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."