposable extras and brutally minced into pork sausage just so the lion could impress a human in a dream.

Zac sighed heavily, the sound echoing down the never-ending corridor. His leopard tail drooped, dragging limply on the stone.

"I guess I was a bit of an asshole to Bune yesterday," he mumbled to the empty air. "I really shouldn't have made light of his hoarding addiction."

A sharp pang of genuine guilt stabbed through his chest, entirely bypassing his magically suppressed fear reflex to poke directly at his conscience. Bune had literally broken down crying in front of him. The dragon had admitted how hard he was struggling, and Zac had just brushed it off because he was too focused on his own blue balls.

And the others... Bune had said Marchosias was trying to help all of them.

Zac leaned against a suit of armor, his mind drifting to the Captain. Marchosias was so tired all the time, so grouchy and burdened. Even though that perpetually exhausted, stern energy made him top-tier in the butch dad rankings, Zac knew the wolf was hurting. March didn't seem to know how to smile. The only time Zac had seen him even slightly honest, slightly unguarded, was when he was just waking up from a nap, blearily kneading Zac's sides like a big, sleepy puppy. Zac still didn't know why the wolf was voluntarily celibate, why he pushed everyone away, but he was actively trying to help prevent Bune from relapsing. That was honestly really beautiful. It was the kind of deep, tragic nobility that kept March at the absolute top of the hottest-in-the-house list, even ignoring the fact that salt-and-pepper wolfmen were already Zac's most cherished trope.

Then there was Bune. The dragon man was a fussy neat-freak to be sure, but maybe all that cleaning, all that obsessive organization, helped distract him from the literal hunger for gold that threatened to consume him. Bune had saved Zac from getting maimed countless times already. Zac honestly didn't think he would even be sane right now without Bune's constant caretaking. The butler was usually the first face (or faces) Zac saw in the morning and the last he saw at night. He even took time out of his own day to try and teach Zac things. Even though Zac hated school, he knew Bune probably didn't put 'teaching a non-receptive, hypersexual human' at the top of his list of fun things to do.

Zac groaned, rubbing his face as he thought of Halphas. The buff, nerdy eagle who seemed so cocky and confident. The guy who had conjured Zac coffee and waffles on demand, who had actually managed to convince Zac to work out a bit. Halphas was so insecure with himself that he was literally projecting a magical illusion 24/7. He had some sort of severe avian imposter syndrome; he hated being a pigeon.

Zac felt another deep, sharp pang of guilt. "And I said I wanted eagle dick every single day," he whispered, horrified at his own past behavior. "Of course he wouldn't be honest that he was a pigeon. He probably thought I'd call him a gutter bird like the others did. How the fuck did I not get all the hints? It's like everyone was explicitly telling me he wasn't actually an eagle."

Zac's mind drifted to Andras. The owl wasn't hiding his appearance; he was hiding his emotions. The corsair was so obviously suffering from severe avoidant attachment style that Zac didn't even know how to begin to break through the bird's walls. The only thing in Hell that Andras seemed to actually care about was Goremaw, and the doggo wasn't talking. From the moment Zac saw the owl practically piss himself and dissolve into shadows just because Zac said ‘I love you,’ he knew the owl wasn't the heartless bad boy he claimed to be. He was just terrified of getting close.

And then there was Nock. Zac sighed heavily. The lion was hiding himself too, but he wasn't ashamed of his species; he was ashamed of his body. Feline body dysmorphia. How a literal demon could hate looking demonic was beyond Zac, but he felt a profound ache for the lion. He had an incurable, magical STD and was so deeply ashamed when Zac saw him "without his face on" in the pool that he had actually crawled away and called himself worthless.

Zac started to walk again, his leopard-print slippers making no sound. The endless stone halls of the keep seemed darker now, the silence heavier and more oppressive than it had been.

Finally, there was Skarg.

There was no way, absolutely no way, that Amdusias had been telling the truth. The nude, barbarian wendigo could not be the Demon of Love. He was all testosterone, all machismo, all blunt, primal lust. He was a force of freezing nature.

But... Zac thought, chewing on his lower lip. That little baby otter demon...

It was so much different than Bune's spectral maids or Nock's bug-infested living armor. Even Halphas's homing-pigeon recruit, Cher Ami, made sense for the Earl of Violence (messenger pigeons were vital in historical warfare). But the cherub? The cute, squeaky little flying otter that had run right to the caribou to report about the battlefront? That wasn't the kind of creature that would serve a demon of ice or cavemen. It was the kind of creature that would serve a Disney princess. Or a god of springtime mating.

Zac shook his head, a blush creeping up his neck. Shit. Skarg made me orgasm so fast when he dream-fucked me. I didn't even touch myself. Maybe he actually IS a professional lover.

He thought back to the scene in the war room, how Skarg had completely lost his mind, yelling and running through a solid wall just to escape when Zac and the others had heard his true nature sung aloud.

He is ashamed of being the Demon of Love, Zac realized. Does he think it isn't manly? I guess it does seem like an odd power for a high-ranking demon of Hell to have. If his whole identity is built around being the biggest, baddest, coldest brute in the Pit... being outed as the 'smashing chauffeur of passion' would ruin his entire tough-guy image.

Zac stopped walking, feeling a sudden, physical wave of nausea wash over him.

He didn't know anything about his new roommates. All he had done since he arrived was sexually harass every single one of them. Sure, they had played along, mostly, they were demons, after all, and lust was their native tongue. But looking back at the past few days, the picture shifted.

The Broken Antler warband wasn't filled with terrifying, unstoppable monsters. It was filled with sad, broken men who were all deeply, profoundly emotionally compromised.

Am I the asshole? Zac thought. No, it's the ancient demons who are wrong.

That total dick, Ose. He had brought me here under completely false pretenses, promising me a glorious afterlife filled with hot anthros who would totally gape me. I've been holding up his end of the bargain! Ose never said I would have to remain a pristine, untouched virgin to do this job!

Zac clenched his fists. An old, familiar feeling began to build, a hot, prickly pressure behind his eyes and a tight, aching lump in his throat. He looked around the empty, stretching corridor, his eyes landing on the closest door.

"If I knew this was going to happen, I would have opted for generic poor people Hell," Zac muttered, his voice trembling. His mind flashed back to the chaotic descent into the Pit with Skarg on their lunch date. "There were so many damned souls getting railed by minotaurs down there. So many screaming while getting gang-banged by goat demons..."

He marched up to the heavy wooden door. "I'll just die again. And then I'll tell that bitch leopard the contract is void. I'll jump into the void leech pit and get my do-over."

He squeezed his eyes shut, threw the door open, and ran into the room blindly, expecting to plummet into a bottomless shaft of toothy worms.

Instead, he just kept running. He ran for much longer than he thought he would before his slippered foot caught on an uneven flagstone. He tripped, flailing wildly, and crashed hard onto a floor covered in dry, scratchy hay.

The heavy, pungent smell of sulfur, damp earth, and raw animal dung hit his nose.

Zac groaned, rolling onto his back and peeling his eyes open. He wasn't in a bottomless pit. He was in the infernal stables.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked around. The massive cavern was cast in deep shadows, but he could see the inhabitants in their reinforced iron stalls. And they were all looking at him.

But it wasn't with the predatory hunger they usually displayed. It was with fear. And disgust.

The Bicorns whinnied nervously, stomping their hooves and backing into the furthest corners of their pens. The Giant Vespers shuffled higher into the rafters, wrapping their leathery wings tightly around themselves to block him from sight. The terrifying Arachne-Strider spider skittered backward, retreating behind the thick wall of silk it had spun to keep him away.

"Well, fuck you too!" Zac yelled, his throat feeling unbearably tight.

Tears finally spilled over his lashes. "I didn't want to be here either! I should be alive on Earth still! Living my best life... going to my shitty job... and avoiding cleaning my shitty apartment... eating shitty processed food..." His voice cracked, trailing off into a choked, wet cough.

He scrambled to his feet, angrily wiping his face with the fleece sleeves of his onesie. He sniffed loudly, his chest heaving as he breathed in the dusty stable air, and glared around at the cowering monsters with accusing eyes.

"At least you all get groomed!" Zac shouted through clenched teeth. "I was in a pen too, and I didn't even have anyone to scrub my fucking back!"

The demonic beasts all aggressively avoided his eyes, looking at the floor, the walls, anywhere but the crying human in the leopard pajamas.

Zac looked around furiously, his vision blurred with tears, until his gaze finally fell on the low-walled pen near the back.

Leonardo, the Pygmy Aspidochelone, was sitting exactly where Zac had left him. The massive, jagged snapping turtle was looking back at Zac with ancient, unblinking, pitch-black eyes.

"And you, slow ass!" Zac shouted, pointing a shaking finger at the reptile. "I thought I was going to get some badass Ferrari to ride! And you're just a fucking joke!"

Leonardo didn't move. He didn't blink. He just stared.

"YOU SUCK!" Zac raged, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "I DON'T WANT A MOUNT WITH TRAINING WHEELS!"

Despite Zac's screaming, the Aspidochelone still did not react. It was a literal stone wall.

That pushed Zac over the edge. He rushed over to the paddock, grabbed the top of the iron gate, and clumsily vaulted over it, landing heavily in the dirt right in front of the beast.

He marched right up to the dangerous, razor-sharp beak that Bune had warned him could snap a sailor in half.

"Come on then! Eat me, stupid turtle!" Zac sobbed, throwing his arms wide open. "I know you're probably dying to eat something that isn't tossed to you! You're a wild animal! Use those demonic instincts and just end me so this fucking nightmare of being blue-balled can end!"

Leonardo slowly blinked at Zac.

"ARGHHH!" Zac wailed in a fit of absolute, unrestrained rage.

He began kicking at the hay, sending clouds of dust and straw flying into the air. He grabbed the empty feed buckets hanging from the low iron fence and hurled them across the stable. He marched over to the heavy stone water trough and, with a scream of adrenaline-fueled effort, managed to flip it over. Hundreds of gallons of stagnant, sulfur-smelling water flooded the paddock, soaking the hay and splashing up to his knees.

"I HATE HELL! I HATE HELL! I HATE HELL!"

Zac rushed around the pen, throwing a full-blown, category-five temper tantrum, stomping in the puddles and kicking the fallen buckets again for good measure.

Through it all, Leonardo remained completely motionless, a jagged boulder ignoring the frustrated chaos swirling around him.

Zac's emotional breakdown eventually ran out of steam, the fiery rage cooling into a cold, heavy despair. He slumped down onto the floor, sitting directly in the puddle of muddy, wet hay, no longer caring about his onesie or his dignity.

"All I wanted was hot demon dick," Zac sobbed into his hands, his shoulders shaking. "And I got sent off to demonic conversion therapy camp instead. Why did you do this to me, God?"

There was a slow, grinding sound of stone on stone.

Zac lifted his head. Leonardo had finally moved. The massive Pygmy Aspidochelone was slowly, methodically walking up to where Zac was sitting.

Zac looked up into the turtle's pitch-black, ancient eyes. He sniffed, trying to blink away his own tears, but they kept coming.

"Good," Zac whimpered, tipping his chin up and exposing his throat. "Just bite my fucking head off. Be a good boy and eat me. I'm done with this bullshit."

Leonardo stopped right in front of him. The massive turtle slowly opened his jagged, razor-sharp beak wide, revealing a dark, fleshy gullet.

Zac squeezed his eyes shut. "Just do it right," he whispered, bracing himself. "I don't want to wake up needing a face transplant."

He waited. His heart pounded a slow, resigned rhythm against his ribs.

He heard the terrifying, bone-crushing SNAP of the turtle's beak.

But he didn't feel anything.

Zac peeked one eye open.

Leonardo wasn't looking at him. The massive turtle was happily munching on a small pile of assorted, bloody meat chunks that were resting on the floor right between Zac's splayed legs. They must have spilled there when Zac had tossed the feed buckets in his rage.

Crunch. Squelch. Crunch.

Zac blinked a few times, staring at the turtle. Then, a fresh wave of heat bloomed in his chest, rising up into his throat until it finally overwhelmed him.

The dam broke.

Zac started to cry. It wasn't a delicate, single-tear-rolling-down-the-cheek kind of cry. It was an ugly, gasping, full-body sob, right there in the middle of a muddy puddle mixed with minced paladin meat.

He lunged forward and threw his arms around Leonardo's thick, scaly neck, burying his face against the cool reptile skin. He coughed, choking on his own snot as his suppressed emotions crashed over him like a tidal wave against a poorly constructed levee.

"I'm the youngest one here!" he sobbed, his voice raw and broken. "I should be the one having an emotional crisis, not the demons! I'm the one who died! And now I'm expected to be their tool! A cure for addiction! A spy! Someone to boost their fragile fucking egos!"

He wailed, the sound echoing mournfully in the cavernous stable. "Oh yeah, I totally won't get mad that they have been lying about who they are and dressing up in a mech suit of pigeons! I totally won't be pissed that they act like assholes who are too cool to be honest! We are all in Hell! So why the fuck are they hiding?!"

He could feel Leonardo’s throat working as the turtle continued to methodically munch on the spilled scraps, completely unbothered by the human clinging to him. Zac hugged the massive beast even tighter, finding a strange comfort in the creature’s solid, indifferent presence.

"I'm the one who never got my first kiss," Zac gasped, his voice hitching as the deepest, most painful truth tore its way out of him. "I never got my first date. I never got to feel young love. If I was honest when I was alive... I would have been beat up. I would have been fired. My family would have disowned me."

His fingers dug into the thick folds of Leonardo's skin. "So I hid it. I jerked off so much in secret just to keep my hormones under control so I wouldn't accidentally get worked up and hit on a coworker! So I wouldn't stare at the guys at work! There was no way I could be honest! But Nock? Or Halphas? Who the fuck cares if they don't look beautiful, they're fucking demons! Rich, royal, fucking demons! They can be whoever the hell they want to be!"

Zac pushed his face harder into the Aspidochelone's leathery neck, feeling his own tears and snot smearing against the scales.

"I didn't even want to find human guys hot," he confessed, the shame burning hot in his chest. "I didn't want to slip up and get outed. But after so many years of consuming hot monster-men smut... I realized I couldn't even get off to human porn anymore."

Zac let out a pathetic whimper as a fresh wave of choking tears poured out of him. "I'm a fucking freak. And I couldn't even escape it, either! Everywhere I went, I had to be online! I couldn't get rid of my computer or my phone! I couldn't block the sites where I could find it because a new one would pop up the next day!"

He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to force air into his burning lungs.

"And now it's a thousand times worse," he sobbed. "I'm in Hell. I'm surrounded by my deepest sexual shame... and I'm still getting turned down. I'm still alone."

Zac cried until he couldn't breathe, his wails slowly subsiding into quiet, exhausted hiccups. The silence in the stables felt heavy, pressing in on him from the shadows.

Then, he felt a shift.

Leonardo had finished eating the meat scraps. The massive Pygmy Aspidochelone slowly lowered his body, his plastron settling into the mud. He tucked his legs slightly inward, and with a slow, grinding sound, he extended his neck and rested his heavy, jagged head directly into Zac's lap.

Leonardo didn't blink. He just sat there, looking up at Zac with his beady, pitch-black eyes, a solid, unmoving anchor in a sea of emotional wreckage.

Zac leaned forward, resting his forehead against the turtle’s jagged shell, and closed his eyes. The surface was coarse and unyielding, like resting his head on a rough-hewn cinderblock, but right now, it felt grounding.

"I miss my family. I miss Earth," Zac whimpered, his voice muffled against the stone-like carapace. "I should have just come out when I realized I was gay. Even if it was against their religion. Even if they disowned me... even if they hated me. I could have been true to myself. I could have had my same shitty life, but I wouldn't have felt so alone."

He let out a shaky breath, the cold air of the stable biting at his damp cheeks.

"By the time I was in my mid-twenties, I didn't even know how to talk to someone else about sex. I didn't even know what a relationship was supposed to be like." Zac's voice grew faint, cracking under the weight of his own regrets. "No matter how people roleplayed online on chatboards, or how they sexted over dating apps... when we tried to connect in real life, I just felt like I was a broken loser."

Leonardo shifted slightly, his massive, rocky head nuzzling deeper into Zac's lap with a slow, deliberate pressure.

"And now I'm in March's therapy office," Zac whispered, his tears finally running dry. "And everyone here is just as fucked up as I am."

Zac's voice faded off into the quiet hum of the infernal stables. The adrenaline and the emotional purge had drained whatever energy he had left. He went limp, his breathing evening out as he fell asleep right there in the mud, using his demonic, man-eating turtle mount as a very uncomfortable, very steady pillow.

...

The sun-dappled side of a rocky mountain basked in the warmth of a perfect, cloudless afternoon. A gentle breeze rustled through vibrant green pines, carrying with it the cheerful, melodic trill of mountain bluebirds. A small, winding dirt road snaked its way up the steep incline, picture-perfect and inviting.

Zac was skipping along the path.

He bounded upward with a joyful, springy step, laughing as he played in the beautiful weather. Two thick, perfectly braided golden pigtails bounced against his shoulders with every skip, tied off with dainty red ribbons that fluttered in the wind. He didn't question the hair, or the sudden idyllic alpine setting. He was just vibing.

Zac stopped mid-skip, his nose twitching as he sniffed the breeze.

"Oh shit, is someone cooking waffles? Fuck yea," he said cheerfully.

He abandoned his skipping and followed his nose, letting the rich, buttery scent of toasted batter and maple syrup guide him off the main path. He pushed through a thicket of bushes and came to a sudden halt.

Carved into the sheer rocky cliff face was the horrible, gaping mouth of a cave. It didn't look like a natural geological formation; it looked exactly like the maw of a massive, subterranean beast. Jagged stalactites and stalagmites jutted from the ceiling and floor, interlocking perfectly like rows of razor-sharp teeth. The cheerful birdsong abruptly died at the threshold, and the air bleeding out from the darkness was significantly colder, carrying a damp, ominous chill.

"Hmm," Zac thought, a bubbly, unbothered smile spreading across his face. He cupped his hands around his mouth, took a deep breath, and yelled into the dark.

"Hey! Is there anyone in there?! I smell waffles and I'm starving! All this frolicking has really worked up an appetite!"

His voice echoed down into the pitch-black depths. He waited, rocking back and forth on his heels.

There was no answer from the spooky death cave. Not even a rustle.

"Well, alright then," Zac said, giving a carefree shrug. His hunger easily overrode whatever proper etiquette existed for breaking and entering into a terrifying monster lair. With his golden pigtails swishing behind him, he marched right past the stone teeth and disappeared into the gloom.

Zac walked through the cave, which seemed like it had been carved into the mountain by hand. It was quite easy for him to skip along since the ground was perfectly flat, with no jagged rocks to catch his feet. The deeper he went, the more the natural sunlight faded away behind him, swallowed by the thick, heavy silence and the encroaching dark.

"Do do do," Zac hummed to himself as he noticed the flicker of firelight ahead of him. "That's lucky. It's pretty dark in here."

He approached an odd sight: a massive, polished wooden dining table sitting right in the middle of the cavern, surrounded by lit torches in iron sconces. But Zac's mind was not giving too much effort to thinking about the logistical weirdness of a formal dining setup in a creepy dark cave. His mind was laser-focused on one thing.

Waffles.

Zac looked across the table. There were three plates, each with a waffle resting on top, neatly laid out with polished silverware and folded cloth napkins.

He leaned over and took a deep sniff. "Mmmm, that's the good stuff."

Without a second thought, Zac immediately ran up to the first setting, grabbed the waffle with both hands, and tried to take a huge bite out of it.

CLANG.

A sharp jolt of pain ran through Zac's jaw, rattling his teeth. "Yaow! What the-"

He pulled the pastry away from his face and looked down at it. It was a waffle, complete with perfect square grids, but it was made of solid, heavy, 24-karat gold.

Zac unceremoniously dropped it back onto the table. The fine china plate shattered instantly under the immense weight of the gold waffle.

"NEXT."

He shimmied over to the second plate, picked up the waffle, and, once again, took a huge, unhesitating bite.

His teeth sank in. It was soft, squishy, and room-temperature. Zac's eyes went wide. He convulsed and aggressively spat it out.

Splat. Slightly chewed, raw, bloody meat sprayed across the table and the silverware.

"What," Zac sputtered, wiping his tongue with the back of his hand, "who ordered waffle meatloaf?!"

He looked down at the offending meal in his hand. Stamped directly into the middle of the raw meat waffle was the distinct silhouette of a Bicorn. Zac frowned in disgust and dropped the high-protein faux breakfast food back onto its plate with a wet, squelching slap.

Finally, Zac approached the third and final plate. He was much more cautious this time. He leaned in, looking at it closely. He sniffed it. He poked it with a finger. It yielded with a satisfying, crispy crunch.

Finally, he took a hesitant, tiny bite.

Zac's eyes went wide.

Nomnomnom!

Zac basically unhinged his jaw and devoured the rest of the waffle in a single, inhaling breath.

"Perfect," he said wistfully as he picked up the provided napkin and daintily patted at his lips. "The blueberries even tasted fresh."

Zac stretched his arms high overhead, his golden pigtails lifting with the motion, and let out a loud, satisfied burp. Immediately after, his stomach gave a deep, familiar rumble.

Zac smiled, patting his belly. "Nothing like a post-breakfast poop to get the day going on the right foot."

He looked around the dimly lit cave, and, as if by dream magic, a sturdy wooden door materialized in the rock wall, complete with a tasteful, hand-painted sign that read: Lavatory.

Zac nodded in approval and skipped over to the door. "I'm glad March has instructed his creepy, sentient keep to begin labeling the bathrooms. Total lifesaver."

He pushed the door open. The inside of the cave bathroom was surprisingly sparse. Zac didn't really mind that the dream hadn't rendered much in the way of decor; all that mattered was that there were three distinct choices of toilets lined up against the far wall.

Zac strutted up to the first one, grabbed the hem of his newly-manifested leopard-print sundress, hiked it up, and sat down on the rim with a confident huff.

He instantly jumped straight up into the air.

"COLD!" he wailed, rubbing his goosebump-covered thighs.

He looked back at the throne. The entire toilet, the bowl, the tank, the seat... was completely made of solid, unyielding gold. It was ostentatious and aggressively un-ergonomic. Zac shook his head in disgust before waddling a few feet to the side to take a look at the second option.

He paused. The second toilet was an engineering marvel, but not in a good way. It was outfitted with multiple heavy-duty handlebars, leather foot straps bolted to the floor, and what looked suspiciously like a five-point racing harness draped over the tank.

Zac frowned deeply. "Nope. I am not strapping myself in to take a shit. That's just asking for trauma."

He waddled a bit further along until he saw, luckily, that the third toilet seemed completely, blissfully average. White porcelain, a standard plastic seat, and a normal flush handle.

Zac smiled, hiking his sundress up again, and popped a squat.

"Ahh," he sighed, relaxing his shoulders. "Just right."

After his post-meal pushing, Zac stepped back out into the main expanse of the cave, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn.

"All that pooping really tired me out," Zac declared to the empty cavern. "I think I'll take a nap."

He began to wander a bit deeper into the cave, peering through the gloom to find where a bedroom might naturally occur in a subterranean rock formation. Suddenly, a helpful, glowing wooden sign popped into existence overhead, a bright red arrow pointing around a bend in the tunnel.

Alright, Zac thought, shrugging. This is an awesome cave, so why not trust it?

He followed the sign, stepping into an alcove where the wall-mounted torches seemed to be magically dimmed, casting a soft, sleepy glow over the area. He rubbed his eyes as he looked across what were apparently three very distinct options for sleeping.

The first 'bed' was exactly what he expected at this point: a massive, towering pile of solid gold coins, chalices, and jeweled crowns. It looked incredibly expensive and incredibly uncomfortable.

The second bed was... concerning. It was an oversized, adult-scaled wooden crib, complete with high wooden slats, a pastel-colored mobile of spinning demons hanging overhead, and a disconcertingly thick, crinkly mattress pad. Zac shuddered and immediately looked away.

The third bed, however, was a beacon of hope. It was a normal, human-sized bed with a thick, fluffy comforter, a mountain of plush pillows, and crisp, clean sheets.

Zac shrugged. "Let's just cut to the chase."

He skipped over the gold pile, gave the weird adult crib a wide berth, and threw himself face-first onto the third bed.

"Ahhh, just right," he sighed, nuzzling deeper into the warm, incredibly comfortable blankets and letting the sleepy darkness of the cave take over.

But, as soon as Zac's eyes closed, he heard heavy movement echoing from deeper within the cave. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Zac quickly pulled the fluffy comforter up over his head, curling into a tight ball. Scary monsters can never find me here, he thought, employing the universal childhood defense mechanism against the dark.

"Someone's been sleeping in my bed," a deep, growling voice rumbled, vibrating through the mattress. "And he's still here."

With a violent whoosh, the blanket was torn away, leaving Zac exposed on the sheets in his leopard-print sundress.

Zac let out a high-pitched shriek of fear, crossing his arms over his chest as the torches in the cave suddenly flared to full brightness.

He blinked against the sudden light, rubbing his eyes before slowly looking up.

There were three Bunes standing at the foot of the bed. Not three heads on one body... three entirely separate dragon-men, each distinct and towering over the mattress.

The first Bune, the one with the features of the Left Head, was outfitted in a pristine, sharp black tuxedo, complete with a bowtie and a silver pocket watch chain. He looked every inch the refined, wealthy gentleman.

The second Bune, the Right Head, was dressed in a neatly pressed tweed suit with leather elbow patches, adjusting a pair of reading glasses on his snout. He looked like an austere, slightly disappointed university professor.

The third Bune, the Middle Head, was a walking fashion disaster of aggressive wealth. He wore a lurid purple suit coat with ridiculously frilly white lace at the shoulders and cuffs. Around his neck hung an absurd number of heavy gold chains and medallions, clinking noisily with his every breath. He looked like a grotesque caricature of a jealous, hoarding miser who had robbed a Renaissance fair.

Zac looked between the three towering, suited dragons, his pigtails drooping slightly. "Is this the part where I run away?"

"YOU WILL NEVER RUN!" the Middle Bune roared, leaning over the footboard, his heavy gold chains clattering against the wood. "YOU ARE MINE NOW!"

"As if you do not already run from every mess you make," Right said, pushing up his glasses with a scowl. Then, his voice shifted instantly into the frantic, high-pitched tone of a deeply concerned babysitter. "Where did you even go? We've been looking for you everywhere! The keep is under double lockdown now, and the Captain has been pulling his fur out in worry!"

Left gracefully took a seat on the edge of the bed next to Zac, resting a hand on his knee and holding the other out hesitantly. "Are you okay, Zachary?"

Zac nodded dumbly. His brain was struggling to decipher the logistics of the situation. Were there three separate dragons, or was this one dragon with three distinct personalities operating on a split-screen dream server? Having them all talking at him at once was a bit tricky.

"TELL ME WHERE YOUR PHYSICAL BODY RESTS AND I WILL COME AND CONSUME YOU!" Middle bellowed, spit flying as he licked his chops. "WITH FAVA BEANS! SLURP!"

"If you are in the keep and not in your room, you might be in danger!" Right wailed, pacing nervously. "The locks and warding magic are for your own good, Avatar! Remember, shark cage!"

Left waved his hands at the other two, a silent command for them to quiet down. He looked back at Zac, his golden eyes filled with genuine regret. "Zachary, the way I treated you today... I did... I am... I want to apologize for how I-"

Zac didn't let him finish. He sprang up from the bed, his golden pigtails flying, and dove directly at Left.

Left gave a high-pitched yelp, throwing his hands up to protect his face. "Ahhh! Not the penis attack again!"

"YES! I WILL GIVE IT TO YOU!" Middle roared enthusiastically, stepping forward and eagerly adjusting his crotch.

"We don't have a tactical robe to net him with this time!" Right shrieked, looking around frantically for something to throw.

But Zac didn't attack anything below the belt. Instead, he wrapped his arms fiercely around Left’s neck, burying his face in the crisp lapel of the tuxedo. All the heavy, crushing emotions from his breakdown in the stables suddenly surfaced once more, washing over him in a warm, aching wave.

"I'm so sorry, Bune," Zac mumbled into the suit fabric, his voice thick. "You shouldn't have to apologize to me. I was a total sex pest."

Left blinked, his arms hovering awkwardly in the air before slowly, gently wrapping around Zac's back.

Right stopped his frantic pacing, his jaw hanging open in utter shock, his glasses sliding down his snout.

Middle let out a deep, rumbling purr, rubbing his hands over his own belly. "Yes... and I will exterminate your lust. Get in my belly."

Left hesitantly hugged Zac, his touch gentle despite his claws. "No, you are not at fault. You were right to be upset with me. I have been treating you like my own therapy device, not allowing you to have any autonomy."

"But he is so fragile!" Right cried, wringing his hands.

"BUT HE IS SO FUCKABLE!" Middle roared, lunging forward.

"BE QUIET!" Left snapped, his voice echoing with authority. "Don't you get it? When we were in the throes of our addiction, we had no autonomy. We were slaves to our desires... to the constant urges, needing to know where the next coin was coming from, feeling that sickening feeling that we needed more and more and more. We were not free. Just as we have not allowed Zachary to be free."

Right pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. Middle growled and turned away, fidgeting with his golden necklaces, clearly uncomfortable with all the introspection.

Left turned back to look at Zac, his expression softening. "I know you have urges. It is not your fault."

Zac hugged Left again, tears falling down his face. "But I shouldn't have been such a prissy bitch about it! I didn't spend any time to get to know you, and even when I found out, I still used it against you in an argument because I was frustrated."

Left patted Zac's head soothingly. "It's more than alright. That bastard God has cursed all humans of a certain age with a similar pathological hunger. But instead of gold... you all desire to rub your naughty bits against each other."

Right nodded his head sagely. "God did not want to have to hand-make every human, so he installed a self-replication protocol."

"YES! YOU ALL WANT TO FUCK AND SPREAD YOUR TASTY SEED!" Middle said, whipping back around to gaze at Zac hungrily.

Zac wiped away a tear. "Do you really mean it? Is being a weirdo horny freak not just something I have to deal with? It's the way God made all humans?"

Left nodded and hugged Zac back. Right wailed dramatically and joined the hug, wrapping his arms around both Left and Zac.

Middle ripped his shirt off, buttons flying everywhere. "THANKFULLY! NOW LET'S GET TO THE GOOD PART!"

Zac smiled as he felt Middle's hands begin to reach under his sundress. "I'll try not to be such an asshole, Bune. I'm really sorry. It's a good thing I got to have a little talk with Leonardo. It really helped me settle some of my baggage from when I was alive."

"That's more than alright, I forgive you," Left cooed.

"Wait," Right said, pulling back slightly. "Who's Leonardo?"

Middle panted in Zac's ear, "I'm going to fuck you so hard, you're getting triple penetrated, you thirsty little thot."

Zac leaned back into Middle, his breath growing heavy as he felt the lustful dragon man's large hand begin to squeeze his ass. "Oh, you know, Leo. My turtle."

"THE ASPIDOCHELONE?!" Right and Left yelled in unison. "YOU'RE IN THE PEN WITH HIM?!"

…

Zac shuddered awake, the smell of the stable filling his nostrils.

He looked around, blinking in the dim light. Leonardo was still asleep on his lap, his massive, rocky head pinning Zac’s legs to the muddy floor.

Zac groaned and scratched the turtle's head. "Leo, my legs are asleep. Get off."

Zac sat in the middle of the muddy stable pen, his leopard-print onesie thoroughly ruined, happily petting the jagged, rocky head of the demonic snapping turtle.

"Oh, whosa good boy? Who has a heavy head?" Zac cooed, his voice pitching up into that ridiculous, universal pet-owner register. "You do, don't you? Who made my legs fall asleep? It was you, huh? With your big watermelon noggin. Oh, whosagoodboy!"

Zac winced, trying to stretch out his lower half. Being pinned under a boulder-sized reptile for hours had completely cut off the circulation to his calves. As his hands stopped their rhythmic scratching to rub at his thighs, Leonardo let out a sharp, grating hiss, his ancient eyes narrowing.

"Okay, okay, I'm doing it," Zac quickly resumed petting the thick, leathery skin behind the beast's jaws, and the turtle relaxed back into his lap.

With his free hand, Zac began picking up the remaining bits of leftover meat chunks from the wet, hay-covered ground. He didn't even care what the squishy, bloody protein used to belong to anymore. He just tossed the gore directly into Leonardo's waiting, razor-sharp beak. Crunch. Squelch.

At least Bune will be here soon, Zac thought, watching the turtle happily masticate. Bune's dream-self had panicked about Zac being in the pen, which meant the real Bune was probably already on his way down here to fish him out.

Zac groaned in pain, leaning forward to furiously massage some life back into his right leg. A fierce, biting wave of pins and needles erupted from his knee down to his toes. It hurt like hell, but it was a welcome feeling; it meant his legs hadn't been strangled to death and would be back under his control in a few moments.

Suddenly, the dim gloom of the stables was obliterated.

A blinding blast of pure, white-silver light erupted, forcing Zac to squeeze his eyes shut against the glare. A deafening CRACK of displaced air shattered the silence, followed immediately by a wave of dust and debris that coated Zac's face. The harsh, metallic smell of ozone and burning hair flooded his nostrils.

Startled, Zac tried to turn and scramble away, but his legs, still deep in the throes of the pins-and-needles phase, completely betrayed him. He flopped over like a wet noodle, falling face-first into the muddy, bloody slop of the pen.

Through the ringing in his ears, he heard the heavy thud of boots.

Marchosias vaulted over the small iron fence with terrifying speed. His midnight greatcoat flapped wildly behind him, his armored boots sending arcs of wet mud flying into the air as he landed in the pen.

"You filthy, shelled pea-brain!" the Wolf Captain howled. A second, terrifying ball of atomic annihilation breath was already forming in his snarling maw, glowing with blinding intensity. "You'll die for paralyzing Zac!"

Marchosias unleashed the blast of silver fire directly at Leonardo.

The beam of holy destruction struck the Aspidochelone dead center. Zac blinked furiously, trying to clear the spots from his vision to see the horrific carnage of his new pet being atomized.

As the smoke cleared, Zac gasped.

Leonardo had barely even flinched. The fearsome beam of silver fire, the same breath attack that had erased a massive Bicorn and half a medical table from existence without a trace, had left nothing but a tiny, smoking scorch mark on the turtle's rocky back.

Leonardo surged forward… well, "surge" might be a strong word. He advanced with the inexorable, grinding momentum of a tectonic plate, walking right over the top of Zac much like a slow-motion steamroller. Zac sputtered, his face pushed deep into the wet, dirty floor as the living boulder positioned itself protectively between him and the furious wolf.

Leonardo extended his long, wrinkled neck and hissed at Marchosias, a sound like steam escaping a geyser.

"EVERYTHING IS RUINED!" Marchosias yelled, his voice raw with fury and pain. "I've been trying so hard! And a mindless reptile has ruined my plans!"

Zac pushed himself up onto his elbows, wiping mud from his eyes. He was about to defend his new BFF Leo, he's not mindless, he just really likes organ meat!.. but what March said next made his breath catch in his throat.

"The Avatar was innocent! He was pure!" March howled, his amber eyes burning with silver fire. "And once again, demonic scum has destroyed something good!"

Zac rolled over just in time to see Marchosias pulling his longsword from its sheath with a ring of steel. The wolf captain advanced on the turtle, the blade glowing ominously. "You will understand what it means to regret!"

Zac scrambled. His legs were still jelly, refusing to support his weight, so he dragged himself forward using his arms, hauling himself up using the turtle's rocky shell as leverage. He winced as the rough carapace ripped into his palms, but he didn't stop. With a desperate heave, Zac flung himself over the top of the shell, landing between the hissing turtle and March's swinging sword.

"STOP!" Zac shouted, throwing his arms wide. "Killing Leo isn't very cowabunga!"

Marchosias's eyes went wide with horror. He jerked his sword upward at the last possible nanosecond, his muscles screaming against the momentum. The blade hissed through the air, slicing cleanly through one of the floppy fleece leopard ears on Zac’s hood.

The force of the sudden redirection sent Marchosias spinning. He lost his footing in the slick mud and went down hard, crashing onto his back with a heavy, armored thud.

Zac fell over too, not from the force of the sword swing or the shock of near-decapitation, but simply because his legs were still completely asleep. He toppled forward like a felled tree, landing directly on top of the sprawling wolf captain with a soft, muddy splat.

Zac lay chest-to-chest with Marchosias, the heavy armor pressing into his soft fleece onesie. He could hear March’s breath coming in ragged gasps right next to his ear. Slowly, Zac pushed himself up just enough to look into the Captain’s eyes. His heart hammered against his ribs as he saw them… smoldering, unshed tears glistening in the wolf’s fur, tracking paths through the dust on his face.

"Are you hurt?" March asked. His voice was as gravelly and deep as always, but beneath the command, there was a tremor of genuine, terrified worry.

Zac slowly lowered himself back down, laying his cheek against the wolf’s chest. He snaked his arms around Marchosias’s neck, not caring about the mud that smeared across his sleeves. "Only you could hurt me, Wolf Daddy," he whispered. "If you said you did not love me."

Marchosias choked on his breath. With a surge of strength, he rolled over, pinning Zac beneath him in the mud. He looked down at the human, his expression fierce. "I meant physically," he growled.

Zac grabbed March’s arm, the demon's ability to stabilize himself compromised by the slick wet floor.. With a surprising burst of leverage, Zac turned the tables, rolling until he was back on top of the wolf again. He straddled March’s waist, looking down with intense determination.

"It would hurt my heart if you died a virgin, Captain," Zac said, maintaining unwavering eye contact with the increasingly flustered demon. "I’ve been lonely for twenty-six years. You’ve been lonely for an eternity."

Marchosias rolled again, a blur of motion that ended with Zac pinned flat on his back in the muck. Zac's arms were held by the wrist and the wolf sat on his waist. March leaned in close, his muzzle just an inch from Zac’s face, his amber eyes burning.

"You are the virgin," March said, his voice dropping to a quiet, dangerous rumble. "And I will not let you out of my sight again."

Zac squealed with pure, unadulterated joy.

Marchosias flinched, pushing himself up and away, looking completely startled by the noise.

"Did you hear that, Leo?!" Zac shouted over March’s shoulder, beaming at the indifferent turtle. "He hates when I'm lonely!"

"Why are you two rolling around in the mud?!"

Bune’s voice tore through the stable, shattering the moment. The dragon butler stood at the gate, looking horrified. "Turtle dung stains terribly!"

Marchosias sighed, a long, weary exhalation, and hauled Zac to his feet with one hand. "Why didn't the Aspidochelone eat you?"

Zac shrugged, wiping a streak of mud from his cheek. "Leo is a good boy."

March groaned, looking from the human to the massive snapping turtle, who was currently trying to eat a rock. "Did you use your silver tongue on him? Did you lie to him and make him think he was your pet dog?"

Zac shrugged again. "I thought you said my badass magic didn't work on things without brains."

"Reptiles are quite intelligent," Bune interjected from the gate, adjusting his cuffs. "Aspidochelones trap their food by mimicking islands. That requires higher reasoning and patience."

"We don't have time for the philosophy of the mind!" Marchosias barked, cutting off the lecture. "There is a war going on, and the Avatar is filthy."

Zac looked down at his very mud-caked pajamas. Then he looked up at Marchosias's very mud-caked uniform. He grinned.

"You look like you need your back scrubbed, Captain."

Marchosias looked down at himself and huffed in defeat. He turned slowly to Bune. "I will be right back. I expect everyone to be getting ready by the time I return."

Bune looked between March and Zac, his heads tilting in tandem. "Are you sure, Captain? I can bring the Avatar to the showers. I do not mind."

"No," March growled. "If one of us is not here, then the others will get distracted, or slack off, or murder each other. We have orders."

Zac stretched, his back popping loudly, and wobbled toward the gate. "Is something finally happening? I thought this was one of those Big Brother, just-hang-out-in-the-keep-and-see-what-wacky-situations-happen-when-a-bunch-of-hormonal-bachelors-are-forced-into-close-proximity-for-an-extended-period-of-time situations."

Marchosias and Bune looked at each other.

March turned and grabbed Zac by the scruff of his muddy onesie. "This is why I'm not letting him out of my sight again," he said to the dragon butler. "He is totally insane."

"Oh, he's just at that age," Bune said, looking down and winking at Zac with his Left Head. "If you try to hold on to him too tightly, he will just rebel against you."

Marchosias lifted Zac off the ground and began to walk toward the exit, Zac dangling like a prize from a claw machine. "I'd like to see him try."

Zac smiled and gave a cheerful little wave to Bune as Marchosias carried him out of the room. The dragon butler, looking relieved that the crisis had been averted, offered a fond smile and waved back with one of his right hands.

Marchosias exited the cavernous stables and stepped into the gothic stone hallway of the keep. Zac swayed back and forth in the wolf's iron grip, perfectly content to be carried like a misbehaving duffel bag.

Marchosias didn't even break stride. He reached out with his free hand, grasped the iron ring of the door directly across the corridor, and pulled it open to reveal the pristine, black marble and polished silver of the bathroom.

Zac’s jaw dropped. "Oh, so when you want to use the shitter, the keep just gives it to you on the first try?" he complained, crossing his arms as he dangled. "I had to threaten pooping in one of the suits of armor!"

"What?" Marchosias asked, his brow furrowing in deep concern as he gently set Zac down on the tiled floor.

"You know," Zac said, waving a dismissive hand at the walls. "Your creepy House of Usher doesn't respect me like it respects you. I've got to be a bit more assertive to get what I want around here."

Marchosias shook his head, too exhausted to unpack whatever fresh insanity the human was spouting. He walked heavily toward one of the polished silver sinks and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His usually immaculate midnight greatcoat was caked in thick, foul-smelling turtle mud, and his silver-threaded fur was matted and stained. His tail sagged pitifully toward the floor.

"This keep was given to me by President Malphas," Marchosias murmured, his voice heavy with a profound, structural weariness. "If only the lieutenants assigned to me had half of his work ethic, this war might be over by now."

"Who's Malphas?" Zac questioned, padding over to stand at the sink right next to the Captain. "Is he related to Halphas? Their names are really similar."

Zac reached up and pulled his fleece hood back, letting the floppy cat ears fall behind his shoulders. He inspected his own reflection. Even covered in stable muck and dried pool water, he looked remarkably like his usual self. There were a few fresh, purple bruises blooming on his neck and collarbone from being tossed around by the various demons over the past few days. Zac tilted his head, tracing one of the marks with a finger. I really wish these were hickeys, he thought with a wistful sigh. Such a waste of perfectly good skin discoloration.

"We are all related, in a sense," Marchosias said, running a hand under the faucet and wiping a thick lump of dirt off his scarred muzzle. "But Malphas is the second-in-command to Lucifer himself. He is the architect of the Pit."

Zac looked over at the wolf, genuinely surprised. "I thought Baal or Belial, or at least one of the Kings, would be second-in-command. Aren't Presidents one of the lower ranks for royalty?"

Marchosias reached up to his collar and began to unbutton his ruined greatcoat. "Rank is just related to one's raw power," the wolf explained. "But without Malphas's architecture, the Kings would have no castles to live in. They would rule over empty dirt. Lucifer understands the importance of those with actual skills and work ethic."

Marchosias slipped the heavy coat off his broad shoulders. Even completely ruined, his military discipline held firm; he began to meticulously fold the muddy garment before setting it on the marble counter. "The Kings," he added with a soft, derisive snort, "just enjoy giving orders."

Zac stared at the undressing wolfman, momentarily distracted by the broad, muscular expanse of March's chest revealed beneath the coat. "I thought you were all royalty. And you didn't answer my question."

"We are only 'royalty' such that we all have legions to command," March growled, pulling off his gauntlets with a metallic clatter. "None of us here are Kings, nor are we Princes. Even Duke Bune is expected to acquiesce to them."

"Okay," Zac said, leaning against the counter. "That kind of makes sense. Now, Malphas and Halphas… are they, like, twins?"

Marchosias paused, raising a scarred eyebrow. "No. Malphas is a crow."

Zac cocked his head to the side. "I know Halphas isn't an eagle now, if you didn't know. Aren't pigeons and crows basically, like, both flying garbage disposals?"

Marchosias nearly fell over while unlacing a heavy combat boot. He caught himself on the sink, looking at Zac with profound exasperation. "No. They are nothing alike. One is grey, and one is black."

Zac just shook his head. He was no ornithologist, but it appeared that the demonic wolf knew even less about birds than he did.

But despite the bizarre avian taxonomy, Zac did think it was sweet. Lucifer had Malphas, and Marchosias had Halphas. And after hearing March say that the ruler of the Pit (the twink-in-charge, Satan himself) had chosen his second-in-command due to the black bird's skills and work ethic, Zac suddenly understood. Halphas hadn't been chosen as the second-in-command to the wolf because he was a big, bad eagle. He was chosen for the exact same reasons.

Marchosias placed his heavy boots down under the counter, carefully aligning them side by side. He stood up to his full, imposing height and looked at Zac, his amber eyes narrowing.

"Why aren't you getting undressed? We are already late."

Zac blinked a few times, a wicked glint entering his eyes. He opened his mouth.

"FOR THE BATTLE!" Marchosias quickly barked, his Command Voice slipping out just a fraction to cut off whatever the human was about to say. "Go get in the shower."

Zac snapped his fingers, looking genuinely disappointed that he wasn't able to make a perfectly timed comment about undressing with the Captain. He reached for the zipper of his ruined onesie.

"I'll go get the water heated up, I guess," Zac murmured seductively, pulling the zipper down. "I'll be waiting for you, my muddy puppy. We can scrub each other's-"

"I take cold showers," Marchosias said flatly.

Zac froze, the zipper halfway down his chest. He stared at March for a few long moments. The implications of that statement were horrifying to his comfort-loving soul. "Why?" was all he could finally manage to say.

"Cold water is good for circulation," Marchosias said, turning back to the mirror as he began to undo the buttons of his undershirt with stiff, mechanical movements. "And it is good for the mind."

Zac stepped into the massive, multi-headed shower enclosure and kicked off his muddy footie pajamas, tossing them into a pile near the door. "Fuck that noise," Zac called out over the hiss of the water starting. "I'm taking a hot shower. See you in there."

Zac felt deeply conflicted about not waiting around as long as possible to watch the wolfman undress. Just seeing those massive, clawed paws emerge from the heavy combat boots was a memory that would be filed away in Zac's smut-conscious for the rest of eternity. The fur, the definition... it was a lot to walk away from.

However, he also had filed away the memory of Marchosias sounding so genuinely hurt and terrified when he thought Zac had been maimed by Leonardo. He remembered how much it upset the Captain to think that his grand plans for defiling, or razing, or corrupting… or whatever bad things he wanted to do to the Holy City, were in jeopardy.

If the wolf wanted him to get cleaned up so they could go to war, he would get cleaned up. Even if his hormones were raging at a steady Category 5 hurricane level, he didn't have to be a complete degenerate sexual predator. He could be a supportive degenerate sexual predator.

Zac once again found himself being slowly eroded away by the high-pressure infernal shower. The steam quickly billowed out, filling the entire enclosure with a thick, white fog. The concussive force of the water felt kind of like a deep tissue massage, but he did keep turning the temperature dial down, wincing as his still-sensitive skin protested. All those protective outer layers had been ruthlessly stripped away the day before, and the demonic plumbing didn't seem to have a "gentle rainfall" setting.

Through the thick hiss of the steam, Zac heard a second set of pipes groan to life nearby, followed by the sharp, stinging slap of freezing cold water hitting the marble tiles.

"So," Zac called out over the noise, letting the warm water wash the turtle mud from his face. "What's going on that we are late for? You keep talking about a battle, but I haven't seen you guys fight anyone but each other and your own emotions."

There was a pause, followed by a gruff voice that vibrated through the steam. It was accompanied by a sound that Zac was fairly sure was the mighty wolf's teeth chattering just a fraction. "We have been tasked with killing the simulacrum... REPENTANCE."

Zac began scrubbing the stubborn, foul-smelling mud out of his hair, working up a thick lather. "Oh, really?" he called back. "Isn't that, like, kind of dangerous? Shouldn't they send in some big shot like, I don't know, a unicorn who sings and dances, to deal with something of that caliber?"

"It was tasked to me by Belial himself last night," Marchosias said, his voice straining slightly against the frigid cascade. "As a Marquis, it is my job to take care of these sorts of things."

Zac rummaged through the selection of black soaps and brimstone shampoos sitting on the silver shelf built into the wall. "Isn't Belial Lucifer's bottom bitch? Why doesn't he deal with it if he's so strong?"

"Do not call King Belial a bottom bitch!" Marchosias barked, the sudden reprimand echoing sharply in the tiled room.

Zac sighed, wiping suds from his eyes. "I know you are the most pure wolf in Hell, but that is not a bad thing. A bottom bitch means he is the highest ranking and the longest serving."

There was a long, heavy silence from the adjacent shower stall, save for the sound of freezing water hitting fur. Zac could practically hear the Captain's brain trying to recontextualize the vulgar slang into proper military hierarchy.

"Then... yes," Marchosias finally said, his voice hesitant and deeply uncomfortable. "Belial is Lucifer's bottom bitch."

Zac broke into a wide grin, leaning his head back into the spray. "Got it. But is he too busy to deal with the scary robot angel thingy?"

The sound of the icy water abruptly squeaked off. "King Belial's magic is not for fighting directly," Marchosias's voice came through, much clearer now. "He is too important to risk on the battlefield against a weapon that is still an unknown."

Zac began frantically scrubbing the suds from his body, slipping slightly on the marble floor. The wolf was all wet and done with his shower, this was the perfect chance to see Marchosias in all his dripping, full-furry glory.

"So the bottom bitch has weak-ass magic?" Zac called out, trying very hard to sound like he wasn't rushing. "I thought Kings had powerful magic."

A weary sigh echoed from the sinks. "King Belial's magic is very powerful, it is just not for fighting. Not all magic needs to be kinetic."

"Yeah," Zac called back, furiously wiping away the last of the demonic body wash. "Amdusias just has a magical backing track and he's a Duke. But he seemed strong in other ways! That horn of his didn't even get scratched when Nock and Skarg went all WrestleMania on him."

"Duke Amdusias has more than just musical magic," March's voice drifted over, sounding slightly distant. "He can also cause wood to bend. It is quite useful in the right situations. Archers, boats... pencils."

"I guess the unicorn could make someone jab their gums with a toothpick," Zac muttered, wrenching the faucet off. He didn't care about bending wood right now unless it was a euphemism. He power-walked out of the shower enclosure, stepping out of the thick steam and heading straight toward the Captain's voice.

Whap.

A heavy, rough-spun towel hit Zac squarely in the face the exact millisecond he emerged from the fog.

Zac quickly pulled the fabric down, his heart racing with anticipation, only to be met with an immense, soul-crushing sense of loss. Marchosias was already facing away from him, fully clad in his dark undershirt and trousers, currently pulling his heavy, black metal gauntlets over his paws and tightening the leather straps.

"There is a clean uniform for you on the counter," Marchosias said without turning around, his armor clinking.

Zac pouted, slowly beginning to dry himself off. As the towel rubbed across his skin, his overactive imagination immediately supplied the visual he was currently being denied, transmuting the upcoming battle into a classic 80s teen sports movie.

There were explosions and magical fires burning in the background as Zac lounged on the back of Leonardo’s shell, casually sipping a strawberry milkshake. He watched Marchosias jogging toward him in slow motion, high-fiving Skarg and Nock after a killer war-off performance. They had totally kicked ass, and the holy losers were all walking away dejected after the wolf captain had totally dunked a hole-in-one buzzer beater.

“Did you see that, Zac?” Dream-Marchosias would say, pulling off his helmet and flicking his sweat-dampened head fur back with a ruggedly handsome grin. “We won nationals.”

“Of course you did,” Zac would say, batting his eyelashes over the rim of his milkshake cup. “You're the captain of the team, after all. I never had a doubt that you'd bank-shot a touchdown from the three-point line. You work so hard.”

Imaginary March would wave the other demons off, stepping right up to the giant turtle to look up at Zac with smoldering amber eyes. “We are gonna have a big party tonight at my place. Did you want to come?”

Zac would blush and smile, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Of course. Though, this might be the last time I see you, since the big pro-war teams are totally going to be scouting you after that killer performance.”

“They can try,” March would say, reaching out with a massive, muscular arm to grab Zac by the waist. “But I'm not going anywhere without my number one fan.”

Zac would completely melt into the big jock wolf’s arms. “Why don't you join me in Leonardo's back seat? I think we can have our own little party before we head to your place.”

"AVATAR!"

The sharp, gravelly bark shattered the daydream into a million pieces.

Zac blinked, snapping back to reality. Marchosias was standing over him, fully clad in his terrifying, magnificent black angelic plate mail. The pauldrons shaped like howling wolves seemed to sneer down at him, and the Captain's amber eyes were fixed on Zac with zero patience.

"I said we are late," Marchosias growled. "Get dressed."

Zac nodded dumbly, the ghost of his sports-anime fantasy still clinging to him, and reached for the fresh leopard-print onesie waiting on the counter.

It only took Zac a minute to finish drying off and slip into the very familiar pajamas. He zipped the front up, adjusted the hood, and spun around once, his leopard-print tail twirling around his legs in a lazy arc. He looked up at Marchosias.

The Captain’s amber eyes swept over him, checking for any exposed skin or untucked fleece, before he gave a single, curt nod of approval.

"Is this really what I'm going to an active warzone in?" Zac questioned, his hand resting on his hip. "There were a lot of explosions and fiery swords and decapitated heads flying around when I watched that live broadcast during dinner a few days back. This is basically just tactical sleepwear."

Marchosias actually grinned, a dark, dangerous expression that exposed his gleaming fangs, and let out a low rumble of a chuckle. "Of course not."

Zac let out a silent sigh of relief. Even though he was totally just going to sit in the back on a rock-solid turtle and watch the hunky demons gang up on a robot, he had been a bit nervous that a stray bolt of holy magic or friendly demonic fire might clip him.

Marchosias reached under the marble counter and pulled out a small, dark bundle. "These are Ose's," the Captain said, holding them out. "I've had them modified to fit you."

Zac looked at the two offered items.

The first was a ragged grey cape. It looked old, the hem frayed and the fabric looking less like woven cloth and more like a heavy, dense fog that had been stitched together.

The second item was a crown. But it wasn't just a simple ring of gold with pointy bits. It was an incredibly ornate, oversized headpiece. The base was a thick band of dark, brushed metal, but it rose up into a bulbous, red velvet dome that looked like a very expensive, very evil papal tiara. It was heavily studded with dark, glittering jewels, and protruding straight up from the very top was a sharp, iron, upside-down cross.

Zac hesitantly took the objects from the wolf's massive gauntlets. He felt the weight of the cape… it was surprisingly light… and then looked closer at the elaborate crown.

He turned it over in his hands. "A blanket and..." He frowned, noticing a small leather strap dangling from the inside rim. "...a helmet? It has a chin strap."

Zac had barely fastened his new… not armor… to himself by the time they made it back into the stables. Unlike the earlier, quiet, peaceful room where Zac had his emotional breakdown, the cavern was now raucous and filled to the brim with demonic activity.

Nock was standing near the entrance, radiant in his blindingly polished silver plate mail. Timon the rodent mage was currently standing on a stepstool, frantically brushing and spraying the lion’s mane with a demonic aerosol that made the hair look dramatically windswept, yet simultaneously rock-hard, ensuring the actual wind would have zero effect on its volume. Behind the majestic feline, Pumbaa was carefully draping a fresh, stark-white funeral shroud over a skeletally thin pale horse whose eyes glowed with an eerie, corpse-green light.

Further down the aisle, Andras leaned against a wooden pillar in his usual dark blue greatcoat and tricorn hat, methodically running a whetstone down the edge of his cutlass with a chilling shhhk sound. Just behind the owl demon, Goremaw was actively trying to murder his handlers. A trio of odd, pasty-skinned demons wearing draped white togas and laurel wreaths were desperately trying to buckle a heavy leather saddle onto the warg’s back. Zac winced as Goremaw suddenly snapped, tearing one of the toga-wearing demon’s arms clean off with a wet crunch. The lesser demon merely sighed, picked up his severed limb with his good hand, and began trying to reattach it.

Zac’s eyes widened as he looked across the stable. Halphas was walking with purposeful strides, carrying a massive, heavy-looking olive-drab ammunition crate toward... Zac had to do a double-take.

It was a Humvee. A completely normal-looking, sand-colored, military-issue, four-wheel-drive High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle, parked right there in the middle of the infernal stables. Private Cher Ami was currently crouched by one of the massive tires, tapping it with a clipboard and checking the tread.

Near the center pens, Bune was meticulously brushing the flank of a massive, placid Bicorn that was already fitted with the Captain's heavy war saddle. Marchosias pulled his black gauntlets tight, his armor clinking as he strode purposefully toward the demonic steed to inspect his mount for battle.

Then, Zac noticed Skarg.

The massive caribou demon was sitting on an overturned bucket. Hovering above him were a few more of his bat-winged demonic cherubs: a baby rabbit, a chubby little wombat, and a raccoon that looked entirely too pleased with itself. They were attempting to drape a heavy, lush cape woven entirely from vibrant green vines over Skarg’s broad shoulders, much to the wendigo’s annoyance. Skarg growled, swatting at the air like he was being harassed by overgrown mosquitoes, trying to brush the cute little flying woodland critters away.

Skarg suddenly paused. He noticed Zac staring.

The wendigo’s icy blue eyes locked onto the human. The green vine cape fell onto his shoulders as he abruptly stood up, scattering the cherubs. He stalked right over to Zac, his hooves thudding heavily against the floor, and stopped inches away, looming over the smaller man and letting out a vicious, territorial growl.

Zac just smiled, adjusting the chin strap of his evil papal crown. "Hey, Skarg."

Skarg leaned in, his icy blue eyes practically glowing, and hissed directly into Zac's face. "If you think being the 'Demon of Love' makes me some big pussy, I'm gonna fuck you until you orgasm so hard that you'll beg me to stop."

Zac nodded enthusiastically.

Skarg bared his teeth. "I mean it! You'll be completely out of seminal fluid, and it will feel like you're cumming glass shards!"

Zac nodded again, his eyes wide with anticipation.

Skarg’s fur bristled, his voice rising to a bellow. "You will not enjoy it! Pleasure will become your new baseline, and everything else in existence will feel utterly meaningless unless you're getting fucked like a dirty, desperate whore!"

Zac nodded a third time, a dopey, lovesick smile spreading across his face. "Promises, promises."

SMACK.

Bune appeared out of nowhere, slapping the back of Skarg’s head with a rolled-up scroll. "Stop teasing the Avatar, Furfur!" the dragon butler scolded, his Right Head looking deeply unamused.

Skarg rubbed the back of his head and growled, shooting Zac one last, possessive glare. "Just letting him know that I'm still the top dog around here."

"As if," Andras's cool, detached voice echoed across the stable. The owl demon casually tossed his whetstone over his shoulder without looking. It struck one of the toga-wearing demons square in the forehead with a dull thwack. "You're about as much of a top dog as a tigress in heat."

Nock abruptly brushed Timon aside and stepped forward, striking a dramatic, chest-out pose. "Have you been smoking strong hashish? Or were the eggs bad in your last meal of evil quiche?" he declaimed, his voice booming across the stalls. "If you are the top dog, then I am the one who holds the dog's leash!"

The lion knight attempted to dramatically flick his mane back, completely forgetting it had been aerosol-sprayed into a rock-solid weave. His armored gauntlet collided with the hair-helmet with a loud, ringing CLANG. Unfazed, he powered through the mild concussion. "For you are not the highest ranked, nor are you a canine, capiche?!"

Nock grinned broadly, looking for all the world like he had just delivered a Shakespearean-level poetic roast.

"And a top fucks," Halphas laughed, slamming the Humvee's heavy trunk shut with a metallic slam. "They don't jerk off alone and lie about partying with incubi."

Skarg let out an ear-splitting bellow. "Come and try me, you submissive sissies! I'll make you all impotent!"

Pure, absolute zero frost violently exploded from the wendigo's body, instantly flash-freezing the lush green vines draped over his shoulders into brittle, icy shards. He dropped his center of gravity, ready to launch himself at the Humvee.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP."

The Command Voice washed over the cavernous stable, sweet, beautiful, and absolutely terrifying, neutralizing the escalating brawl in a single heartbeat.

"Get on your mounts," Marchosias's voice returned to its normal, gravelly growl. "We are leaving."

Nock gave a haughty "hrumph," turning on his heel. He instinctively tried to run a hand through his mane as he turned, resulting in another loud clang of metal on petrified hair. Skarg dropped down onto all fours with a heavy thud, grumbling under his breath about how everyone else was a bunch of sloppy-vaginas. Andras didn't even look back, simply flipping the bird over his shoulder as he turned to pry Goremaw's jaws off the remaining toga demons.

Zac watched them all scatter to their respective corners, a fond, dopey smile spreading across his face.

Oh, they are all so broken and mentally unstable, he thought, his heart swelling with toxic affection. I love them all so much. It makes the hottest demon rankings so incredibly hard.

Then, Zac's eyes landed on Halphas. The eagle demon was double-checking the Humvee's passenger-side door, his broad, feathered shoulders tense. A sharp pang of guilt stabbed right through Zac's icy, fear-blocked heart. He remembered the mortified pigeon dream. He remembered his own cruel, demanding rant about 'eagle dick'.

Zac took a deep, steadying breath, adjusted the chin strap of his evil papal crown-helmet, and walked over to the Earl of Violence.

Halphas noticed Zac approaching and quickly turned away, suddenly very interested in the Humvee's side mirror. "Private Ami, have you checked the lights?"

"Yes, Master Halphas!" the lesser pigeon demon said smartly, snapping a salute before noticing the leopard-print human standing directly behind his commanding officer.

Cher Ami frowned. He immediately strutted over to Zac, puffing out his grey chest to make himself look larger. "What do you want? Do you need to get scrubbed down again already?"

Zac eyed the Private, unimpressed. "No, I just showered, actually. I want to talk with Halphas before the battle."

Halphas's broad shoulders went visibly stiff. Without looking back at Zac, the eagle demon quickly walked around to the front bumper of the Humvee, popping the hood to inspect the engine.

Zac tried to follow him, only to be blocked by Ami side-stepping into his path.

"Whoa there, little Avatar," Ami said, trying his absolute best to sound intimidating, despite the fact that there are very few ways to make a pigeon sound like a threat. "Master Halphas has a very strict pre-battle routine."

Zac raised an eyebrow. "So?" he said flatly.

"You can't just talk with him or you'll throw his whole ritual off!" the private cooed, flapping his wing-arms for emphasis.

Zac rolled his eyes. He didn't have time for this. He took a deep breath. He really didn't want to use his magic after totally exploding the heads of tens of innocent-ish demons at the five-star restaurant, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Zac narrowed his eyes, locking his gaze on the private. "You can't stop thinking about eagle dick."

Zac felt his tongue go cold and heavy, the metallic taste of ozone filling his mouth as the magic of Ose laced his words with absolute, undeniable truth.

Cher Ami's round eyes went incredibly wide. A silent "Coo" formed on his beak. The lesser demon shuddered violently, his eyes rolling back in his head as the sheer, overwhelming power of the sudden, intrusive thought crashed through his squishy bird brain.

He brought his feathery hands to his head. "COO-COO-COO!"

Ami turned and blindly ran to escape the mental image. He immediately ran head-first into the side of the Humvee's armored door with a loud bong and knocked himself out cold, sliding down the side of the vehicle into a feathery heap.

Zac winced and shook his head. "Don't fuck with me, you twink bitch."

Halphas looked over from the front of the Humvee, his beak hanging open. "Hey! He was going to be my wingman for the battle!" The eagle's voice was a mix of genuine anger and a slightly amused, disbelieving squawk.

The totally-not-an-eagle demon closed the hood of the truck and walked over to Zac, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "Just because you can't stop thinking about eagle dick doesn't mean you need to torture my legion."

Zac looked bashful, lowering his head and twisting the toe of his leopard-paw-print footie slipper into the stable floor. He slowly looked up at Halphas through his lashes, giving the demon his biggest, saddest kitty eyes.

"I've been thinking about how pigeon dick is probably thicker and longer than eagle dick a lot lately."

Halphas's next yell caught completely in his throat. He just stared, his beak slightly open.

Zac continued, his voice soft but earnest. "Yeah, eagles are birds of prey, and they get all this recognition for being apex predators. But..." Zac looked down at his feet again. "Pigeons are the real badass ones. Eagles are going extinct all over Earth because they can't even deal with a smidge of DDT. Do pigeons give a fuck? No. They will literally make nests right in the exhaust stacks of a factory. Pigeons don't give two fucks about the difficulties of living around humans who keep fucking up everything."

Zac looked back up at Halphas, his expression fierce. "Asshole humans are so inconsiderate, and the regal pigeon perseveres. There are probably more pigeons living in any human city than there are actual humans. No way could any type of eagle even come close to how hardy and resilient a pigeon is."

Halphas slowly uncrossed his arms. He looked down at Zac, then away, clearing his throat. "Well. If I was a pigeon... which I'm totally not... totally not, coo... I would probably have to agree with you."

Zac gave a soft smile and nodded. "I just wanted to say, I don't care what your dick looks like. You get me waffles and coffee, and being a huge book nerd is hot."

Halphas blushed visibly beneath his feathers and let out an awkward, rattling cough. "Well, I-"

"As long as your dick is big," Zac continued smoothly. "I'm sure regardless of what someone looks like on the outside, as a seven-foot-tall demon, your cock is still way bigger than the average human's and could totally make me beg for you to stop when you hold me down and slowly grind your way into my-"

"I GET IT," Halphas squawked loudly, cutting Zac off before he could get too graphic in the middle of the stables. The eagle demon's chest puffed out, his confidence returning in a rush. "Next time it's my turn on the dream rotation, you're totally gonna get amnesia from being railed so hard that your brain needs to factory reset."

Zac nodded and let out a long, genuine sigh of relief.

Halphas grinned down at the Avatar, the tension between them finally broken. On the floor nearby, Cher Ami groaned softly, still muttering something about the aerodynamic superiority of bald eagles.

"So," Zac said, giving a quick glance to the concussed lesser demon. "Do you need someone to ride shotgun with you now?"

Halphas stood up straight, crossing his arms and leaning against the Humvee's armored door with a cocky smirk. "Only if you wanna man my shifter. This bad girl is an automatic."

Before Zac could wholeheartedly agree (there had still been no consensus on whether it would be alright for Zac to defile the demons instead of them defiling him) Leonardo nudged Zac's leg and hissed. Once again, Zac wished he could get scared; a literal boulder had just snuck up on him.

Zac looked back up and sighed. "Sorry Halphas, but I've got to rain check. I need to ride Leo. We had some real emotional breakthrough shit last night, and we didn't even need to kiss."

Halphas looked very, very confused.

CLAP-CLAP.

The sharp, simultaneous double-clap of Bune bringing two sets of hands together echoed through the stables. "It is time, everyone."

Zac turned to see the Broken Antler warband all mounted up, formed in a line facing the massive double doors leading outside. Marchosias sat tall and imposing upon his massive Bicorn, his black angelic armor absorbing the ambient light. Andras was perched effortlessly on Goremaw's back, his tattered coat settling over the warg's flanks. Nock sat astride Sir Hoofington, looking like a resplendent silver statue atop his glowing-eyed steed. And Skarg... well, Skarg was just standing there on all fours, muscles coiled and ready to run.

Zac felt Halphas smack him heartily on the back. "See you out there, new guy."

Zac nodded and resigned himself to mounting up on Leo. He gave the massive snapping turtle a quick scratch under the chin and a whispered "Who's a good boy?" before scrambling up into his custom saddle. As he settled in, Zac noticed that the humiliating five-point racing harness had been removed, replaced with a much more modest, standard-issue lap seatbelt. He shook his head, appreciating that Bune was at least trying to tone down the helicopter-parenting a little bit.

He looked forward just in time to see Bune hauling open the massive stable doors. The eternal, bloody red glow of the Pit filtered into the room, casting long, dramatic shadows behind the demons.

Halphas's Humvee rolled up to take its place next to the others, the engine rumbling with a low, throaty purr, as Leonardo slowly… agonizingly slowly, began walking toward them from the rear.

Bune stood at the threshold, facing the assembled warband. He cleared his throats and raised a hand, his posture rigid with butler-ly pride. "May your strikes be true and your armor unyielding. Come home with your shields, or on them!" He paused, his expression softening as he looked past the lieutenants. "But you better come home, March and Zac. The rest of you can do whatever. Goodbye."

Without a word, the demons launched forward.

Zac was immediately blasted by a cloud of dust and displaced air as the Bicorn, the warg, the pale horse, the Humvee, and the four-legged wendigo all rocketed out of the stables and disappeared into the red glow of the Pit.

Zac coughed, waving a hand in front of his face to clear the grit. He patted his mount's rocky shell. "Mush, Leo. It's battle time."

Zac felt quite defeated as the Aspidochelone began to walk very, very slowly toward the exit. It felt like he was commuting to a warzone on a glacier.

Bune wandered over and walked, at a very leisurely stroll, next to Zac as he rode. "If you feel as if you are in danger, just remember to stay close to the others. I was hoping we would have had more time for practical skills, but the Captain was very upset about your disappearance last night." Bune's Right Head rubbed its hands together nervously. "I am still very sorry about leaving you in the library, Zachary. If you want, I can make you a to-go lunch before you, uh, make it out the door."

Zac shook his head. "It's alright, Bune. No need to mention it again." He gave the dragon butler a reassuring smile. "I just hope it's okay that I'm going to a real, actual battle. I'm not really a fighter."

Bune stepped up and gave Zac a warm, comforting hug just as the snapping turtle finally reached the threshold of the stable doors. "You'll be fine. I'm sure the Captain will have you perched right next to himself."

Zac laughed. "He's probably already there. I'll miss the whole thing at this pace."

Bune shook both his heads and reached out to quickly tighten the strap of Zac's seatbelt. "Nonsense," the dragon said with a knowing smile.

Zac gave Bune a little wave. "That seatbelt isn't going to do anything, and I hope Leonardo has turtle GPS or something, I've got no idea where I'm supposed to be go- AHHHHH!"

The exact moment Leo’s front claws stepped over the threshold and touched the dirt outside the keep, the ground simply gave way. They didn't fall; they sank, pulled downward with terrifying, instantaneous velocity, as if the earth had turned to liquid.

As the stone of the stable rushed up past Zac's vision, he could faintly hear Bune's voice echoing from above: "Remember, my power is not just necromancy! I move the dead!"

Zac got a big mouthful of dirt as the world went completely black.

Zac felt like he had been shoved into a blender full of topsoil.

He was flying through the earth at hyperspeed, a subterranean bullet train crashing through the crust of the Pit. Jagged stones and thick, gnarly roots whipped past him, glancing off his body with dull thuds. The sheer velocity of their subterranean transit created a drag so intense Zac felt like he was going to be ripped right off the saddle. He leaned forward with all his might, wrapping his arms around Leonardo’s massive, rocky shell, desperately trying to reduce his wind resistance… or, dirt resistance, as it were.

It wasn't enough. The friction pushed him backward, flattening him against the saddle until the back of his head slammed hard against the Aspidochelone's carapace with a jarring clack.

Just as suddenly as the demonic subway ride began, it ended. They burst upward through the crust of the earth, popping out into the open air like a cork from a champagne bottle.

"PFFFFT!"

Zac violently spat out a mouthful of gritty earth, coughing and hacking. He reached up to wipe the grime from his eyes, fully expecting to look like a swamp monster, but as his hands swept over his fleece onesie, he paused. He looked down at himself. He patted his chest, his arms, his face.

He was completely, immaculately clean. Bune's necromantic fast-travel apparently came with a built-in detailing service.

I hate commuting, Zac thought, rubbing his neck. But if Bune hadn't put that seatbelt on me, I would have flown right off and gotten entombed in the earth forever. And if I didn't have this evil papal crown on, I’d probably be missing the back half of my skull right now.

Zac slowly sat up in his saddle, adjusting his lopsided, jewel-encrusted helmet, and rubbed his eyes.

He looked around and his jaw dropped.

They were perched high on a jagged, obsidian ridge overlooking a battlefield so massive it defied human comprehension. Down in the sprawling valley, the eternal war was raging in full, horrifying HD. Massive explosions of holy light and green hellfire blossomed like deadly fireworks. The roar of a million screams, the clash of steel, and the thunder of magical artillery filtered up to the ridge in a deafening, physical wave of sound. Winding through the center of the carnage was a wide river, its rushing waters stained a deep, arterial red from the blood of the fallen.

Zac gagged as a sudden updraft hit him. The smell was atrocious, a nauseating cocktail of burning ozone, voided bowels, and scorched flesh. As he leaned over Leonardo's neck to dry-heave, a decapitated demon head, its eyes still blinking in surprise, flew in a perfect arc right past Zac's nose and plummeted down the cliff.

Zac swallowed hard and turned his head to the left. A few dozen yards away, lined up perfectly at the very edge of the sheer precipice, was the Broken Antler warband. The five demons sat atop their respective mounts, looking down at the slaughter with cold, professional intensity.

"Hey guys, I made it!" Zac yelled, waving a leopard-print arm.

His voice was completely swallowed by the ambient cacophony of the holy war. None of them even twitched.

"Mush, Leo," Zac muttered, giving the turtle a tap with the riding crop. "Let's go join the cool kids."

As Leonardo began his agonizingly slow, tectonic crawl toward the group, Marchosias’s rough, gravelly howl suddenly cut through the din of death, echoing over the ridge with supernatural clarity.

"We will eliminate the simulacrum!" the Wolf Captain roared to his lieutenants, his midnight cape whipping in the bloody wind. "We will show those holy hypocrites that their verisimilitudinous angel is no match for us!"

The others let out a collective, bloodthirsty cheer, their roars joining the thunder of the battlefield.

Marchosias drew his longsword, holding the dark steel high above his head. The blade caught the flashes of explosions from below. "Their resistance is a joke! We will make them regret!"

Zac smiled, kicking his feet happily in the stirrups. Oh, that feels nice, he thought. A sudden, radiant warmth was washing over his back, cutting through the chill of the ridge. It felt like standing in front of a giant, heavenly heat lamp. Are they giving off an aura of pure badassery?

He sat there, oggling the demons. They looked so dangerous, so professional, their muscles coiled and ready to charge down into the fray.

But as Zac stared, he noticed something odd. He was casting a very long, very distinct shadow directly over Leonardo's neck. A shadow that was currently pointing toward the battle.

Zac's dopey smile slowly faded. The sky above the battlefield was covered in black smoke. There was no sun to cast a shadow like that.

The warmth on his back was growing hotter.

Zac turned around, his movements stiff and slow.

His eyes went wide.

Standing only a few yards behind him, hovering inches above the rocky ground, was REPENTANCE.

The angelic construct was breathtakingly terrifying. Its body was smooth and featureless, carved from a flawless, unmarred white porcelain that radiated a blinding, serene light. It had no face, only a smooth, sloping visor of solid gold. Floating detached behind its back were six massive, geometric wings made entirely of intricate stained glass, refracting the fires of Hell into a thousand shattered rainbows. Held effortlessly in its pale, perfect hands was a wooden gavel the size of a fridge.

Zac let out a high-pitched, breathless squeak of pure panic. He whipped his head back around toward the cliff edge.

"Help! You guys, he's right here!" Zac shrieked, waving his arms frantically.

But the demons had already begun their charge. Andras’s warg, Nock’s pale horse, Halphas’s Humvee, and Skarg all launched themselves over the precipice, diving down into the battle below.

Marchosias was the last to go. His massive Bicorn leaped into the air, clearing the edge of the cliff. The Captain turned his head back mid-air, a fierce grin on his scarred muzzle. "Hurry up, Avatar! Glory awai-"

Marchosias’s amber eyes suddenly narrowed. His lips pulled back over his fangs as his gaze locked onto the towering, six-winged construct standing directly behind the human.

With a roar of absolute desperation, Marchosias yanked back on his reins with terrifying, superhuman force. The demonic Bicorn shrieked, its neck twisting violently as the wolf forced it to turn in mid-air.

Gravity took hold. The Bicorn’s front hooves slammed onto the very edge of the cliff, but its back legs missed the stone completely, dangling over the abyss. The massive beast scrambled frantically, its iron-shod hooves throwing sparks as it fought desperately to pull itself, and the panicked Wolf Captain, back onto solid ground.

Zac furiously tapped Leo’s shell with the riding crop, bouncing in his seat. "Mush! Mush! Go! Drive! Sprint!"

Leo hissed softly and lifted one clawed foot, preparing to take a very deliberate, very slow step forward.

Zac couldn’t take his eyes off the fake angel slowly approaching him. It was so shiny, glowing with a warm, pristine white light that made Zac's eyes ache just looking directly at it. It moved with a terrifying, serene inevitability.

Suddenly, a blur of black armor and dark fur eclipsed Zac's vision. Marchosias, having managed to haul his mount back onto the ridge, was galloping past him, barreling straight toward the faux-angel.

Get him, Marchy-poo, Zac thought, a manic grin spreading across his face. Murder that thing to death. You're a total badass. This is going to be done in no time, and then we can go back and I can give him a shoulder rub. Then a leg rub. Then a rub and tug.

Zac's post-game thoughts fizzled out instantly.

The simulacrum didn't dodge. It didn't brace itself. It simply stepped forward and swung its massive wooden gavel in a terrifyingly fast, fluid underhand arc.

CRACK.

The warhammer caught March's Bicorn right in the side of the head. The demonic steed's face practically exploded in a shower of black blood and bone shards. The headless horse’s momentum carried its body forward a few more steps before its front legs buckled. It crashed onto its side, sending up a massive plume of dirt and dust.

Marchosias howled in surprise and rage. The impact threw him from the saddle, but his leg caught in the stirrup. He was dragged down with the beast, hitting the ground hard before the massive, dead weight of the headless horse rolled directly onto his lower half, pinning him to the earth.

"No," Zac whispered. He watched in horror as REPENTANCE slowly turned, its golden, faceless visor locking onto the trapped and raging wolf. It began to walk toward him.

"No, no, no." Zac frantically clawed at the buckle of his seatbelt. He pressed the iron release, and the straps fell away.

"No, no, no!" Zac tumbled out of the saddle, hitting the rocky ground hard with his shoulder, but he didn't feel the pain.

"No, no, no!" He scrambled to his feet, his leopard-print slippers sliding in the dirt, and tried to run. The lack of adrenaline was maddening; his body felt heavy and sluggish even as he watched the not-angel plant a pristine, white foot directly onto the side of the dead Bicorn. Fuming, acrid smoke instantly plumed into the air as the construct's holy toes burned a hissing footprint into the demonic flesh.

"No, no, no!" Zac watched REPENTANCE slowly raise its massive warhammer with both hands, lifting it high above its head, aiming directly for the struggling, gasping wolf pinned beneath the horse.

"HEY! REPENTANCE!" Zac screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. "YOU CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT EAGLE DICK!"

Zac's tongue went instantly ice cold, the metallic taste of ozone flooding his mouth. But the simulacrum didn't flinch. It didn't pause. It didn't even acknowledge the command. It just kept winding up for the kill.

"You're aiming at a paladin, not a demon!" Zac shrieked, sprinting toward the horse. "Your shoelace is untied! Your head is going to self-destruct!"

The desperate lies hit the air and evaporated. They had absolutely no effect on the soulless machine.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Zac didn't think. He dove.

He launched himself over the flank of the dead Bicorn, scrambling over the slick black blood, and landed squarely on top of Marchosias's chest just as the wolf was desperately trying to heave the horse off his crushed legs with his only free arm.

"Zac! What the fuck are you doing?!" Marchosias barked, his eyes wide with shock and terror. "Run, you idiot!"

Zac didn't have time to respond. He looked up just as the massive wooden hammer reached the apex of its swing and began hurtling downward, aimed right at his leopard-print back.

Zac's life flashed quickly before his eyes. It wasn't a montage of Earth. It was Skarg standing proudly naked. Nock being a sexy, dramatic dummy. Andras being an asshole who could definitely be fixed. Halphas being a buff book nerd… Bune hugging him as they bonded over the dragon's addiction.

And March.

Zac shut his eyes tight. He saw March holding him when the wolf was just waking up at the dinner table, looking so vulnerable, like he just needed to be hugged and told he was a good boy. He thought of how the wolf put everyone else first, how the Captain was so responsible and refused to let his own desires control him.

Zac braced for the impact, happy that his last act was finally doing something for someone else, even if it was only a failed attempt at protecting them.

Zac breathed for a few seconds. Then a few more. He peeked open an eye.

The flat of the massive wooden warhammer was hovering only inches from his face, frozen in mid-air.

Zac watched as the simulacrum slowly pulled the weapon back. Fuck yes, Zac thought with a wicked, triumphant grin. He totally is thinking about eagle dick right now, isn't he?

He tried to ignore Marchosias beneath him, the wolf currently writhing and howling that Zac needed to run away, his words muffled by Zac's fleece-covered chest pressing into his face.

Zac watched the simulacrum pulse and glow, its smooth, featureless porcelain body shifting slightly as it lowered the hammer completely. Its eyeless, golden visor leaned down toward him. Zac shuddered. The holy puppet thing was very creepy, not in an evil, demonic way, but in its own unsettlingly pious way. It gave him the same disconnected, uncanny-valley feeling he got when seeing aggressively smiling people at airports trying to pass out pamphlets, insisting that just because the airlines hated humanity didn't mean their very specific religious sect did too.

Suddenly, Zac's ears rang, a sharp pressure building inside his skull as if he needed to pop them. A voice, devoid of inflection or gender, echoed directly into his mind.

< Virgin Detected. Purity Level Maximum. Enacting Security Protocol Omega: Save From Unholy Existences. >

The simulacrum reached out a pristine, white hand toward Zac.

Zac's eyes went wide. He fell back, his butt landing squarely on March's muzzle as he frantically tried to scramble backward over the slick, bloody flank of the dead Bicorn. "No, wait, I'm cool with the unholy existences!"

REPENTANCE's hand was a hair away from grabbing Zac’s onesie when a sharp, whistling sound cut through the air.

BOOM.

A massive explosion erupted against the side of the simulacrum, sending a shockwave that threw Zac rolling backward, head over heels, away from the synthetic angel.

Zac hit the dirt hard, his ears ringing with a high-pitched whine and his head throbbing as he tried to orient himself. He blinked through the dust, his dizzy eyes finally landing on a familiar figure standing near the edge of the ridge.

It was Halphas. The eagle demon was in his full camo gear, fresh war paint streaked across his beak, holding a massive, smoking rocket launcher resting on his shoulder.

"Get away from him, you bitch!" the eagle squawked. With a poof of black smoke and grey feathers, he conjured a new RPG round and immediately began reloading.

Through the settling smoke, the simulacrum stood tall. It slowly spread its six stained-glass wings, the light refracting off them seeming to physically knit the cracks in its porcelain body back together. It didn't retreat; it jumped forward, placing its massive body squarely between Zac and Halphas.

< Demons Detected. Protect The Pure Virgin. Deploy Samson Defense. >

Zac turned his head at the sound of thundering hooves. Sir Nock, riding his majestic, glowing-eyed pale horse, crested the cliff edge and began to rush toward them, his armor shining like a beacon in the gloom.

Zac scrambled on his hands and knees back over to Marchosias and began desperately trying to push the massive, dead weight of the Bicorn off the Captain's crushed legs.

"Get away from me!" Marchosias howled, swatting weakly at Zac's hands. "You must get clear of the fight! You will get caught in the crossfire!"

"I'm not leaving you, Wolf Daddy!" Zac grunted, planting his feet in the mud and shoving against the horse's flank with all his meager strength trying to at least free the captain's other arm.

He looked up over the dead horse just in time to see Halphas fire another rocket. REPENTANCE didn't even try to dodge; it simply stepped forward, swung its wooden gavel like a baseball bat, and batted the explosive projectile away, sending it careening off into the sky to explode harmlessly in the red clouds.

Nock spurred his steed forward, his longsword drawn. "You will never take pure Zachary from me!" the lion roared, slashing at the enemy’s side as he galloped past.

The simulacrum slowly turned to watch Nock as he circled back. < Unholy Plague Detected. Purge. Purge. Purge. >

Another rocket round hit the simulacrum from behind with a loud ka-boom.

Zac watched in awe. This is epic as fuck. Just keep whittling it down and we totally win. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Sir Hoofington dodged a clumsy swing of the massive gavel, allowing Nock to slash at the automaton angel again as they rode past. "You call yourself a threat?" the lion laughed, his mane appearing like it was flowing. "But you don't even have locks! How could something so bald be sent by God?!"

Maybe a bit less of that, Zac thought. Some trash talk is good, but maybe something a little less obviously projection.

The simulacrum tried to heal itself, its wings glowing, but Halphas fired another rocket that struck it squarely in the chest. REPENTANCE stumbled, swinging wildly. Nock vaulted out of his saddle, landing gracefully near Halphas as Sir Hoofington ran off to safety.

Nock held his sword high in the air, the blade catching the dim light of the smokey sky. "Even if you have no flesh to rot or organs to infest with diseased insects, my sword will strike true!"

Zac rolled his eyes. Maybe sticking with the hair insults is better.

REPENTANCE's wings flapped once, sending a shockwave of air across the ridge. Its porcelain body began to glow with an intense, rainbow aura. Within seconds, all the damage from the rocket blasts and sword strikes healed instantly, the cracks knitting together into smooth, unmarred white.

It lifted its gavel with both hands and began moving toward the lion and eagle.

Suddenly, it stopped in its tracks.

Two massive, jagged antlers protruded through its stomach. Skarg stood behind the simulacrum, roaring with exertion. With a violent twist of his head, the wendigo shoved the construct forward, sending it crashing face-first onto the rocky ground.

Zac stood up on top of the dead Bicorn and cheered. "Get him, boys! That creeper tried to virgin-nap me! Whoever lands the final blow gets to hold me down and-"

Zac's words were cut off as a familiar, toothy maw bit the back of his onesie and lifted him effortlessly into the air. He looked back over his shoulder to see Goremaw’s massive, scarred snout.

Andras reached down from the saddle, plucked Zac from the warg's jaws, and hauled him up. Zac flopped unceremoniously over the demonic beast's back, landing right in the evil owl's lap.

Before Zac could say that he would be totally fine with riding bitch, Andras looked down at the trapped Captain. "This is why you need to find a more reliable steed," Andras hooted, his voice entirely lacking its usual edge of detachment. "You can't even free yourself from that oversized pony and look what's happened! And you call yourself-"

"Take the Avatar and RUN!" Marchosias howled, cutting off Andras's next insult. "Or do you want more of your own to die?!"

Zac felt confused. Andras loved people dying. He bragged about it often. But when Zac looked up, he saw the owl’s face was pale beneath his feathers.

Andras went completely silent. He spurred Goremaw, and the warg gave a sharp bark, turning and sprinting away from the brawl, kicking up a shower of gravel.

"What are you doing?!" Zac yelled, struggling in the owl's grip. "We are totally winning!" He reached out, pushing Andras's tattered coat aside to get a view of the battle behind them.

Zac felt a sudden, sickening lurch in his stomach.

REPENTANCE had recovered with terrifying speed. Its gavel swung in a brutal, sweeping arc, striking Nock squarely on the side of the head with a clang. The lion man howled in absolute agony, falling backward. As he hit the ground, his mane began to crack, the glowing fissures spreading towards his face.

"What the hell?!" Zac shouted, his voice cracking. "I haven't even seen your dick yet!"

"Be quiet!" Andras hissed, his voice tight with panic. "It's after you! I need to get you out of-"

"Arghhh!" Zac shouted, trying to wriggle free. "You need to go help them! You're the best at fighting, right?! What are you doing?!"

Zac looked back just in time to see Skarg barely manage to throw up a thick shield of ice before another hammer blow connected. The impact shattered the ice instantly, knocking the massive wendigo backward through the air. Skarg hit the ground hard, rolling until he slammed into the dead Bicorn, right next to where Marchosias was still trapped.

Andras looked back at the others for a split second before turning to face forward. He shut his eyes tight, his beak clicking in an erratic, stressed rhythm, and dug his heels in, spurring Goremaw to run even faster.

"You're just going to leave them?!" Zac yelled in disbelief, struggling against the owl's iron grip. "This isn't dark and edgy, it's just pathetic!"

Zac felt sick as he watched the simulacrum rush up to Halphas over the owl’s shoulder. The eagle demon unleashed another rocket point-blank, engulfing them both in a massive dust cloud. For a second, Zac thought the Earl had done it. Then, the massive wooden gavel swung out of the smoke.

It connected with a sickening crunch. Halphas got bonked hard, the impact resulting in a massive explosion of grey feathers and camo fabric.

"Halphas!" Zac yelled, his heart seizing. "Fuck!"

He didn't think, he just acted. He threw his weight sideways, twisting out of Andras's grasp, and rolled straight off Goremaw's back.

He hit the rocky ground hard, tumbling head over heels and tearing the fleece of his onesie. "Oof!" He groaned, holding his aching side, but immediately scrambled to his feet and began sprinting back toward the brawl.

"Avatar!" Zac heard Andras hoot in panic, but Goremaw’s momentum was too great, and the warg kept running away from the battle. Zac ignored him.

This can't be real, Zac's mind raced as his slippered feet pounded against the dirt. This is just a bad dream. One of them is pranking me. The angel is gonna die any second now, and the heroic asshole whose dream idea this was is going to come fuck me.

But Zac's mind went completely blank as he drew closer. He watched, horrified, as REPENTANCE turned its faceless golden visor toward the last two standing. It began a slow, deliberate march toward Skarg and Marchosias, who were both still down by the dead Bicorn.

If that thing wants me so badly, I can at least lead it away. I can save them, Zac thought.

He took a deep breath and screamed, "HEY! OVER HERE! THIS TIGHT, UNSOILED VIRGIN NEEDS SOME BIG ANGELIC RESCUING!"

Zac waved his arms frantically. REPENTANCE stopped its advance on the wolf and slowly turned to face him. It lowered its massive gavel and began to walk toward the human, its steps perfectly even and inexorable.

"Come and get me!" Zac yelled, his voice already feeling raw. "Take me to the Holy City! Do whatever you want to me, just leave them alone!"

The simulacrum's expressionless voice played directly inside of Zac's head.

< Virgin Located. New Task: Return To Holy Chapel. >

The android angel was just out of arm's reach when Skarg suddenly jumped in front of Zac.

The wendigo tackled the simulacrum, grappling with the porcelain entity. Skarg struggled, his massive muscles bunching and straining. Zac could see the ice forming around the caribou's hands, attempting to freeze the angel, but the moment the frost touched the pristine white surface, it simply disappeared, turning into glittery dust that floated harmlessly in the air.

Skarg bellowed with effort, his hooves sliding in the dirt. Thick, glacial ice began to creep up Skarg's own legs, anchoring him to the ground to support his weight. Using the extra leverage, Skarg twisted his entire body, roaring as he forced REPENTANCE sideways and slammed it down onto the rocky ground.

"Hell yeah, Skarg!" Zac yelled, his heart leaping. "You're totally getting some hot and sloppy cuddles when we get back!"

Skarg turned back to Zac and grinned, his icy blue eyes shining with triumph.

But the simulacrum didn't stay down. It stood up instantly, completely defying physics, and swung its gavel in a short, brutal chop that hit Skarg directly on the shoulder.

Zac watched in absolute horror as the massive wendigo froze. Glowing, golden cracks spiderwebbed rapidly across Skarg's fur and ice-covered body. With a sickening sound of shattering glass, the Demon of Love began to crack and shatter, slumping onto the ground.

"NOOO!"

Zac closed his eyes and fell to his knees, his hands grabbing fistfuls of dirt. I fucked up, he thought, a crushing weight of despair settling over him. Why do I always have to open my big, stupid, horny mouth?

He pounded his fists against the rocky ground, tears streaming down his face. "Every fucking time! Why am I like this?! I'm so fucking cursed! I belong in Hell!"

Smooth, pristine porcelain hands reached down, sliding under Zac’s arms and knees. He was lifted effortlessly from the bloody mud, cradled against the construct’s chest as gently as a newborn baby. The simulacrum felt cold, hard, and terrifyingly peaceful.

< Virgin Secure, > the voice chimed in his mind, its tone a serene, unfeeling hum. < Protect At All Costs. Return To Safety. The Blessings Of Heaven Await. >

Zac wept, his body limp in the angel's arms. It was over. They were all dead or dying. His big, stupid mouth and his selfish, horny desires had gotten the only beings who had ever paid him any real attention slaughtered.

He reached up with trembling hands and unbuckled the leather chin strap of his helmet. He pulled the heavy, red velvet papal crown from his head. He stared at the sharp, iron upside-down cross protruding from the top.

I can just end it, as soon as we are far enough away, Zac thought, a dark, hollow numbness settling over him. I've died before. If I do it now, the contract is broken, there is nothing pure about killing myself. Ose gets nothing. The Holy City gets nothing. And I don't have to live with this feeling... all of these feelings.

He gripped the velvet base and slowly turned the iron spike inward, pressing the sharp tip of the cross against the pulse point of his own thumb. He closed his eyes, it was sharp, sharp enough to-

RROOOAAARRR!

A massive, black blur of teeth and fury slammed into the simulacrum’s side. Goremaw!

The warg hit the construct with the force of a runaway train, his jaws clamping down viciously on the angel’s arm. The sudden impact jarred REPENTANCE, causing its gentle, cradle-like grip to falter.

Before Zac could even register the warg's return, a pair of taloned hands grabbed him by the collar of his onesie. Andras materialized from the shadow cast by the simulacrum's wings, yoinking Zac right out of the angel's arms.

With a grunt of effort, Andras hurled Zac backward. Zac hit the dirt, rolling a few feet before skidding to a halt.

"GET BACK TO LEONARDO!" Andras hooted, his voice cracking with a desperate, ragged edge Zac had never heard before. "GET BACK TO THE KEEP!"

Zac lay in the dirt, the heavy crown slipping from his fingers. He tried to stand, but his legs simply refused to work. They were completely numb, paralyzed by grief and shock.

"I can't!" Zac sobbed, his chest heaving as he stared up at the owl demon. "Everyone died! It's my fault... I'm... I'm..."

Andras turned to look back at him. The cool, detached, cynical pirate was gone. His feathers were ruffled and his golden, unblinking eyes were brimming with thick, glistening tears.

"It's my fault, not yours!" Andras yelled, his voice breaking completely. "RUN, ZAC!"

Andras didn't wait to see if Zac obeyed. He turned and threw himself into the fray.

Goremaw was tearing at the construct's legs, distracting it just long enough. Andras dropped into the shadows, sinking into the earth and reappearing instantly in the air directly behind REPENTANCE.

With a feral, hooting scream, Andras brought his cutlass down in a massive, two-handed, desperate arc. The enchanted steel bit into the base of one of the massive, stained-glass wings.

CRASH.

The sound of shattering glass was deafening. The geometric wing sheared off, erupting into a million glittering, colorful shards that rained down upon the rocky ridge.

The simulacrum froze. It slowly turned its faceless golden visor over its shoulder to look at the missing appendage.

Then, the construct began to glow. Not the gentle, rainbow healing light from before but a blinding, incandescent flare of pure, weaponized holy energy.

A massive holy nova erupted outward. It hit Andras and Goremaw simultaneously, a concussive blast of divine light that swept them off their feet. Zac watched in horror as both the owl and the warg were blown violently backward, flying through the air like discarded ragdolls before crashing into the dirt, motionless.

Zac felt so sick. He couldn't walk. He couldn't move. He dragged his heavy, unresponsive body backward, his leopard-print slippers sliding in the dirt, until the back of his head cracked against a jagged boulder.

He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and watched the nightmare continue.

REPENTANCE stood amidst the scattered, glowing shards of its own wing. It pulsed with that blinding, holy light, and slowly, impossibly, the stained glass began to re-form. The shards lifted from the ground, knitting themselves back together into the geometric, celestial construct.

< Protect The Pure Virgin. > The emotionless voice rang in Zac's head again, louder this time. < Destroy The Demonic Evildoers. Protect The Pure Virgin Lamb. >

The simulacrum raised its wooden gavel, turning its faceless visor back toward Zac.

Then, a howl ripped through the scene, a sound of such raw, desperate defiance that it seemed to vibrate the very stone of the ridge.

Zac opened his tear-filled eyes.

Marchosias was standing.

His black plate armor was dented and scored with Bicorn blood, and he favored his right leg, leaning heavily on it, but he was upright. He held his dark steel longsword extended, pointing it directly at the chest of the angelic construct.

"MARCH, RUN!" Zac screamed, his voice tearing his throat. "PLEASE! JUST RUN AWAY!"

Marchosias didn't even look back at him. His amber eyes were locked onto the simulacrum, blazing with a terrible, suicidal resolve.

"I AM NOT THE VIRGIN!" the Wolf Captain howled back, his voice echoing over the roar of the distant battle. "IT DOESN'T MATTER IF I DIE! YOU NEED TO BE PROTECTED!"

The simulacrum spun slowly to face Marchosias, its movements frictionless and perfectly balanced.

< Sinner Detected. Defend The Virgin. Exorcise The Evil. >

The faux-angel lowered its massive gavel and began to walk toward the Wolf Captain. Marchosias bared his fangs, a low, rumbling growl tearing from his throat as he dragged his crushed left leg backward, desperately trying to lock himself into a steady defensive stance. His armor groaned in protest, the metal dented and warped.

"Just run," Zac whimpered from his spot against the boulder, his voice barely a breath. He pulled his knees tighter to his chest, trembling violently. "I'm not worth saving."

Zac watched the clash through tear-filled eyes, his heart shattering as the fight played out. It was completely one-sided. Marchosias inhaled deeply, unleashing a torrent of his silver, annihilating fire, but REPENTANCE merely raised its stained-glass wings. The holy construct absorbed the flames effortlessly, the glass panels drinking in the light and glowing brighter.

March swung his longsword with all his might, but his ruined leg weighed him down. The simulacrum was impossibly fast, its massive wooden gavel weaving through the air to swat the heavy steel blade aside like a toy.

With a sickening thud, the flat of the gavel caught Marchosias in the ribs. The Wolf Captain was knocked backward, tumbling through the bloody dirt.

He didn't stay down. Marchosias pushed himself up on shaking arms. He planted his boots in the mud, clenching his gauntleted fists so hard the metal shrieked. His grey fur stood completely on end, bristling with a terrifying, desperate energy.

Then, the blinding white light erupted.

Two radiant, geometric wings of pure, solid light burst outward from Marchosias's back. A choked, agonizing howl ripped from his throat, the sound of a creature being torn apart from the inside out, as he staggered back to his feet.

"Stop it," Zac whispered, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks.

Marchosias redoubled his efforts, launching himself at the construct. It was as if the wings had supercharged his failing body. He was faster, stronger, moving as a blur of dark steel and blinding light. CLANG! CLANG! His sword met the massive gavel blow for blow, parrying strikes that should have crushed him and driving the simulacrum backward.

For a fleeting second, a spark of hope ignited in Zac's chest. He's doing it. He's actually fighting it back.

But then the Wolf Captain spun to dodge a sweeping blow, exposing his back to Zac.

The hope died, replaced by shock and dread.

The glowing angelic wings were destroying the wolf. The holy magic was utterly incompatible with his demonic form. Zac watched in revulsion as the thick, enchanted black armor on March's back literally melted, dripping down his sides like hot wax. Beneath the slagging metal, his grey fur and flesh were actively burning away, charred black and smoldering down to the muscle and bone right where the radiant wings sprouted from his shoulder blades. He was immolating himself to save a human who had done nothing but mock him.

The angel and the demon clashed again. Marchosias ducked under a crushing overhead swing, stepping inside the construct's guard. With a vicious grunt, he slammed the wolf-head pommel of his sword directly into the simulacrum's side, following it up with a brutal, driving shove with his broad shoulder.

REPENTANCE actually stumbled, its pristine porcelain feet sliding backward in the dirt.

But as Marchosias shifted his weight to press the advantage, his crushed left leg finally gave out completely. His knee buckled, and the Captain lost his footing, stumbling awkwardly into the mud.

The simulacrum didn't hesitate. It regained its balance instantly, its smooth body beginning to pulse with that terrifying, incandescent light.

< Purge. >

A second holy nova detonated. The shockwave of divine energy erupted point-blank, hitting Marchosias with the force of a bomb. The Wolf Captain was knocked violently away, his armored body skipping across the rocky ground like a thrown stone before finally coming to a devastating, motionless halt.

REPENTANCE slowly turned away from the fallen Wolf Captain. It raised its pristine, white hand, reaching out for Zac once more.

< Protect The Virgin. Protect The Innocent. Protect The Pure. >

Zac didn't scramble away this time. He sat slumped against the jagged obsidian boulder, his eyes bloodshot and swollen, his face streaked with dirt and tears. He looked up at the towering, faceless construct, his voice raw and scraping like sandpaper.

"If you touch me, you're going to regret it," Zac snarled, a dark, venomous promise bleeding into his words. "I'm going to destroy the entire fucking Holy City."

The simulacrum paused, its head tilting slightly. The emotionless voice chimed in his mind, processing the threat with chilling, mechanical logic.

< Trauma Response Detected. Human Brain Is Damaged From Demonic Torture. Begin Consoling. >

The angel reached its hand down further, its golden visor reflecting Zac's broken, leopard-print form.

< Who Is A Good Boy? > the voice hummed inside his skull. < You Are. You Are A Good Boy. >

The pristine porcelain fingers were an inch from Zac’s face when the jagged boulder he was leaning against suddenly shifted.

It wasn't a boulder.

With the speed of a striking cobra, Leonardo’s massive, rocky head shot forward. The Pygmy Aspidochelone’s jaws clamped shut around the simulacrum’s outstretched hand.

CRUNCH.

Porcelain shattered like cheap teacups. Leonardo effortlessly bit the construct's fingers clean off, chewing the holy digits into dust and swallowing them with a loud, grinding gulp.

REPENTANCE staggered backward, its perfect balance finally broken. It stared at its ruined, sparking stump of a hand for a microsecond before its wings flared. It raised its massive wooden gavel high into the air with its remaining hand, preparing to flatten the demonic turtle in one single, devastating blow.

Zac didn't try to run. He just turned and threw his arms around Leonardo’s thick, leathery neck, hugging the giant snapping turtle as tightly as his exhausted muscles would allow.

"You're not slow," Zac whispered into the coarse scales, closing his eyes. "You're fucking awesome. I'm going to miss you, buddy. Maybe we can have some pizza when we meet again."

He held his breath, waiting for the massive shadow of the gavel to crush them into the dirt.

The blow never came.

A sickening sound of grinding porcelain and cracking glass echoed above him instead. Zac slowly opened his eyes and looked up.

Marchosias was standing directly behind the simulacrum. The Wolf Captain’s arms were wrapped tight around the construct's neck in a brutal, vice-like headlock.

But it was Marchosias’s face that made Zac’s breath catch in his throat.

Above the wolf’s head, hovering in the smoke-filled air, was a blindingly bright halo. But the holy ring was corrupted, rejecting the demonic host it belonged to. It was actively weeping, raining thick, dark demonic blood down over Marchosias’s face, matting his fur and soaking his ruined armor in a gruesome, crimson shower.

Marchosias’s amber eyes burned through the curtain of his own blood. With a guttural, bone-shaking roar that tore his vocal cords, the Wolf Captain flexed his massive biceps and twisted violently.

SNAP.

The sound was like a marble pillar snapping in half. Marchosias literally ripped the simulacrum's golden-visored head right off its porcelain shoulders.

Sparks and blinding light spewed from the construct's severed neck like a geyser. The headless body of REPENTANCE swayed for a moment before collapsing forward into the bloody mud, its six stained-glass wings shattering into a million pieces upon impact.

Marchosias stood there for a single heartbeat, the severed head clutched in his gauntlet, the bloody halo flickering violently above him. He looked over at Zac, his chest heaving, his mouth slightly open as if he wanted to say something.

Then, the halo shattered, and the wolf's eyes rolled back in his head.

Marchosias fell over like a felled tree, crashing motionless into the dirt beside the ruined angel.

Zac scrambled through the bloody mud, his hands and knees slipping as he crawled frantically toward the fallen Wolf Captain.

"March!" Zac gasped, his voice cracking. "March, hey, wake up!"

He reached the wolf's side and froze. The damage was catastrophic. The glowing, angelic wings were gone, but they had left a horrifying crater of charred flesh and melted armor between Marchosias's shoulder blades.

Beneath the newly burned tissue and ruined metal, Zac could see the rest of Marchosias's back. It was a roadmap of ancient, terrible suffering. Crisscrossing the wolf's powerful musculature were dozens of deep, jagged scars, long, raised welts that looked like they had been made by a cat o' nine tails. Lash marks that had worn away the wolf's ability to even grow fur. Punishments. Self-inflicted or otherwise, they painted a picture of a man who had spent an eternity tearing himself apart.

"March," Zac sobbed. He grabbed the heavy, armored shoulder and heaved with all his remaining strength, managing to roll the massive Captain onto his back.

Marchosias let out a weak, wet growl of pain. His eyes fluttered open for a half-second, unfocused and glazed. He spat a thick mouthful of black blood onto the dirt, then his head lolled to the side, and he went completely limp.

"No! No, stay with me!" Zac felt dizzy, the edges of his vision growing dark and fuzzy. He looked around the desolate ridge and screamed, "HELP! SOMEONE HELP US!"

His voice was swallowed by the vast, indifferent roar of the eternal war below.

Zac began to pound his fists weakly against Marchosias's unmoving, armored chest. "You asshole!" he wailed, his tears mixing with the blood and mud on the wolf's fur. "You should have just let them take me! I wasn't worth saving! I’m worth this!"

He slumped forward, his strength completely gone, and buried his face in the crook of the Captain's neck, breathing in the scent of blood and burnt fur.

"I was sent to Hell because I was a loser," Zac sobbed, his voice breaking into a pathetic whimper. "I'm a defective, selfish, sexual freak. I deserve to be down here. But you... you're good. You resisted temptation. You tried so hard. You shouldn't even be here."

Zac squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers tangling in the fur of Marchosias's neck. "I wish I knew someone like you when I was alive," he whispered into the silence. "You're everything I'm not. You're strong, and you're good... I fucking hate myself. So I think... I think... I love you."

The dizziness was becoming overwhelming. Zac felt like he was falling down a long, dark tunnel. His grip on the wolf's fur began to loosen.

He slowly blinked his eyes open one last time, looking up into the crimson sky.

Standing over them was a new figure. It was a beautiful, slender stag-man. His fur was a soft, autumnal brown, his antlers elegant and sweeping, and his tail... his tail was made of pure, dancing fire. He looked like a guardian spirit of the forest, ethereal and breathtakingly gorgeous.

"Oh... hey, sexy deer guy," Zac mumbled, his words slurring together as his consciousness slipped away. "Are you... another one of the demons... here to rescue us?"

The beautiful, ethereal stag glared down at him.

"Oh, shut the fuck up, you whore," Skarg's rough, gravelly, unmistakably brutish voice came out of the slim, fiery deer's mouth.

Zac's brain short-circuited completely. Wait, Skarg is a twunk?

It was the last thought he had. As the darkness finally pulled him under, Zac caught a blurry, fading glimpse of a portly pigeon, a stumbling, zombie-looking lion, and a limping owl converging on their position as the world went black.

Zac opened his eyes.

There was nothing. Literally nothing. No ceiling, no floor, no walls, and absolutely no light. He blinked a few times, bringing a hand up to wave it in front of his face, but he couldn't even see his own fingers. The darkness was absolute, a heavy, suffocating blanket of sensory deprivation.

He slowly pushed himself up. He wasn't floating, there was definitely a solid, smooth surface beneath his feet, but it made no sound when he shifted his weight.

"Am I dead?" Zac’s voice echoed weirdly, sounding flat and muted, like speaking into a vacuum. "Again? Double dead?"

He spun in a slow circle. "I really thought there would be more spicy salsa music in Limbo. Or at least some elevator jazz. This is just bad hospitality."

He took a tentative step forward. Then another. He began to wander aimlessly through the pitch-black void, his arms outstretched like a zombie to make sure he didn't walk face-first into an invisible wall.

After what felt like five minutes of shuffling through the dark, Zac let out a frustrated sigh and dropped to the floor, crossing his legs Indian-style.

"Okay, think," he muttered to himself. "Survival 101. If you're lost in the woods, or, a boundless metaphysical void, you stay put. That way, the rescue party can find you faster. Thanks, Tom Cruise." He paused, his brow furrowing in the darkness. "Wait. What movie was that from? And... wait, does that only work if the other person is actually looking? Because if we're both just sitting still waiting to be found, then we are totally fucked."

Zac groaned, rubbing his temples. His mind immediately went back to the ridge. The blood. The shattered porcelain. Andras crying… Skarg being a slender, fiery twunk.

And Marchosias. The Wolf Captain’s back, burned and ruined, raining blood from a weeping halo.

"Please be okay, Wolf Daddy," Zac whispered, his voice cracking. "Please."

As if in response to his plea, the absolute darkness began to shift.

A faint, warm glow bloomed in the distance. Zac scrambled to his feet, shielding his eyes as the glow intensified, expanding into a massive, brilliant sunrise that pushed the void away. The blackness dissolved, replaced by a sprawling, panoramic sky.

But Zac wasn't looking at the Pit anymore.

He was standing on the edge of a primal, untamed forest. Below him, gathered around a crackling bonfire, was a small tribe of early humans draped in animal hides. They were huddled together, clutching crude spears and stones, their eyes wide with terror as they stared out into the tree line.

From the shadows of the pines, a massive, ancient wolf emerged. Its fur was iron-grey, its amber eyes glowing with predatory intelligence. It bared its fangs, letting out a low, bone-rattling snarl that made the humans cower.

But then, one of the braver humans, a woman covered in dirt and soot, slowly lowered her spear. With trembling hands, she tore a chunk of roasted meat from the fire and tossed it into the dirt between them.

The wolf’s snarl faltered. It sniffed the cooked meat, looked at the fragile, hairless apes, and slowly stepped forward to eat.

The scene shifted rapidly, blurring like a time-lapse. The fire burned higher. The humans were sleeping. Suddenly, the tree line exploded. A prehistoric cave bear, a mountain of muscle and fury, charged the camp. The humans shrieked, scrambling for their weapons, but the wolf was faster. With a ferocious, protective howl, the iron-grey wolf launched itself directly at the bear's throat, putting its own body between the monster and the fragile humans who had shared their fire.

The vision dissolved into a wash of blinding, golden light.

The air grew impossibly hot and dry. Zac squinted, finding himself looking out over a vast, sweeping desert. The sun beat down on a treacherous, rocky mountain pass. A phalanx of dark-skinned soldiers, clad in bronze armor and carrying curved swords, were navigating the deadly cliffs. They looked lost, exhausted, and parched, stumbling on the loose scree.

At the head of the column stood the wolf. Sleek, regal, and unbothered by the scorching heat, the wolf looked back at the tired soldiers with those familiar, intelligent amber eyes. It let out a short, encouraging bark and turned, confidently leading the army down the winding, hidden paths. Zac watched as the wolf guided them out of the perilous mountains and down into a lush, vibrant valley, where a massive, reed-filled river snaked through the fertile earth. The soldiers fell to their knees in the cool water, praising their guide.

The golden sun flared and then shattered into a million shards of falling ice.

A biting, sub-zero wind whipped Zac’s onesie against his legs. He was standing on a flat, frozen plain. The snow was blindingly white, stretching endlessly to the horizon.

Laying in the center of a snowdrift was an old, grizzled wolf. Its muzzle was white with age, its breathing shallow and labored. The great beast rested its heavy head on its paws, its amber eyes slowly drifting shut as the life finally, peacefully, left its body.

A group of indigenous people, bundled tightly against the killing cold, approached the fallen animal. They didn't cheer, and they didn't treat it as a mere carcass. They knelt in the snow, murmuring quiet words of deep reverence and thanks. With careful, respectful hands, they took the wolf's thick, silver-grey pelt. Zac watched as a shivering child was wrapped in the warm, heavy fur, their life saved from the harsh winter by the wolf's final, silent sacrifice.

The snow swirled, obscuring the child and the hunters, until there was only white, fading back into the soft, glowing twilight of the void.

Zac stood there in the silence, the profound weight of the visions pressing down on his chest. It wasn't just history; it was an essence. It was the very soul of the canine. Protector. Guide. Sacrifice.

"March?" Zac called out, his voice no longer muted by the void. It echoed outward, searching. "Hey... are you there? Are you alright?"

The whiteout dissolved, reforming into a jagged, mist-shrouded coastline. Zac shivered as cold, salty rain lashed his face. Nestled against the rocky cliffs were small, stone huts with thick, thatched roofs. The village was battered, the sea raging against the harbor. A gaunt, hollow-eyed woman stood in her doorway, staring hopelessly at the empty ocean. Her fishing nets were torn, her baskets bare.

From the treeline, a large, silver-grey wolf emerged. It didn't sneak. It walked purposefully into the center of the village, carrying a massive, freshly caught salmon in its jaws. The wolf dropped the fish gently onto the woman's muddy doorstep. It let out a soft woof, its amber eyes locking with hers, before turning and vanishing back into the mist, leaving the starving family to eat.

The village melted away into a dark, foreboding forest of towering pines. A man, dressed in heavy woolen robes, sporting a long, tangled beard and an aggressively terrible bowl-cut, was backed against a massive tree trunk. He was clutching a wooden staff, his eyes wide with terror. A pack of starving, feral wolves circled him, their teeth bared, their growls echoing in the gloom. They lunged.

ROAR!

A colossal wolf, twice the size of the others, burst from the underbrush. Its fur was iron-grey, its presence radiating absolute authority. The Alpha didn't even have to bite. It simply stood between the terrified monk and the pack, bearing its fangs and issuing a single, concussive snarl. The starving pack immediately dropped their tails, whining in submission, and scattered into the woods. The Alpha turned, gave the trembling man a long, searching look, and then padded away into the shadows.

"March! Get out here!" Zac shouted, his voice cracking with exasperation. He stood up, ignoring the fading vision of the gothic forest. "What are you doing? Come talk to me!"

More images flashed around him in a dizzying kaleidoscope. A wolf leading a lost child out of a blizzard. A wolf guarding a flock of sheep from a mountain lion. A wolf dragging a drowning man from a rushing river.

Zac wasn't paying attention anymore. He ran straight through the illusions, the ghostly images of heroism breaking apart like smoke as he passed through them.

"I know you're a good boy!" Zac yelled into the swirling void. "I'm sorry for not listening when you told me to run from REPENTANCE, but I couldn't just watch you die!"

The montage of canine salvation abruptly ceased. The void slammed back into existence, pitching Zac into absolute, silent darkness once more.

"I'm not a good boy, Avatar."

Zac spun around. Marchosias was standing ten feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest. He wasn't wearing his ruined armor or his singed greatcoat. He was dressed simply in a loose, black linen shirt and dark trousers. His fur looked pristine, his amber eyes burning with a deep, frustrated intensity. He looked incredibly annoyed.

"I am showing you my sins."

Zac blinked, completely thrown off balance. "Your... your sins?" He gestured wildly to the empty air where the visions had been. "You were saving people! Most of them would have died or starved if you didn't intervene! How is that a sin?!"

"That is exactly the point," Marchosias growled.

He closed the distance between them in two massive strides, grabbed Zac by the shoulders, and unceremoniously pushed him down until the human was sitting cross-legged on the invisible floor.

"Just watch," the Wolf Captain commanded, looming over him. "And understand."

The void melted again. This time, the heat was suffocating. Zac sat on the dry, dusty bank of a wide, muddy river. Reeds swayed in a sluggish current. A small, woven basket bobbed along the water, spinning slowly as it drifted downstream.

Inside, two naked infants wailed. They were identical twins, squirming and crying out with thin, desperate voices. The river carried them precariously close to a tangle of submerged roots.

From the reeds, a figure emerged. It was Marchosias. He was dressed in a simple, unadorned white toga, his broad, furry chest exposed. His amber eyes were wide with panic. He didn't hesitate. He waded into the fast-flowing water, his powerful arms slicing through the current, and gently plucked the basket from the river before it could capsize.

He hauled the wailing babies onto the shore and carried them quickly into a nearby, dark cave. The infants didn't stop crying. Their faces were red, their tiny fists clenched in hunger and fear. Marchosias set the basket down on the stone floor and sat beside them. He buried his face in his hands, his broad shoulders heaving as he watched them suffer.

Zac stared, utterly bewildered. What is this? Are those...

In the cave, the wolf-man stood up. He looked down at his own body, his hands trailing over his muscled chest. With a sudden, agonizing shift of bone and fur, he dropped to all fours. The powerful, masculine form melted, morphing into the sleek, terrifyingly beautiful shape of a massive she-wolf. She immediately lay down on her side next to the basket, her belly exposed, and nudged the screaming infants toward her teats with a gentle, motherly snout. The crying stopped as the babies eagerly latched on to suckle.

Zac’s brain blue-screened. But... but... but... you’re Wolf Daddy, not Wolf Mommy.

Zac whipped his head around to face Marchosias, tears welling in his eyes. "You're fucking beautiful, March. I didn't know you were trans."

Marchosias’s fur bristled instantly. "I'm not trans! Demons have no gender!"

"Gender fluid, then!" Zac yelled back, throwing his hands in the air. "What the fuck am I watching?!"

Marchosias growled, dropping to one knee. He grabbed the sides of Zac's head with his massive, calloused hands and forced the human to look back at the vision.

"Don't you get it?!" Marchosias roared, his voice thick with ancient grief. "They were supposed to die! That was God's plan, and I keep defying it! I am unnatural! I should have stayed in Hell, but I cannot help myself! I intervened!"

The image of the she-wolf nursing the twins began to flicker, replaced by flashes of blood-soaked battlefields, expanding empires, burning cities, and rows of crucified men lining cobblestone roads.

"This was the last time," Marchosias whispered, his voice cracking, "before I gained control of myself. After I saw what Rome did... I knew I was only making things worse. For humans. For angels. For everyone. By my interventions."

Zac stared at the horrific montage of Roman conquest, utterly stunned. He looked up at the devastated Wolf Captain. "Are you stupid? Rome was the greatest civilization of all time! They invented plumbing!"

Marchosias howled, a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish that shattered the vision back into the black void. "AND FOR WHAT?! They caused the most human suffering of any civilization of all time! Those damned brothers wouldn't listen to me! Rommy killed Remmy over a fucking hill! A HILL, DAMMIT! Not even a mountain!"

Zac went completely silent. He looked up at the towering, terrifying Demon of Hell, and saw only a heartbroken parent grieving the loss of his children. The Captain was truly, profoundly upset. The weight of his guilt was a physical presence in the dark.

Zac reached up, his hands resting gently over Marchosias's massive paws still gripping his head. "I'm sorry you had to watch them do that," Zac whispered, his voice soft. "Humans are..." He paused, his own recent, careless words and actions flashing through his mind. "...unthoughtful. We just blurt out stupid stuff and make rash decisions without thinking. Without thinking about how it might hurt someone."

Marchosias’s grip loosened. His amber eyes searched Zac’s face for a long moment before he slowly pulled his hands away. He stood up, taking a heavy step backward, his posture slumping as the fight finally drained out of him.

"So," Marchosias murmured, his voice hollow and defeated. "Do you see? I am despicable."

Zac felt a swirl of profound confusion. What was Marchosias even saying? By saving humans from God's callous, so-called "plans" he was evil? For intervening when someone was hurt? When they were suffering? Zac wanted to say so many things… to scream that saving abandoned babies wasn't a sin, that building an empire wasn't his fault… but his racing mind could only manage to choke out a single word.

"No."

Marchosias closed his eyes, his broad chest rising and falling heavily. "Fine," he whispered. "I will show you my greatest sin."

The scene changed instantly. The black void shattered into a blinding, oppressive whiteness. Zac couldn't see anything, but the air was thick with the sounds of celestial warfare, screams of absolute terror, the deafening roar of explosions, and the clash of unimaginable forces.

Suddenly, a winged figure plummeted from the white haze and slammed onto the invisible ground just in front of Zac. It was an angel, its pristine feathers scorched and broken, weeping uncontrollably and pleading for mercy.

Then, Zac saw him. He could tell the Angel was March instantly, despite being a human, the angel had the captain’s eyes.

Angelic Marchosias slowly levitated down from the blinding light. He was a Dominion, a high-ranking celestial warrior clad in gleaming, unmarred armor that radiated pure authority. He held a flaming sword that crackled with divine judgment.

Angel-March landed silently, his face a mask of absolute, terrifying resolve. He pulled the flaming sword back, ready to deliver a killing blow to the weeping angel at his feet.

But he hesitated.

"Why did you disobey?!" Angel-March yelled, his voice echoing with the thunder of a breaking storm.

The crying figure looked up, its face streaked with golden tears. "Brother... it was a mistake. A moment of weakness! Forgive me!"

Angel-March’s face contorted with fury and grief. He pulled his sword back again and struck, burying the flaming blade deep into the ground just inches from the crying angel's head. "That is no excuse! What have you done, you fool?!"

The angel on the ground scrambled onto all fours and slammed his face into the dirt in total submission. "He told us to! The Morning Star gave a command! I thought... I thought it came from on high!"

Angel-March stood over his fallen brother, his expression tearing itself apart with conflict. His duty demanded execution; his heart demanded mercy.

"Do you understand now?" the real Marchosias growled softly from beside Zac.

A fiery, jagged hole suddenly tore open beneath the two angels. The pristine white ground gave way to the roaring, sulfurous flames of Hell.

"Why I was rejected from the Seventh Throne," Marchosias's voice was weak, stripped of all its usual command.

Zac watched in horror as the crying angel and Angel-March tumbled backward, swallowed by the roaring fire and plunging into the abyss. The vision snapped shut, plunging them back into the silent, black void.

Zac looked up at the wolf demon, his eyes wide and burning. "For having fucking compassion?!"

"NO!" Marchosias barked, the sudden volume making Zac flinch. "For not following orders! I was given a command by He to slay the betrayers, and I couldn't even do that! Everything I did was weak. Everything I did was for my own petty feelings. How could I ever expect to enjoy the blessings of Heaven when all I did was what I wanted to do?!"

The Wolf Captain’s shoulders slumped, the fire in his amber eyes dying down to a dull, self-loathing ember. "I was pathetic."

Zac's jaw hung open, completely unable to process the sheer, suffocating weight of the demon's misplaced guilt.

"I know," Marchosias said solemnly, misinterpreting Zac's silence. "I am bad."

Zac felt his blood boiling. He was too angry to speak.

"I see it in your face," Marchosias said, his voice flat. "You're disgusted with me. Now you know my shame, my softness, my inability to follow orders. That is why, for the past thousand years, I have steeled myself. I will never shirk my duties again, and God will see me, even down in this filthy Pit. He will see I have learned my lesson, and He will let me back into-"

"YOU RETARD!" Zac yelled. "YOU WANT TO GO BACK TO THAT?!"

Marchosias looked completely stunned, his amber eyes wide.

"You're hurting yourself so your scumbag, toxic ex will take you back?!" Zac raged, spittle flying from his lips. "Not even your ex… your fucking abusive parent! No, that's the most weak-ass bitch bullshit I've ever heard!"

Zac scrambled to his feet. He lunged forward, grabbing handfuls of the Wolf Captain's linen shirt, and began to shake the massive demon with every ounce of strength his scrawny human body possessed.

"You're too good for God!" Zac screamed, tears streaming down his face again. "You're too fucking good to ever lower yourself for His approval ever again! If I have to see one more example of you having a bigger heart than the fucking Holy Creator, I'm going to lose my mind!"

He shook the frozen wolf again, his voice breaking into a desperate, furious sob. "Because I love you! And I already knew that you were way too good for me, and even trying to make a passing joke that you might be into me would be hilarious because it would mean I'm really so deluded that I thought there was even some cosmic chance in the infinite multiverses that there was one single version of me that might be even close enough to being worthy of washing your dirty underwear! And now it's so obvious that it’s not even funny!"

Zac shoved himself away, pacing frantically in the black void. "Holy shit, March! Have you been torturing yourself because of your daddy issues?! God is a beta bitch if He sent you to Hell! He is a total pussy! He probably takes testosterone and thinks it will make him buff without working out! God is a major moron who-"

"Don't you take His name in vain like that," Marchosias growled, a warning rumble starting deep in his chest.

Zac screamed, spinning around and marching right back up to get inches from March's muzzle. "STOP THIS PITY PORN RIGHT NOW! It's pathetic, and you are so much better than that!"

Marchosias tried to turn away, the embers of his amber eyes darkening with shame. "It was silly of me to try and make you understand."

"I'm not done with you!" Zac shouted, grabbing the wolf by his shirt and yanking him back.

Marchosias looked genuinely surprised that the weak human could even move him. He grabbed Zac's arms, attempting to easily dislodge the frantic grip, but Zac dug his heels in and refused to let go.

"I know it hurts!" Zac screamed directly into March's face, his voice echoing in the infinite dark. "I know it hurts so bad to disappoint your parents! But that's not your fault! It's not your fault you're different than them! That's just how it goes! Even if God made you piece by piece exactly like He wanted you to be, it's no one's fault that you're different! You're not just nature! Everything you experienced made you who you are!"

Tears streamed hot and fast down Zac's cheeks, dripping onto his hands where they clenched the demon’s shirt.

"God was an only child or some shit!" Zac sobbed. "But you weren't! You had a bunch of angel brothers!"

Marchosias shifted uncomfortably, his grip loosening on Zac’s wrists. "We did not have genders."

"Fine! You had a bunch of angel they/thems, that's not the fucking point!" Zac yelled, shaking him again. "How the fuck would God know what it feels like to spend your entire existence with others?! Living together, following orders, just vibing, laughing! Knowing that some are better at singing and others are better at fighting! Some are better at math and some like reading more! It doesn't matter if you were all perfect… you were all different, or else what was the point of naming you?!"

Marchosias’s grip failed completely. His massive hands fell slowly to his sides. He stared down at Zac, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a profound, trembling silence.

"He gave us names," Marchosias whispered into the void, his voice hollow, "to tell us apart."

"Why would God want to tell you apart if you were all copy-paste clones?!" Zac let go of March's greatcoat and threw his arms around the wolf's waist, burying his face in his chest. "You aren't bad, March! You aren't evil! And trying to prove that to someone who even thought that for one second is a waste of your time and effort!"

Marchosias’s breaths grew heavy, his massive chest rising and falling against Zac's cheek in a rapid, unsteady rhythm. "You know nothing, Zachary Torres."

"I know that I wish someone told me this when I was alive," Zac sobbed, his voice muffled by the demon's shirt. He tilted his head back, looking up at March with tear-filled eyes. "Please don't tell me I'm wrong. If I'm wrong, then I really am a broken freak who deserves to be in Hell because I am different. And now you’re telling me, even if i saved a thousand babies from drowning, I should be getting tortured, and set on fire, and eaten by rats right now if not for the fact that I was such a massive loser that I couldn't even get some random old dude to give me a pity fuck!"

The amber light in Marchosias's eyes wavered. Thick tears began spilling out of his tired smoldering eyes, tracking down his scarred muzzle.

"If I'm wrong, then my family was right!" Zac wailed, his voice raw and echoing in the darkness. "Being different is blasphemy and sinners deserve eternal damnation! I should have been a carbon copy of Jesus! I should have just been a saint! I should have been a pope, because anything less would mean that I’m worthless!"

"That's not what I-" Marchosias choked out. His massive, clawed hands came up, hesitantly at first, before wrapping securely around Zac's back and pulling the smaller man tight against his body.

"If I was wrong," Zac cried, his fingers digging desperately into the wolf's back, "that means that humanity was a mistake. It doesn't matter that you saved all those people, because they are all going to Hell anyways."

Zac buried his face in March's shirt, his voice a muffled wail. "And if everyone is going to Hell anyways, God is just creating a fucking torture world where it doesn't matter what you do! If there is anything unique about you, then you're punished! What's the fucking point of free will if it's just there for you to suppress?!"

Marchosias pulled Zac flush against him, his arms a vice-like grip of desperate need. The towering wolf buried his face in Zac’s messy, leopard-print hood. "I… I don't want to be in Hell. I tried so hard to do the right things but it was never good enough." Marchosias cried, his voice shattering, the stoic commander completely broken. "I miss the rest of my family in Heaven."

"I miss my family too," Zac sobbed into the linen shirt, his tears soaking the fabric. "I miss everyone I used to know... even if they were huge asshats. But... but I'm..." Zac took a ragged breath. "I'm glad I met you."

He tilted his head back, looking up into the wolf's tear-streaked face. "I'm glad I met the others. I'm even glad that asshole Ose plucked me out of infinity and sent me to get blue-balled until I lost my fucking mind."

Marchosias looked down at him, his amber eyes red and brimming with a millennia of suppressed sorrow, but for the first time, the heavy, crushing weight of his guilt seemed to have lifted just a fraction. He let out a wet, snotty chuckle.

"I'm glad I met you too," Marchosias whispered.

He rested his chin gently on top of Zac's head, the coarse fur of his bearded muzzle brushing against the fleece cat ears. "You are an insane human."

...

Zac blinked against the harsh, glowing light of the white crystals.

He wasn't in the void anymore. The sharp smell of antiseptic and ozone filled his nose. He was lying on one of the stiff, leather examination beds in the keep's infirmary.

He slowly turned his head, his neck stiff and sore.

On the bed next to him, stripped of his ruined angelic plate mail, lay Marchosias. The Wolf Captain's broad chest and shoulders were wrapped heavily in thick white bandages, stark against his dark fur.

He was breathing deeply and evenly, his scarred features relaxed in a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Zac lay still, his eyes fixed on Marchosias. The Wolf Captain was sleeping, the steady rise and fall of his bandaged chest the only movement in the sterile infirmary.

Zac felt a deep, aching pity for the demon. The image of March’s ruined, flayed back was burned into Zac’s mind. He’s been gaslit by the literal creator of the universe into hating himself, Zac thought, his chest tightening. For what? For being too good.

The heavy iron door of the medbay clicked, inching open with surprising quietness.

Bune poked his Left Head through the gap, scanning the room. A second later, the Right Head peeked around the doorframe. Seeing it was safe, the dragon butler slipped inside, gently pulling the door shut behind him.

"Zachary," Bune whispered, his Left Head turning to face the bed. "It is good to see you are awake. Are you feeling alright?"

"Is March okay?" Zac whispered back instantly, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

Bune looked between Zac and the unconscious Wolf Captain. A soft, fond smile touched the dragon’s features. "It looks like he is sleeping soundly for once. He used an immense amount of his demonic mana. He will be out for a while."

"That's good," Zac said, his gaze drifting back to the sleeping wolf. "He saved me. He saved us all."

Bune padded silently across the tiled floor and took a seat on the edge of Zac’s cot. "Can you tell me what happened out there?" the Right Head asked softly.

Zac nodded. He shifted on the crinkly paper of the exam table and began to recount the battle on the ridge.

At first, the story was fairly accurate. He described the terrifying, featureless angel construct, the sudden attack, and the initial charge of the warband. But as Zac got going, the narrative slowly began to shift. He added in a few dramatic monologues for Marchosias that definitely hadn't happened. He described the Captain striking heroic poses amidst the explosions. He even threw in a prolonged, anime-style power beam struggle between March's silver fire and REPENTANCE's holy light.

By the end of the story, Zac had Marchosias yelling for fifteen solid minutes while flexing his muscles to unlock a secret "Super Demon" power-up, culminating in the badass, blood-raining halo that allowed him to rip the simulacrum's head off with his bare hands.

Bune sat enraptured, all four of his golden eyes wide, staring at the sleeping wolf with awe. "That is quite amazing," the Left Head breathed. "The others never tell me about how the Captain fights."

Zac stretched, his joints popping as he swung his legs over the side of the cot. "We should go so we don't wake him up. I can tell you all about the Angel Balls somewhere else."

Bune immediately began fussing over him, multiple hands reaching out to check his temperature and pulse. "You have experienced a traumatic battle! You should rest more! You can tell me all about... wait. Angel Balls? What are those?"

"Oh, just something that grants wishes when you collect all seven," Zac said, waving a hand dismissively. "But I feel fine. I just need some food and maybe a massage."

Bune looked skeptical, his Right Head tilting. "A... butt massage?" he questioned cautiously.

Zac looked up at the dragon coyly, a playful smirk touching his lips. "Just a regular massage... but if you're offering."

Bune’s heads both gave a soft smile. "It seems that you have not lost your mind due to PTSD. That is good."

"PTSD stains terribly," the Right Head added.

"Why would I get PTSD?" Zac asked. "I'm not afraid of dying. Or anything else, I guess, since I'm already dead."

Bune shrugged a tailored shoulder. "The dying part usually isn't that bad. It is the unimaginable pain and suffering just before the dying that most people fear."

Before Zac could fully appreciate that he could still very much feel unimaginable pain and suffering, the door blew open.

Skarg lumbered in. But it wasn't Skarg as Zac had known him.

Zac did a double-take. He was no longer the hulking, frozen wendigo wrapped in a perpetual blizzard. Now, he was a tall, elegant deer-man. His muscles were lean and toned rather than bulging, covered in soft, short autumnal-brown fur. Smooth, sweeping antlers adorned his head, and trailing behind him was a tail made of pure, dancing fire. He looked refined and… dare Zac say… beautiful.

"March stole my glory!" Skarg immediately yelled, his voice still the same gravelly, brutish bellow despite his ethereal new appearance. "If the wolf hadn't cut in, I would have been the one who saved Zac!"

Bune stood up quickly, raising a hand in a shushing motion. "Quiet down!" he whisper-yelled. "The Captain is sleeping! Do you have no class?"

"Oh, lick my ass," the beautiful deer demon growled. "You weren't even there because you're a massive weenie. Why don't you go sweep the ceilings or something?"

Bune looked instantly alarmed. "Why?! Did you break the ceiling again?!"

BAM.

The door slammed open loudly once more, and Nock burst in, weeping loudly. "Zachary is alright! He is still as pure as the first flower of spring before it is molested by the passing whimsy of a deviant bumble bee!"

Zac leaned over to look past Bune and Skarg, who were now grappling near the foot of the bed.

Nock was wearing a deep purple smoking jacket and a large fedora with a single, wilted rose tucked into the band. He looked terribly grey, the golden luster completely gone from his fur, and his jagged scars showed starkly even though his hat was tilted down in an attempt to hide his face.

Bune managed to toss the surprisingly lightweight Skarg to the ground with a grunt, before rushing up to Nock. "Stop crying so loudly!" the dragon hissed, pointing frantically at the sleeping Captain.

Skarg pushed himself up, dusting off his soft brown fur with a scowl. "The lion did less to save the Avatar than the fucking turtle."

Nock’s wailing cut off instantly. He let out a sharp hiss at the deer. The lion and the deer stepped into each other's space, getting right in each other's faces and shouting about who had been the most heroic and whose fault it was that they had been bodied by the simulacrum.

The door opened again, and Halphas strutted in. But he wasn't wearing his usual crisp military uniform or his tight tank tops. He was wearing a big, baggy gray sweatshirt with the hood pulled low over his face. Zac noticed his beak looked different… less sharp and eagle-like, more short and... pigeon-y.

Halphas laughed, walking over and rubbing Zac's shoulder. "You did a good job surviving your first battle, kid."

Zac leaned into the touch, looking up at the Earl of Violence. "Do I get a medal for my bravery?"

Halphas snorted, a softer sound than his usual sharp bark. "A medal for not dying? Are you really that deluded?"

Zac nodded enthusiastically. "If you don't have a medal for me, you can still prick me with your pin."

Halphas grinned, his beak clicking softly. "How about I just stop calling you 'new guy'?"

Before Zac could say that he would much rather get Halphas's big pigeon prick instead, a smoky, detached laugh echoed from the doorway.

Andras leaned against the frame, twirling a cigarillo between his talons. "You're all fools. None of you did any real damage to the simulacrum."

The room erupted.

"You ran away, you coward!" Nock yelled, his scarred face twisting in fury.

"I had it pinned!" Skarg bellowed, his fiery tail flaring.

"My rockets were the only thing slowing it down!" Halphas squawked indignantly, pulling his hood tighter around his face.

Andras just smirked and lazily drew his cutlass, letting the enchanted steel catch the harsh light of the medbay. "I broke the simulacrum's wing after you idiots all got one-shot."

Bune had finally had enough. With a wet, tearing sound, his third head popped out of his shoulder.

"THE CAPTAIN IS SLEEPING!" the middle head screamed, spit flying across the room. "IF YOU'RE NOT QUIET, I'LL RIP OUT YOUR TONGUES AND FEED THEM BACK TO YOU!"

The others went dead quiet, staring at the furious, drooling dragon head.

Bune coughed politely. His left head reached up to try and hold together his torn collar. "Finally. Now, if you all please, take your rabble out of the room so Marchosias can sleep."

"I'm awake now," Marchosias grumbled from his bed.

Bune went stiff and turned around, his middle head retracting back into his body with an embarrassed squelch. "Oh, you are awake already! I was trying to get the others to show some decorum."

Marchosias waved it off, his scarred, bandaged chest shifting as he spoke. "I can sleep when I'm dead."

"Is there anything I can get for you?" Bune asked, rushing to the side of the bed.

Marchosias's stomach growled loudly. He frowned, looking down at his abdomen. "No. I just need to get back to work. Like the rest of you."

Zac stood up from his cot, adjusting his leopard-print onesie. "I know I've got a whole busy schedule and everything, but I can't work on an empty stomach. How about dinner? Are you all as hungry as I am?"

The lieutenants immediately began boasting, their competitive instincts flaring.

"I could eat an entire Bicorn right now!" Skarg bellowed, his fiery tail lashing.

"I will dine on the souls of ten paladins," Nock said dramatically, adjusting his fedora.

"I'll eat whatever you two losers can't," Halphas squawked, pulling his hood down further over his pigeon-like beak.

Andras just huffed a smoke ring.

Zac looked over at Marchosias and smiled warmly. "You can't eat when you're dead, Captain. Let's get some food, Wolf Dadd... I mean, Captain."

Marchosias's lips twitched into what was almost a smile. He grunted and tried to stand up from the examination bed.

He put weight on his left foot, and his leg immediately collapsed beneath him.

He caught himself heavily on the edge of the cot, his amber eyes wide with surprise. He frowned, looking down at his knee. "That's odd."

The journey down to the dining room was quick even with March being forced to walk with a cane. Between nock and skargs arguing, Andras trying to mean mug the others, Bune offering to carry Zac piggy-back and Halphas talking the Captain's ear off about investing in a cubby-chud nuke launcher, Zac couldn’t help but feel like things were finally getting back to normal after the battle.

Soon, Zac was sitting in the dining room, chewing on a waffle, watching Marchosias and the others devour their food like animals. The Captain was at the head of the table, his right leg stretched out stiffly beside him, eating a rare steak with methodical, focused violence.

Zac, however, was too busy thinking about how March walking with a cane was somehow incredibly sexy…

Zac was sitting on the edge of an exam table in a doctor's office. A grumpy, scruffy-looking Marchosias, wearing a rumpled suit jacket and leaning heavily on his new cane, limped into the room. He popped a handful of painkillers into his mouth, dry-swallowing them before glaring down at Zac.

"Why are you bothering me today?" Doctor March asked, his voice dripping with misanthropy.

Zac looked up, his eyes wide and innocent. "Doctor, I'm not feeling my best. I think something's wrong with me."

Doctor March rolled his eyes, resting his weight on his cane. "Why do sick people keep bothering me?"

Zac giggled, swinging his legs. "Oh, Doctor, you're so gruff and grumpy. It's charming."

Doctor March sighed, limping over to the sink to aggressively wash his hands. "Stop wasting my time and tell me what's wrong."

Zac blushed and looked down at his lap. "It's... my pee-pee. It's been hard for a long time."

Doctor March turned around, a dangerous growl vibrating in his chest. "Everybody lies," he sneered. "Prove it."

Zac grinned, hopping off the table and dramatically yanking his pants down. "See? Am I dying? Is it lupus?"

Doctor March growled, his amber eyes darkening with lust as he leaned in close. "I'm going to have to prescribe you with some hot and sloppy-"

Zac's dirty medical drama daydream was abruptly cut off by the heavy thud of the dining room doors swinging open… noone seemed to enjoy opening doors normally in hell.

Zac blinked, looking over. A pig-woman and a sheep-woman, both draped in heavy black robes and clutching wicked-looking pitchforks, marched into the room. They took up rigid, militant positions on either side of the open doorway.

"Hey, check it out," Zac mumbled around a mouthful of waffle. "Hell Gothic. Am I right?"

He looked around the table to see if anyone got his art history joke. None of them were smiling. In fact, Skarg, Nock, Halphas, Andras, and Bune were all suddenly standing perfectly still. Marchosias was struggling to his feet, leaning heavily on his good leg, his expression a mask of sudden, cold tension.

Zac looked back at the door just in time to see the pig and sheep women drop to their knees, bowing their heads low in absolute submission to the empty threshold.

A tall, elegant goat-man, wearing a sharply tailored, blood-red three-piece suit, slowly walked in.

The demon who stepped through the threshold was breathtakingly elegant. He was a tall, regal goat-man, his fur a sleek, glossy black. Twin spiraling horns, majestic and sweeping rose from his head, framing a face that was sharp, angular, and intensely intelligent. He wore a sharply tailored, blood-red three-piece suit that fit his lean, powerful frame perfectly. His horizontal, rectangular pupils swept the room, taking in everything with a cold, calculating detachment.

Zac looked around again. All the demons were kneeling. Bune rushed over, grabbing the fabric of Zac's onesie and desperately whispering that he must kneel.

"Why?" Zac asked loudly, chewing on his waffle. "Who's the satyr dude?"

"Shhh!" Bune pleaded, his four hands frantically trying to push the human down. "Just prostrate yourself!"

Zac stood his ground and stretched his arms wide. "Fine, fine. Although he does look a bit... horny."

Marchosias limped over with his cane and shoved Zac hard onto the floor. "My apologies, King Belial, this isn't what it-"

The goat raised a single, gloved hand. Marchosias went instantly silent, dropping to one knee beside Zac.

Zac looked around the room, finally putting the name to the face. "Oh, that's Lucifer's bottom bitch."

Bune fainted, both heads hitting the floor simultaneously.

Belial walked slowly over, his cloven hooves clicking rhythmically on the stone. He looked down at Zac and Marchosias, his rectangular pupils narrowing. "What did you just call me?" he asked, his voice a deep, resonant bass that vibrated in Zac's chest.

Marchosias looked up, his expression a mask of strained composure. "He said you were Lucifer's bottom bitch. I was unfamiliar with the term, but it means you are the most respected, the most trusted, the lowest of the Kings."

The sheep and pig guards looked over, their eyes wide with shock. Skarg sniggered from his kneeling position across the room.

Halphas whispered loudly to Nock, "Does that mean I'm March's bottom bitch?"

"Crude," the goat King said simply, ignoring the murmurs. He adjusted the cuffs of his red suit. "Now, let me see this Avatar that I have heard so much about. Gremory was most vague about him, and so was Amdusias. Let me see what all the fuss is about."

Marchosias stood slowly, resting his weight on his cane, and cleared his throat. "I am not sure why you came yourself to inspect the Avatar, King Belial. There is not much special about Zachary. He is just another one of Ose's, um... jokes."

"Oh come on, March," Zac said, fluttering his eyelashes. "You didn't think I was a joke last night when you were holding me in your arms."

Belial raised a sharp, black eyebrow.

"Haha," Marchosias forced a painfully nervous laugh, his knuckles white on the cane. "Isn't he a funny one? You know I'm not one for physical relations."

"HEY!" Skarg yelled, jumping to his feet. "The Avatar is mine! How dare you fuck him before me?!"

"Hell yeah, Boss!" Halphas squawked, giving a thumbs-up. "You finally did the sex!"

"Oh, pure Zachary," Nock whispered, pulling the wilted rose from his fedora and clutching it to his chest. "They grow up so fast."

Marchosias closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, looking like he wished the floor would open up and swallow him.

Zac grinned, leaning into the chaos. "Oh, it was so crazy you guys. His knot was massive."

"MY WHAT?!" Marchosias barked, his eyes snapping open.

"I'll kill you!" the beautiful, fiery Skarg bellowed, slamming a fist into his palm. "I called dibs! You didn't even want us fucking him, you traitorous cunt!"

"Did he use lube?" Nock asked, looking genuinely concerned. "He is so out of practice. I hope he remembered."

"The dog probably used holy water," Andras drawled, rolling his eyes and lighting a cigarillo. "He likes it when his flesh burns off."

"NO!" Bune pushed himself up from the ground. His Left, Right, and Middle head, which just popped out again with a sickening tear, shrieked in synchronized panic. "WHAT DID YOU DO?! AHHHHH!"

Marchosias put his face in his hands.

Skarg jumped onto the table, sending plates flying, and launched himself at Zac. "I call sloppy seconds!"

Halphas spread his wings and dove across the room. "I'm second in command! Read the handbook, you herbivore!"

Nock jumped up, drawing his sword. "I will protect you, unpure Zachary!"

"HE IS MINE!" Bune’s Left and Right heads screamed, desperately trying to hold back the Middle Head, which was snapping its jaws, trying to bite Zac.

Yoink.

Zac sank into the floor, the shadows swallowing him whole. He reappeared a second later, popping up next to Andras, who was still sitting calmly at the far end of the long table.

"You are all idiots," Andras said, blowing a smoke ring.

Skarg, Halphas, Nock, and all three of Bune's heads collided in mid-air, landing directly on top of the groaning, exhausted Marchosias in a massive, brawling pile.

Marchosias roared. His angelic wings popped out in a blinding flash of silver light, sending the others flying back. He staggered to his feet, panting, his face red with a mix of fury and intense embarrassment.

"You absolute morons!" March howled, trying to shake Skarg's fiery tail off his leg. "How dare you! If I actually mated with him, we would still be locked together and... I mean... if I... I... IT WAS A DREAM!"

"Enough," Belial whispered. The word wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of a collapsing star.

The room went instantly, terrifyingly quiet.

Belial held his hand up, looking at Marchosias with an expression that bordered on genuine pity. He turned his rectangular pupils toward Zac.

Zac felt an invisible, crushing force wrap around his throat and waist. He was physically yanked off the floor, choking and sputtering as he was dragged through the air until he hovered directly in front of the demonic King.

Belial twirled his gloved hand. Zac spun helplessly in mid-air, arms and legs flailing. He felt like he was being examined in a video game character creation menu, rotated by an invisible, judgmental cursor.

"If you're gonna force-choke me," Zac wheezed, his face turning red, "are you gonna tell me you're secretly my daddy?"

Belial's eyes flashed with a cold, dark light. He raised his hand higher, and Zac was violently pulled upward, his arms and legs spread wide in a spread-eagle suspension.

Zac's joints popped as his limbs were stretched just a bit further than he thought they could comfortably go. Haha, I'm in trouble, he thought with a morbid, sudden realization.

"Wait, Your Majesty!" Marchosias took a step forward, holding up a hand before quickly pulling it back and looking down at the floor. "Just... remember this is Ose's Avatar. He has a... way with words."

Belial eyed Marchosias, his gaze unreadable. "If this human is truly that degenerate leopard's chosen, why do you need to dress him in such a pathetic disguise?"

"Hey, the disguise is high thread count," Zac groaned from the ceiling.

Marchosias tried not to look at Zac, but his amber eyes kept darting up to the suspended, leopard-print human. "He, uh... looks like Ose on the inside?" It sounded much more like a panicked question than a statement.

"When did you learn how to lie, Marchosias?" Belial asked softly.

"I... uh..." Marchosias looked at Belial, then quickly looked down again, swallowing hard.

"If you do not tell me what is going on," Belial said, his voice a smooth, dangerous purr, "then you will be punished."

"You got me," Zac struggled to say, the invisible grip tightening around his chest. "I'm a... I'm a..."

Belial looked up, his expression hardening. "Spit it out, human."

"He is an idiot and is sorry for insulting you!" Marchosias barked, dropping to one knee. "I will take his punishment!"

"I'm... I'm... I'm..." Zac sputtered, his vision swimming. "I'm a virgin!"

The invisible grip vanished.

Zac fell from the ceiling, crashing onto the ruined war table with a heavy thud.

Belial stood perfectly still, his eyes wide, looking genuinely shocked for the first time since entering the room.

"Rude," Zac said, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head.

"I am sorry," Marchosias quickly said, stepping forward. "I did not mean—"

Belial held up a hand. "Are you telling me that Ose, our deceptive kitten, has brought us... this?"

"Please let me explain," Marchosias said. "This human is-"

"It was not a question," Belial said, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "I was saying I do not believe it."

"I know how unexpected this is," Marchosias said, looking down. "But it is-"

"I said be quiet." Belial waved his hand, and the entire warband immediately fell to their knees.

Belial stood over Zac, his rectangular pupils narrowing. "How did you get here, little human? Why aren't you being tortured?"

Zac sat on the edge of the table where he had been dropped. "Well, I was reading Mated to the Four Alphas when a truck hit me."

Belial blinked. "What."

"Oh, it's an instant classic," Zac said, rubbing his neck. "The main character is a twinky bottom who gets adopted by a pack of really buff minotaurs, and they all realize they love him. The sex scenes are so fucking spicy."

"The sex scenes," Belial repeated, his voice flat.

"Oh man," Zac said, his eyes going hazy as he remembered. "In one of them, two of the minotaurs spit-roast the MC on a private jet while the bodyguards all are forced to watch."

"You're such a fucking whore," the ethereal deer Skarg managed to choke out from the floor.

Belial waved his hand again, and Zac was instantly pinned to the table, an invisible weight pressing down on his chest. "How did you get here?"

"I told you," Zac squeaked out. "I got run over."

"I mean why are you here in Marchosias's keep," the goat King bleated, his patience fraying. "Is this some sort of joke? Are you one of March's therapeutic tools for these demonic rejects?"

"He doesn't like being called a tool," Bune’s Left Head managed to murmur, even as he was pressed into the floor by Belial’s aura.

"I got scammed by that asshole Ose," Zac whispered, the invisible pressure on his chest making his words come out in a thin, airy wheeze.

"And you expect me to believe that?" the goat King growled, his rectangular pupils flaring with a dark, inner fire. "That a President of Hell would waste a contract on a creature that speaks of 'private jets' and 'spicy scenes'?"

"I can prove it," Zac said, his voice hitching as the weight intensified. "Just... let me... breathe."

Fine. Belial flicked his fingers toward Zac.

The crushing weight vanished instantly. Zac gasped, drawing in a huge lungful of the sulfurous war room air and coughing. He sat up on the edge of the ruined table, smoothing out the ruffled fleece of his leopard onesie and glaring at the King.

"And how will you do that, human?" the goat demon asked, crossing his arms over his blood-red suit. "Unless you have a signed affidavit from the Duke of Deception himself, I am inclined to think Marchosias has simply picked up a particularly articulate stray."

"Seeing is believing, Hircine," Zac said, his confidence returning in a rush now that he could draw a full breath.

He stood up on the table, turning his back to the King. With a series of brisk, practiced movements, he reached for the zipper of his onesie.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Marchosias yelled from his knees, his ears pinning back in total mortification.

"Why isn't it me?!" Nock wailed, clutching his smoking jacket. "The first reveal! It should have been at the Ball! Under the moonlight!"

Zac ignored them. He stepped out of the top half of the onesie, letting the sleeves dangle, and then pushed the fleece down past his hips. He bent over, gripping the edge of the table, and shoved his rear directly toward the King's face.

The room went deathly silent.

Belial didn't move. He stood perfectly still, his regal composure tested by the sight of a human mooning him in the middle of a war council. He leaned in slightly, his horizontal pupils focusing on the pale skin of Zac’s lower back.

There, glowing with a faint, pulsing crimson light, was a complex, swirling rune. It was a masterpiece of infernal calligraphy, shifting and writhing as if it were alive. The President’s Seal. Ose’s unmistakable, permanent mark.

"Hmmm," Belial said, looking quite aggravated as he adjusted his spectacles to get a better look at the 'infernal tramp stamp.' "I see. Ose's mark is truly on you."

He looked up at the back of Zac’s head, his expression one of profound, kingly exhaustion. "He really did contract a lunatic."

Belial’s fingers twitched, and the invisible weight on Zac’s back surged. Zac was slammed chest-first onto the table again, his leopard-fleece-clad legs splayed, his exposed rear pointing toward the ceiling like a defiant, moon-shaped beacon of infernal contracting.

"Marchosias," Belial’s voice was like iron. "Why was I not informed that a soul of this... singular nature came into your possession?"

Marchosias didn’t lift his head from the floor, his tail tucked so tightly it was practically invisible. "Something like this... it is unprecedented, Your Majesty. I feared that if news of a virgin Avatar leaked, it could reach the ears of those in the Holy City… or worse, the Princes who might seek to disrupt my strategy."

Belial’s horizontal pupils burned into the back of the wolf’s head. "And why did you not tell me? Am I now considered 'someone who does not need to know' in my own kingdom?"

Marchosias looked up, his amber eyes shimmering with a mix of terror and the stubbornness of a soldier. "You told me it was my job to dismantle the Holy City, my King. You said you didn't care how I did it, only that it was done."

"And you think this pathetic soul can do anything?" the goat King bleated, his tone dripping with aristocratic disdain as he gestured toward Zac’s vibrating, exposed butt.

"Without him," Marchosias said softly, his voice gaining a sliver of confidence, "we would not have been able to destroy the simulacrum."

Belial let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "You claim to have destroyed the clockwork angel? The one who shattered President Glasya-Labolas into ceramic dust? Don't make me laugh, Marquis. My humor is far more expensive than that."

Marchosias looked back toward Halphas. The eagle demon…. pigeon demon, stiffened. He tried to give a crisp, military nod, but the pigeon-body betrayed him, resulting in a series of frantic, bird-like head-bobs.

"Right, sir," Halphas cooed. "I was going to bring the proof to you, but... well, we all just woke up."

Halphas whistled, a sharp, trilling sound. From the broken doors, a dozen oversized carrier pigeons flew into the room. They flew in a tight, labored formation, clutching the corners of a massive bundle wrapped in heavy black silk.

With a collective coo, the birds released their burden. The object landed on the dining room table right next to Zac’s head with a bone-jarring thud that made the plates. The black silk fell away, revealing the massive wooden gavel of REPENTANCE. It was still scarred and cracked but it radiated a faint, dying holy light.

Belial went silent. He sighed, a long, weary sound, and rubbed his temples with his gloved fingers. He turned a slow, sweeping gaze around the room, taking in his bandaged, limping, and generally pathetic-looking lieutenants.

"I do not know how you idiots manage to avoid demotion," Belial muttered.

Marchosias pressed his forehead back to the floor. "It is all due to your masterful orders, Your Majesty. We are merely your blunt instruments."

"You know," Belial said, stepping toward the table, "I’ve never met one who could insult me so thoroughly without even realizing it."

The King pulled a pristine silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. With effortless, terrifying grace, he reached out and gripped the handle of the massive warhammer.

The moment his fingers closed around the wood, the gavel flared with an indignant, holy brilliance. Belial didn't flinch. His rectangular pupils rolled back into his head, leaving only white voids. A dark, oily black aura erupted from his body, swirling around him like a localized hurricane of void-stuff.

Belial began to speak. It wasn't a language Zac recognized, it was a cacophony of overlapping voices, some screaming, some whispering, a glossolalia of the damned. As the King spoke in tongues, the holy glow of the gavel began to dim. It flickered, pulsed, and then turned a deep, obsidian black as the demonic King's power forcibly overwrote its celestial programming.

Belial suddenly let go. The hammer hit the table with a dull clack. The King’s eyes rolled back into place, and he stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, his gaze scanning each of the demons in the room with a look of dawning, terrifying clarity.

"I see now," the goat King said, his voice a low, ominous purr. "I see exactly what happened here."

The demons of the Broken Antler warband looked at one another, a heavy, awkward silence filling the room. Marchosias, still on one knee, glanced at Nock, who was adjusting his fedora with a shaky paw. He looked at Halphas, whose pigeon head gave a nervous, involuntary bob. Finally, his eyes landed on Furfur, no longer a ten-foot wall of frozen muscle, but a slender, beautiful stag with a tail of flickering fire. They were stripped of their pretenses.

Belial let out a sharp, rhythmic snap of his fingers.

The pig-woman and sheep-woman immediately scurried forward, their black robes rustling. They moved with a practiced, militant synchronized clumsiness, flanking the massive, now-obsidian gavel. With a grunt of effort, they hooked the tines of their pitchforks under the handle and the head of the weapon, struggling to hoist the fridge-sized object between them.

"I thought perhaps you had finally commanded your children to accept the 'glory' of their demonic beauty," Belial said, his voice dripping with dry, academic amusement as he watched his squires wobble under the weight of the hammer. "But the gavel did not smite them. It merely stripped them of their armor. It turned them around, so to speak… forcing them to occupy the very punishments the Maker cursed them with."

Marchosias looked up, his amber eyes wide with confusion. "What?"

"Isn't it delicious irony, Marquis?" Belial asked, smoothing the lapel of his blood-red suit. "The simulacrum was designed to destroy demonic pride. But your lieutenants spend every waking moment rejecting your natures, hiding behind illusions and… makeup, the weapon had to break though those layers first."

"Pshh," Andras said under his breath. "They really are all performative as fuck."

Belial’s rectangular pupils shifted toward the owl. "Did you say something, Andras?"

"Nope," Andras said, his golden eyes fixing on a spot on the floor.

"It seems like you never do," Belial said, rolling his eyes with a sigh of royal boredom. He turned on his cloven hoof, his red suit shimmering as he began to walk toward the exit, his squires trailing behind him like a very odd moving crew carrying a giant black hammer.

Zac, still pinned chest-first to the table with his rear pointing at the rafters, managed to crane his neck around.

"Hey! You're just gonna choke me and not even give me your number?!" Zac yelled as the King reached the doorway. "Don't be a tease!"

Belial stopped at the threshold. He didn't turn around, but his ears gave a sharp, irritated twitch. Then, he slowly turned back to face the room.

"You're right."

Belial held his gloved hand up, and the invisible, crushing force wrapped around Zac’s throat and waist once more. Zac was physically yanked off the table, dragged through the air, choking and sputtering, until he hovered directly in front of the demonic King.

"It has been so long since I've enjoyed torturing a virgin," Belial purred, his rectangular pupils flaring with a dark, terrifying amusement.

The warband didn't hesitate. March, Skarg, Halphas, Nock, Bune and even Andras struggled to their feet in raw defiance, their injuries and exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

Belial glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, yes. And I guess I should reward you for not making total fools of me for once."

The goat King glared at the warband. The sheer, overwhelming pressure of his royal aura slammed into the lieutenants, forcing them instantly back down to prostrate themselves on the floor, their pained advances halted.

But Marchosias kept walking forward. He leaned heavily on his cane, his amber eyes burning, fighting the King's aura with every step.

"For your efforts, I will grant you one wish, Marquis Marchosias," Belial announced, his voice echoing in the ruined room.

Marchosias stopped in his tracks, his eyes going wide. "A... gift?"

Belial looked impatient. He twirled his finger, sending Zac spinning around in mid-air like a top.

This is a terrible amusement park ride, Zac thought dizzily, struggling to keep his waffels down. I hate teacups.

"I thought you might enjoy finally being promoted," Belial said smoothly. "Since you have managed to subdue a Duke already, it might be time for you to become one yourself."

Marchosias looked shocked. "That's... that's too much for a lowly warrior such as myself."

"Oh, come on," Belial said with a sharp, toothy grin. "We all know how badly you want to... climb the ladder. And maybe with a bit more power, you can finally utilize your strengths properly without purging yourself."

Zac watched the wolf as he spun around. March deserves recognition, he thought, the nausea fading into a bittersweet realization. A power-up would stop the wolf from hurting himself. This is probably the best outcome. I deserve eternal damnation anyways... but March, March is good. He should be acknowledged with a promotion so he doesn't have to keep throwing himself into the eternal meat grinder.

"So," Belial said, tapping his cloven hoof impatiently. "What do you want? I can get you anything you wish."

Marchosias looked down at the floor, his jaw tight. "I can get anything I wish?"

"Yes, yes," Belial said, rolling his eyes. "Just hurry up and tell me. I've got things to do, you know."

Marchosias slowly looked up. He lifted a trembling, clawed finger and pointed directly at Zac.

"I want the Avatar to be officially recognized as a member of the Broken Antler."

Belial’s jaw dropped. He completely lost his concentration.

The invisible grip vanished. Zac went flying, still spinning like a top, and slammed hard into the stone wall with a painful thwack, crumpling into a heap of leopard print.

"Really?" the goat King demanded, his regal composure finally cracking.

Marchosias looked over at Zac, who had just been flung into a wall. "Well, sir, I have a job to do. Even if you made me a Duke, I would not be able to infiltrate the Holy City without him."

"Yeah, bottom bitch," Zac said, staggering to his feet and trying not to vomit from the nausea. "I'm special as fuck. Wolf Dad… I mean, the Captain, is so big-brained about strategy and shit."

"Why do you keep talking?!" the goat King yelled.

Belial clenched his fist, his eyes turning entirely black. A large, jagged, spiked metal object erupted from the ground, splitting the ruined dining table cleanly in half with a shriek of tearing wood.

"Oh, what, an iron maiden?" Zac slurred, leaning heavily against the wall. "How cliché."

"It's a Pear of Anguish, you fool!" Belial roared, reaching his hand out.

Zac went flying backward, yelped, and was instantly caught in the King's telekinetic grip, choking as he was pulled through the air.

"Now," Belial hissed, his horizontal pupils dilated with absolute malice, "let's see how your tight, virgin-"

"Ahem."

Marchosias coughed loudly, dropping back down to one knee. "My King," he said quickly, his voice straining. "The Avatar will not be a good spy if he... if he needs diapers."

Belial froze. He looked from the jagged, blooming metal torture device, to Zac’s squirming, leopard-print rear, and then down to the kneeling Wolf Captain.

With a yell of pure, unadulterated frustration, Belial broke his magical hold. He telekinetically tossed Zac directly at the wolf.

Marchosias caught the human with a grunt, his bad leg buckling slightly under the sudden weight, but he held on tight.

"You Broken Antler fools are so... so..." Belial stammered, pacing furiously and waving his hands in the air, searching for the right word to encompass his absolute disdain.

"Masculine," Skarg grunted from the floor.

"Beautiful," Nock sighed, still clutching his wilted rose.

"Evil," Andras drawled, inspecting his talons.

"Organized?" Bune’s Right Head offered hopefully.

"Buff," Halphas squawked, flexing his pudgy bicep.

Belial stopped pacing. He clenched his fists so hard his leather gloves creaked, and took a long, slow, deep breath, his chest expanding as he fought the urge to spontaneously combust the entire room.

"Thankful that such an intelligent and well-reasoned King is in charge of our unit," Marchosias said smoothly, slowly standing up straight while keeping Zac securely cradled in his arms.

Belial sputtered in rage. The goat King opened his mouth to unleash a tirade of infernal damnation, but words seemed to fail him. He settled for a furious, inarticulate bleat, turning on his cloven hooves and storming out of the war room without another word, his blood-red suit shimmering with barely contained wrath.

Marchosias turned around to face the others, still holding Zac securely against his chest. "That went quite well, I think."

Bune shook both of his heads, gesturing helplessly at the wreckage. "The table is broken, and he left the Pear of Anguish right in the middle of the room!"

"Pears kind of suck," Zac said, leaning his head against March’s broad shoulder. "Apples are better. And he forgot that spiky thing."

Andras sighed, a long, weary exhalation of smoke. "You're so stupid," he muttered, turning to take his seat at the far end of the ruined table.

Skarg puffed out his chest, his fiery tail lashing behind him. "Pears are such a fuckable shape," the wendigo declared proudly before stomping back to his own chair.

Halphas looked around the room, his pigeon-beak clicking in annoyance. "He just took the gavel! That was mine! What the shit?" He grumbled, waddling back to his seat and popping a fresh protein shake into existence.

Nock approached the terrifying, jagged metal torture device with a critical eye. "This might make a great hat rack," he mused. He gently placed his fedora on one of the wicked iron spikes, then effortlessly hoisted the heavy device and carried it with him to his seat.

"Stop that!" Bune yelled, rushing after the lion. "The Pear of Anguish stains terribly!"

Zac looked up at Marchosias, his eyes wide and shining. "You really gave up a big promotion just for me."

Marchosias looked down into Zac’s eyes. A soft, incredibly rare smile touched the scarred corners of the wolf’s muzzle. "I don't think you would have enjoyed Belial's attention."

Zac batted his eyelashes, leaning into the warmth of the Captain's fur. "So are you going to torture this virgin in his stead?"

Marchosias’s smile vanished, replaced by a firm frown. "No."

"Oh come on, March," Zac whined, nuzzling closer. "Not even in my dreams?"

Marchosias’s tail gave an involuntary, rhythmic wag against his leg. "No."

Zac’s grin widened, wicked and entirely unrepentant. "If you wanna turn into Wolf Mommy again, I'll suckle your milk."

Marchosias immediately dropped Zac. The human hit the stone floor with a yelp, and the Wolf Captain slowly, stiffly, walked to his seat at the head of the table without looking back.

Zac smiled, brushing off his leopard-print onesie, and looked around the room. It sounded like the demons were going to be stuck in their real, lore-accurate forms for the foreseeable future after being hit by the simulacrum's gavel. Maybe March didn't change because he was micro-dosing holy energy this whole time, Zac mused, remembering the burning angelic wings.

He took in the sight of the warband.

There was Skarg, or Furfur, as he was truly known, no longer a hulking beast of ice, but a slender, muscular deer-man with soft brown fur, elegant antlers, and a tail made of dancing, crackling fire.

There was Sir Nock, or Sabnock, stripped of his golden illusions, revealing the rotting, zombie-like lion beneath. His fur was patchy and grey, his body covered in battle scars that peeked though his elegant smoking jacket, and yet, somehow, he still managed to look arrogant and commanding as he adjusted his fedora on the anal-torture device.

There was Andras, the owl-man, leaning back in his chair and puffing on a cigarillo, pretending very, very hard that he wasn't secretly relieved that the rest of them hadn't died on the ridge.

There was Bune, the two-headed (sometimes three-headed) dragon butler, frantically fussing over everyone, trying to wipe imaginary stains off the broken table and scolding Nock for his new hat rack.

There was Halphas, the Earl of Violence, a plump, man-sized pigeon in a big sweatshirt, aggressively chugging a protein shake while simultaneously clutching a loaf of sliced bread in his other feathered hand.

And finally, there was Marchosias at the head of the table, leaning heavily on his cane. He looked incredibly tired, grumbling under his breath, utterly fed up with the chaotic, dysfunctional family of monsters he commanded.

Zac hugged himself, a warm, giddy thrill running from his leopard-print slippers to his faux-cat ears.

Why are the demons so… hot?

---

author's note:

Aww what a sweet ending!

Now that book 1 is complete what will book two have in store for us? The Goetia Ball? Zac actually being sent to the holy city? More smexy demon dream scenes?!

Find out next time on WatDH!!!

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Thank ya'll for reading <3 I hope this has been a fun read!

WatDH will continue at some point as I've already got the crazy ending figured out but I need to let my comedy muscles relax a bit. I appreciate all your opinions on the story, if its good, if its bad, if its mediocre, if it caused you to go insane and your roommates had to call in an exorcist because you keep yelling about eagle dick... I'd love to know!