The stone halls of the palace were arteries of warm, damp air, carrying the deep, rhythmic thrum of the forges below like the slowed heartbeat of the island itself. Paula "Cupcake" Pope led the way, her bootheels clicking a casual rhythm on the polished floor tiles. Behind her, Dr. Zip H. Scatyl moved with a silent, gliding step, his small form dwarfed by the towering, iron-banded architecture. His yellowish eyes flicked to the veins of ore in the walls, calculating, assessing, as if diagnosing the very rock.
They stopped before a door that was less an entrance and more a bulwark—thick oak reinforced with bands of black iron, guarded by two Ogre sentries whose horns scraped the ceiling. Paula gave a slight nod, a curl of smoke from her pipe drifting towards them. Without a word, the guards stepped aside, their massive hands pulling the door open with a groan of heavy hinges.
The room within was a jarring pocket of misplaced luxury. Rich, deep-blue tapestries from some forgotten maritime culture softened the stone walls. A large hearth, cold and empty, was flanked by overstuffed chairs. The air smelled of old wool, dried herbs from a vase, and the coppery tang of blood.
At the room's center, Atlas lay on a low, wide divan, a blanket thrown over his lower half. His rust-red fur was matted and dull, his breathing shallow and ragged. Eliane knelt beside him, her small hands wringing out a cloth in a basin of water before gently laying it across his forehead. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Jannali stood sentry by the head of the divan, her arms crossed, her face a mask of controlled tension. Vesta paced the rug, her colorful hair a frantic splash of energy against the somber tones.
The creak of the door snapped all attention forward. Jannali and Vesta heads snapped around. Paula leaned in the doorway, raising a single, skeptical eyebrow as she surveyed them, her gaze lingering on each face as if appraising livestock.
Dr. Zip stepped out from behind her shadow. "I am a doctor," he announced, his voice a soft, sibilant whisper that slithered into the room. "I am here to proffer—"
"Oh, thank the skies!" Vesta burst out, cutting him off with a wave of relief. She rushed forward, skirting around the divan. "You have no idea! We've been just… waiting! I'm Vesta, by the way." She rocked on the balls of her feet, gesturing eagerly for him to follow. "Come on, he hit that wall really, really hard. It was awful."
Jannali's eyes never left Paula. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and carried the hard edge of her inflection. "And what's the bonzer plan for us, then?"
Paula smirked, pushing the door closed with a definitive thud. She took a long drag from her pipe, the ember glowing like a malevolent eye in the dim room. "Arrangements are being made. Once your furry mate here is back on his feet, he'll be assigned to a work detail. Strong back like that shouldn't go to waste."
Eliane stood up slowly, her hands clutching at her apron. "Assigned?" she whispered, her bottom lip beginning to quiver. "Will… will we all be assigned?"
Paula exhaled a slow, rolling plume of fragrant smoke, leaning against the carved mantelpiece. "Your fate," she said, her tone one of exaggerated philosophical weariness, "ain't my department, cupcake. I just deliver the news."
Jannali took a step forward, her challenging glare fixed on the taller woman. "It'd be in your best interest to let us go. Trust me on that."
Paula chuckled, a rich, warm sound that held no warmth at all. "Is that so?" She bent at the waist, bringing her face closer to Jannali's, her blue war-paint stark in the room's soft light. "Is that what the voice on the wind tells you? The one that never shuts up?"
Jannali's breath hitched. Her hand flew to her headscarf, fingers checking that it was securely in place over her forehead. Her eyes widened.
Paula blew another smoke ring, watching it drift toward the ceiling. "The voice can be cryptic. Bloody annoying, sometimes."
"You…" Jannali breathed, staring up at her. "You can…?"
Paula shrugged a shoulder, a gesture of casual, terrifying knowledge. "Something like that." Her gaze turned distant, looking past Jannali at nothing. "A great wave of change is coming. Can feel it in the stones."
Jannali's voice dropped to a hushed, urgent whisper. "You hear them. The drums. They're getting louder."
Paula looked back at her, a flicker of something like kinship in her fierce eyes. She took a slow drag. "Yeah. I hear 'em. But the question, is who are those drums for?"
A pained grunt from the divan snapped the tense thread between them. Dr. Zip was pressing skilled, probing fingers against Atlas's ribcage. The Mink stirred, a low growl of agony vibrating in his chest even in unconsciousness.
"That doesn't sound good," Vesta muttered, hovering nearby, wringing her hands.
Eliane sank back to her knees, clutching her own hands together. "Oh, Atlas… please be okay."
Dr. Zip listened through his stethoscope, his head tilted like a bird's. After a moment, he nodded, a small, professional motion. "He will be functional," he stated. "Several fractured ribs on the left side. No perceptible internal bleeding. He requires rest, immobilization, and analgesic compounds. He will be ambulatory within a fortnight."
Vesta dramatically wiped her brow with the back of her hand. "Shew! What a relief! We were really starting to sweat it there." She flopped into a nearby chair, the picture of exhausted gratitude.
"How much longer, Doc?" Paula asked, her voice pulling the room back to its grim reality.
Dr. Zip was already unspooling a length of stiff, off-white bandage from his bag. "I must bind the thoracic cavity. He will require supervision. Exertion is contraindicated." His words were clean, sharp, and utterly devoid of care.
"Great!" Vesta chirped, clapping her hands together once. "Well, if that's all sorted, maybe we can just—"
"You," Paula interrupted, her voice slicing through Vesta's optimism, "are going to wait right here until someone comes for you. Don't wear out the rug."
Eliane swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet room. "And then what?"
Paula's smirk returned, edged with a warrior's grim amusement. "Then? Then we'll all see what fate has scribbled in her little book for the lot of you."
Jannali met her gaze, the fear hardening back into defiance. "Fate's a fickle bitch," she said, her drawl flattening the curse into a statement of fact. "I wouldn't go poking her with a stick if I were you."
Paula's smirk didn't waver. She took a final drag from her pipe, the coal burning bright. "That she is," she agreed, her voice a low murmur. "That she absolutely is." With that, she pushed off the mantel, gave Dr. Zip a nod that was both instruction and dismissal, and turned, leaving the doctor to his work and the prisoners to the cold, plush silence of their gilded cage. The dread that remained was no longer about walls or guards, but about drums in the distance and a future being written in ledgers they couldn't read.
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