Half of the knight’s quarters behind Palmgrease’s mansion burned to ashes. Dozens of men left unhoused as the embers consumed more fuel. In the disarray, they spread; too many bandits were busy chasing down Arnzos or caring for their fallen brothers and sisters. It was pure madness. The felinians across the way—watching from their treehouses—cheered behind their curtain of distance. Long had they waited for someone to stand up to those reprobates. If they could shake hands with whoever gave them grief, it would be an honor.

  Sadly, they didn’t know him. Or where he was. If he required rescuing or food or water or a warm bed. Unbeknownst to the felinians, he needed all of those.

  Armond and Blais, the two goons who tied up Arnzos, threw him in a rotting outhouse still full of waste. The terrible odors made them clamp their noses. Termite-eaten and stained black was the wood. Palmgrease imagined it torturous enough to stay for an hour, but he planned on leaving Arnzos in there the entire night. The pair of henchies groaned and left. As much as they respected their Lord, the tasks they would carry out for him could only go so far.

  Blais kicked Arnzos in the stomach. One last ‘fuck you’ before joining a crowd of Butcherie knights that surrounded the outhouse. Stepping out from the crowd were Palmgrease and Modra. The latter held a bucket of water. Full to the brim. Palmgrease nudged his head sideways. Modra knew his command. He stepped forward and dumped the lukewarm water on Arnzos. He sputtered. Sensations overwhelmed him.

  The disgusting smells. The liquid seeping into his nostrils and mouth. Tightened rope beginning to cut into his scales. He inspected his new zone. Similar to the shack he was in before, but much more stomach-churning. Arnzos gagged upon seeing the mysterious stains next to his face. He also noticed his saber was missing.

  Palmgrease nudged again. Modra withdrew behind him. “I know I have a great taste in fashion,” the Lord said, “but ruining your life over it. That seems a little silly. Oh well. Tomorrow morning you will be hanged in front of all those savages in Arhuinim. Your sword and your horse will be my gift to House Butcherie’s king.”

  “Go… fuck… yourself.” Arnzos muttered.

  “Quite a way with words you have.” Then, Palmgrease huffed deeply. The kind of sigh that takes all your anxieties with it. “We could have made plenty of money together. My plans were huge. To be fair, they still are. They just won’t include you.”

  “Modra’s… going to be… tray you.”

  Another hefty sigh left Palmgrease’s lips. Modra could feel his hairs raise. “Right.” The Lord turned to the rodinkin. “Is that true? About your dubious loyalties?”

  Although Modra’s fur stood on end, his face didn’t reveal anything to Palmgrease. “No, my lord. I have sworn myself to you for the rest of my natural life. That scutumhead keeps blabbering in the hopes that we’ll turn on each other.”

  ‘Scutumhead.’ That damned word. It would be the perfect time for Phyletta to reappear and explode Modra’s eyeballs. However, Arnzos still hadn’t a clue where she was. Even if she did appear, she couldn’t physically untie him. Not from the powerset she showcased when they met. Maybe she’d yet to utilize all her power; Arnzos hoped it was true, but didn’t count on it.

  “Eh, I’ll accept it.” Palmgrease shrugged. “Blais, prepare my carriage. Armond, write a letter to Miss Waterfowl. Her team will ride to Lahf’ikon tomorrow instead of three days from now. Modra…”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You’ll stay here. Oversee the execution.”

  Modra’s facade of tranquility almost broke. His snout twitched in a bout of surprise and anger, but he managed to take a breath. Stop himself from showing his true emotion. “Someone else could do that, right? Shouldn’t I go with you to the Grand Arboreal?”

  “You were going to. But I changed my mind.” Palmgrease yawned. Modra went through a multitude of different faces. Landing on all of them and none of them at the same time. He thought bowing might work. Prostrating to demonstrate his subordination.

  “Sir, if I could humbly request—”

  Palmgrease shushed him. Urging him to get up. He followed his Lord’s will. “You are making me nervous.” He rested his hand on Modra’s head. “Do what you’re told or you might join Arnzos.”

  After that, he couldn’t do anything but retreat a few steps. Palmgrease gave a final nudge, as Blais slammed the outhouse door. Arnzos—left alone in the putrid darkness—scuffled with his binds. Much to his dismay, he bumped against tainted wood in his struggle. Questionable fluids and smudges were beneath him and on the moldy walls. He avoided them best he could, but in his manic grappling with the rope, it was inevitable he’d make contact with one or more of them. He tumbled from stomach to back. Feeling a mush beneath his left rib. It squelched under him and stunk.

  “Ugh. Nasty.” he murmured. He knew what he just tumbled on top of. But for the sake of his sanity, he pretended not to know.

  This aimless struggling seemed to harm more than it helped. Then, how about a different strategy? Arnzos looked around for any sharp pointings. An outhouse as raggedy as this was bound to have sizeable splinters. Time eroded all things and those mortal-made were no different. He saw splotches and pinkie-sized wood chips, but no larger shards. Perhaps he could make them then. By punching the wall free of some wood.

  Arnzos slunk up to the right wall, like a caterpillar. His back towards it. Face away. At first, he tried to claw the rope with his own drakeish talons. After all, they were like miniature daggers that clung to his hands. He left tiny slits on the rope, but none strong enough to tear it apart. Ones above, this was a tough rope. If he kept going, his talons would chip and bleed. It made sense why Palmgrease would have a rope as sturdy as this. Minidrakes have talons too.

  Next move. Go. He dug his claws into the cracked, rotten wood. Hoping to shave away enough of the interior to chip off a big splinter. Little curls of brown clippings and sawdust whooshed off the wall. As he tilled away for his crop of a giant wood shard, he could feel a massive chunk ready to be excavated. He scratched away and finally—an immense splinter stuck out from the trimmings. Big enough to hold like a shortsword. Arnzos panted. A little smile arched across his lips; He couldn’t be too happy, for this was only step one.

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  He phew’d. “All right. Slowly. Slooowly…” he whispered. He curved his tied arms as low as possible. Then, he curved right up—he did so with the expectation that the splinter would gently slide into the opening between his wrists and the binding. It felt awkward at first, but after a few thrusts with his hands and shoulders, it fit right in. Now… for him to pull.

  A tugging against the fat splinter loosened the ropes just a tad. They still were firm on his scales, but not to the point of burning them. He yanked again. Chips of the wall went with the splinter, as it wiggled ever more. Arnzos couldn’t see if his binds were slipping off, but it seemed right. The sensation pleased him—a gentle prying of the rope. Inch by inch. This was going smoothly, he thought. If he maintained the careful pace and avoided using too much force—

  He heard a snap! The resistance he felt from the splinter that lingered on the wall vanished. That was because it was on the wall no more. The flimsiest of pulling shattered the sharp piece away from its wall. Currently, it was only a shard between the wrists and rope. Useless. His head recoiled back in displeasure as he pounded his foot against the squawky planks below.

  All of the problems of his situation hit him at once. Gross smells. Mush on his back. Exhaustion and a metallic taste on his tongue. Rope that snicked arm-scales. He grunted—mustering all of the strength left in his sapped body. One. Last. Pull.

  “Gyah! Get off you motherfu—” he mumbled. Arnzos began to hyperventilate as this exertion nearly made him pass out. The effort was futile. His bonds still clung and the outhouse carried no other tools to aid his escape. However, it was then he knew a familiar voice. Transferred straight to the mindscape.

  [“Arnzos!”] Phyletta transmitted. [“I saw it all. I’ve been trying to reach you but—”]

  [“Yeah, yeah. You got stuck behind that whatever-the-fuck-it-is. I got it.”]

  [“There’s someone that keeps walling me off. Like how I loom over your shoulder, that individual does for me.”]

  Arnzos remembered the guttural speech plaguing his mind. Before Modra attacked and before he went for the coat and got captured. The splitting ache in his brain. As if it was soon to detonate. If that was Milosk, disrupting the connection between Phyletta and him, then he was frightened to meet his champion in person. However, too many questions arose for him to deduce the voice’s true identity, so he’d rather not assume.

  [“When you were gone, I heard a voice in my head telling me to kill Lord Palmgrease.”] Arnzos said internally.

  [“During your writhing in that shack earlier?”]

  [“Mhm. Thought I was going to die. Whatever tried to contact me put the sharpest pain I’ve ever felt in my skull. I don’t want to… I never want to…”] Arnzos cut off his telepathed sentence. He crinkled his face muscles. A quiet sob left. [“I was so close. I had it around my neck.”]

  Phyletta finally became apparent. Her mint colored spectral aura surrounded her ghostly self. She wished she could hug him. Give him some sort of physical comfort. Yet, she had no way to. To compensate, she hovered to the floor and lowered her head. Feeling the emotions with him. An urge crossed her mind to tell him what he should have done instead of rushing the Lord’s manor—she knew it was inappropriate. She simply let Arnzos bask in the emotion.

  But as he basked in the sadness, Arnzos was decidedly uncomfortable. In his eyes, there was no reason from his past to feel that way. However, it still persisted. An itch that couldn’t be scratched. The urge to cry hung over him, and yet no tears made his cheeks a waterfall. If they did, it would have felt… wrong. No words were available to describe his emotions. It just… wasn’t correct. Anger bridled in him so easily, but he couldn’t take a moment to let out his melancholy? He wanted to—so badly. In the end, his sadness still sat in its bottle. Corked and put atop a shelf.

  He exhaled. Knocking his head on the door once. Phyletta relayed a message to him. [“We don’t always agree on everything.”]

  [“Phyletta. Please. Right now is the worst time to—”]

  [“Just wait! Let me finish.”]

  Arnzos cleared the headspace for her message. She continued. [“We don’t always agree on everything, but I’m here for you just as you are here for me. I apologize for disappearing.”]

  [“It’s out of your control. Don’t have to be sorry.”]

  [“I feel responsible nonetheless. So…”] She hovered her immaterial hand over him. [“Let’s plan to have your revenge.”]

  ?

  A horrendous scene had been prepared for the residents of Arhuinim. Minions of the Lord knotted bundles of death, with their beige hemp fibers fine tuned by executioners. A sturdy tree about a tenth of a mile from the village would be their stage. Much like the previous afternoon, any felinians mingling below the treehouses quickly ascended to higher ground. It was always advised by the elders to steer clear of the bandits whenever possible. They never knew what would set them off.

  Though it was morning and the morning expected light, all the villagers could see was shadow. A gloom overcast killed the joys of a fresh sun. Imprisoning it much like the dracokin was imprisoned in the box of decadent waste. They speculated who would die; mumbling amongst themselves in their native tongue. A female elder began a head count of the younger villagers. Children, teenagers, and young adults. She prayed that her village would be unharmed. Taking paws with her family, as they groomed each other’s fur to ease their nerves.

  Modra and Armond stood by the tree. They gazed at the shivering spectators as Armond stifled a laugh. He seemed a nasty man; Greasy hair flopped from his skull and raggy mutton chops sat like fungus atop his cheeks and upper lip. Modra knew he rarely bathed. Perhaps it was why the Lord told him to stay behind. Modra guessed that Arnzos’ words got to his boss. He would be on shaky terms now. A distance between them that wasn’t there before. Modra cursed himself for letting him get away.

  He rubbed his head. Jolts of pain still bit him like mouthy teeth from an untrained dog. The executioners aside him set down their nooses. “Modra. We’re good.” a female executioner said.

  “Go get ‘im then.” Modra said back.

  They marched off. Since they followed their orders, it was proper for Modra to follow his. He presented himself to the villagers and clapped for their attention. He didn’t need to—as they couldn’t keep their eyes away—but better safe than looking the fool.

  “Listen up, savages!” he shouted. “House Butcherie knows your glances. We know your plots and your hatred for us. The rebel you’re about to see hanged hated us in the same way. This is your lesson to stay beneath us. You will lick our boots and think them delicious. For if you don’t…”

  A gurgling scream reverberated through the dawn. The felinians thought it part of the act, but Modra and Armond expected no shriek of terror.

  “Fuck was that?” Armond questioned. “Supposed to kill him over here. Not over there.”

  “Stay here.” Modra ordered.

  “Nah. Lord trusted me with keeping—”

  Modra played no games. A dagger brandished from his gambeson, as he pulled it out. In a second, he rested his knife at Armond’s neck. The greasy man’s cool persona melted instantly. “Stay here.” Modra repeated. Armond whimpered with a nod.

  The rodinkin rushed to the site of the scream. What would greet him was gut-wracking. Two executioners—an elf missing her throat and a cerulian with irritated eyes. The cerulian, a short blue-skinned creature with angular features, reached out hands to feel whatever was in front of him. He felt only the nothingness of open air. Modra also noticed a cut rope. Sprawled beside the outhouse. Torn in a hurry. On the dead elf, was a pocket where a dagger might lie. Empty.

  Modra grabbed the cerulian. That startled him. His sight didn’t respond to any stimulation in front of it. “What happened?” Modra yelled. “How did he escape?!”

  “He knows sorcery. A kind I’ve never seen before!”

  Modra gulped a rocky blotch of mucus. “Shit.”