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 growled, 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 growled.

  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.

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  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 growled, 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. They were looking at him with full blown, unadulterated, predatory lust.