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.
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.