“Enough business,” the Chamberlain said, his grin spreading like butter over toast that’s just starting to char at the edges, warm, but smelling vaguely of trouble.

  He clapped a hand on my shoulder, wisened flesh meeting cloth and bone through my robe. Firm. Friendly. A little too familiar, like a used car salesman sizing up your trade-in. As if we were old buddies grabbing a brewski, except the air smelled faintly of roses and rust, and I was ninety percent sure one of the portraits lining the hall had just subtly rolled its eyes.

  “Come on, Ed. Walk with me.”

  Ed. Not Bone King. Not your boney majesty. Not even Edgar. Just… Ed. And honestly, I despised people calling me Ed back home. But here I had trouble getting anyone to call me anything other than Bone King or “filthy undead horror.” Funny how a simple name could feel like a carefully aimed punch to the gut.

  Lilith fell into step behind us, her boots absolutely silent on the polished marble. This wasn’t her usual calculated quiet. This was deeper, heavier, like the silence clinging to the bottom of a well, making you wonder what might be down there looking up.

  Grib ambled along beside us, humming something that defied musical notation, less a tune and more the sound a toilet makes before turning into a four-figure repair bill. His little fingers patted Mr. Steamy like an upset cat while teapot continued slowly hissing. Softly at first, then with the distinct pique of something threatened.

  Grib shushed him. “Quiet, bucket,” he whispered.

  But Mr. Steamy didn’t quiet. The hiss faltered. Then—

  “…Kevin?” A pause. A faint click from inside his frame.

  “We were going into business. An opportunity. I think. Just us.” Another pause. Steam puffed. Thin. Wandering. “Where did he go?”

  Grib gave him a gentle pat. “Shhh. Quiet, bucket. Grib’s got you.”

  Mr. Steamy let out a final click, then went still. I swear I saw him lean into Grib, almost like he was seeking comfort.

  The Chamberlain chuckled, a rich, warm sound that bounced off the marble like it owned the place. “A teapot with spirit. Hah. Gotta love that!” He tilted his head, gaze landing on Mr. Steamy. “Where do dungeons come up with these things, hmm?”

  For half a second—no more—something flickered behind his eyes.

  Then it was gone. He turned back to me, smiling like nothing had happened. “Keeps things interesting, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call the place dull, that’s for sure,” I muttered.

  We proceeded down a corridor apparently designed by someone with more time or money than sense and a deep-seated need to prove hallways could be epic. The ceiling soared overhead, carved with intricate, swirling patterns that seemed to writhe, making you question the structural integrity or your own sanity. Light spilled from chandeliers. The air smelled of expensive wax, ancient paper, and, just beneath it all, that electric tang of ozone. Like a thunderstorm waiting impatiently in the wings.

  Ghosts drifted past us in tailored grey uniforms, too clean, too quiet. They only moved when the Chamberlain looked their way. I’d gotten used to undead that groaned, shuffled, clattered. These didn’t. These had precision.

  I never knew undeath could be so tidy.

  “So,” the Chamberlain drawled, slicing through the quiet, “Ohio, eh?”

  I blinked. Felt my metaphorical jaw drop. “How did you—?”

  “Ah-ah!” He wagged a finger, playful as a cat batting at a thing that’s already dead but doesn’t know it yet. “Not reading your mind. Just… paying attention. Slipped out earlier, remember?” He paused, head tilted. “Plus, you’ve got that Midwest practicality. Bet you miss it sometimes.”

  “’Practicality’ is one way to put it,” I said, thinking of potholes, humidity, and the unique agony of lake-effect snow.

  He laughed, an easy, genuine sound. “Oh, come on. Surely there’s something? The people? Certain haunts? The smell of summer rain hitting asphalt so hot it sizzles?”

  And damn it… that landed. Square in the chest. Because yeah, I did. Even buried under layers of necromantic power, survival reflexes honed by sheer terror, and enough regret to fill a decent-sized landfill.

  The Chamberlain’s grin softened, becoming something less predatory. “That’s the stuff that digs in, isn’t it? Not the grand occasions, the birthdays, the whatever. Nah. It’s the booth with the duct-taped cushion. The waitress who called everyone ‘hon’ whether they liked it or not. That one chili dog stand you knew was playing roulette with e. coli, but you went anyway…”

  He chuckled again, voice layered with something that might have been actual nostalgia. “I swear I can taste it if I close my eyes.” His gaze went distant, aimed at a past I couldn’t see. “Funny thing. I remember every detail of that dog. Crystal clear. My own mother’s face, though?” He gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “Fuzzy. Like trying to sculpt fog.”

  Something tightened in my chest, an uncomfortable knot of shared experience. I opened my mouth, maybe to offer some platitude, then shut it. Because yeah… I got that. Far more than I wanted to.

  “The first thing I really missed,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper, “was the quiet. Not just silence, but that specific, dead-of-night stillness around three a.m., when the whole world feels like it’s collectively holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  A comfortable silence settled between us, not awkward or heavy, just present. Like finding an old, familiar sweatshirt you thought you’d lost.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Naturally, Grib chose that moment to poke Mr. Steamy, who had been relatively quiet. “Hey, bucket. What is chili dog?”

  The teapot let out a sharp hiss, much louder this time. Less like a kettle, more like a tiny, copper pressure cooker about to achieve low earth orbit out.

  “I am not a bucket,” Mr. Steamy snapped.

  The corner of Lilith’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, more like the geological precursor to one. Which, on Lilith, was roughly equivalent to a five-alarm fire klaxon.

  The hallway opened, spilling us into some sort of ballroom. Polished black marble stretched out like frozen oil, marred by the reflected dots like pale blue stars from the chandeliers above.

  And the servants…

  Ghosts moved in unnervingly synchronized patterns between long, laden tables. Plates were placed without a whisper of ceramic on wood. Goblets were adjusted by infinitesimal degrees. Not a single collision. Not one misstep. It was balletic. It was terrifying. It was the kind of soul-crushing perfection that made my own shambling, crisis-fueled existence feel deeply inadequate.

  It should have set every nerve I possessed on edge. Maybe it did, somewhere deep down. But watching that seamless, clockwork flow… I felt a disturbing cocktail of horror, grudging admiration, and, if I’m brutally honest, a stab of raw envy.

  Control like this wasn’t accidental. It was sculpted. And it’s not something I had in any measurable amount.

  “A little something I like to call operational synergy,” the Chamberlain said, spreading his arms wide like a magician about to reveal he’d sawed the entire concept of free will in half. “Order, Ed. It’s not about control, it’s about harmony. Like a finely tuned orchestra, every instrument playing its part perfectly.”

  It was tempting. Not just the flawless execution. The sheer promise of it. A world where things didn’t constantly implode. Orcs didn’t set themselves on fire. Krix wasn’t actively leaving adventurers with their weapons while stealing their sweet rolls. Where plans didn’t disintegrate like wet Kleenex in a hurricane.

  “It’s… definitely something,” I managed. Vague enough to be polite, noncommittal enough to avoid signing anything.

  He grinned. “Unsettling at first, I know. But you’d be surprised how quickly you adapt.” His gaze softened, turning inward again. “Chaos grinds you down, Ed. Order… order keeps you standing.”

  Mr. Steamy hissed again, a sharp, insistent sound, like a smoke detector chirping about a low battery just outside your bedroom door at 2 AM. Urgent. Annoying. Impossible to ignore.

  Grib frowned down at it. “Why you bein’ so noisy, bucket?”

  The teapot vibrated in his arms. No words this time, just that high, keening whine. Pure, unadulterated anxiety poured into metal form.

  Lilith glanced from the teapot to me, her expression unreadable but conveying volumes anyway. Careful. Watch. Don’t be an idiot.

  And I—being a paragon of wisdom and self-control—looked away first, pretending to admire the unnervingly perfect floral arrangements.

  The ballroom bled seamlessly into a library so vast it seemed to treat the laws of physics as gentle suggestions. Shelves soared up into shadow, endless rows vanishing into a dusty gloom far overhead. The air shifted, growing cooler, heavy with the scent of old ink, decaying leather, and time itself. Comforting, in a way. Like that old university library where I used to hide from responsibility… except this place felt ancient, sentient, like the books might start reading you if you weren’t careful.

  I ran a hand along a shelf, feeling the grain of dark, unfamiliar wood beneath my bony fingers. It felt strangely warm, almost alive.

  “You stick around long enough,” the Chamberlain murmured, leaning casually on a balcony railing overlooking the cavernous space, “you inevitably start collecting things.” His gesture encompassed the towering stacks. “Not just books, mind you. Memories. Allies. Enemies. Regrets.”

  (My internal monologue noted that ‘Regrets’ seemed to be my primary collectible.)

  Yeah. Couldn’t argue with that assessment.

  “You and me,” he continued, his voice dropping, becoming more intimate, “we never signed up for this gig, did we? One minute you’re just trying to get through the day, pay the bills, maybe figure out what’s for dinner. The next, bam! There’s a crown—literal or metaphorical—plonked on your head, and suddenly everyone’s looking at you like you hold the secret recipe for cosmic happiness.” His smile twisted, losing its charm, gaining something brittle. “Quite the universe’s idea of a practical joke, huh?”

  I let out a short, humorless puff of air. “Feels like I’m the dam, not the kingdom. Just waiting to break.”

  He nodded slowly. “You keep telling yourself, just one more hard choice. One more unpleasant task. One more sacrifice. Then you’ll finally get your head above water.” A pause stretched, filled only by the whisper of turning pages somewhere far below. “Thing is… you never do.”

  God. Why did his words hit like tiny, precisely aimed darts?

  “People think power is freedom,” I muttered, mostly to myself. “Mostly it’s just… weight. Like wearing a backpack full of anvils you can never take off.”

  “Exactly.” The Chamberlain’s gaze remained fixed on the endless shelves. “Heavy. So damned heavy. And some days… some days you genuinely ask yourself why you bother carrying it.” He paused, then turned his gaze back to me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Then you look at who’s relying on you… and you remember.”

  I glanced down at Grib. At his dopey, unwavering loyalty. That stupid, trusting grin. Yeah. I remembered.

  Lilith’s eyes met mine across the space between us. Cool. Analytical. Steady. Watching. What are you thinking? I desperately wanted to ask her. But didn’t.

  The halls stretched on, stone seeming to breathe around us, a slow, subterranean pulse in the very walls. Steady. Ancient. Waiting.

  “You know,” the Chamberlain said, his tone suddenly lighter, almost buoyant, like sunlight finally breaking through storm clouds, “I like you, Ed. You actually get it.”

  “Lucky me,” I deadpanned.

  He laughed again. “Most folks? They take one look at our… unique circumstances… see the power, the unsettling lack of flesh in some cases, and they just figure they're another monster playing dress-up.” His gaze held mine, that unnerving brightness back, but softer now. “But you… you understand the cost. You understand what it’s like to care.”

  And that, right there, that was the hook. The sharp, nasty hook hidden inside the conversational bait.

  Because I didn’t want to trust this guy. Didn’t want to connect with him.

  But finding someone, anyone, who understood the weight of this, the constant pull towards responsibility, the lack of answers and… Everything else.

  Maybe I could learn something from him. I could learn more about this world. Why the fuck I’m here in the first place. And that was seductive in a way no throne, no army, no magical artifact could ever be.

  Sometimes you know, absolutely know, the fire is too hot.

  And you reach for the warmth anyway