Gwil picked up the tray of hors d'oeuvres and they crossed the burning, smoke-filled dining hall.

“Hey,” Leira said. “If the statues came for us, do you think that means Ansoir is dead?”

“No way,” Gwil said. “Cort was with him.”

They heard voices coming from the kitchens. Leira pushed the door open for Gwil and he almost dropped the tray upon seeing thirty people inside.

About half were escapees, but there was also a gaggle of people that Gwil didn’t recognize. They weren’t guards—most wore fancy black dress clothes. A few had white mushroom hats.

“Gwil! Flower lady!” the escapees cheered.

The kitchen was full of metal tables and stacks of cooking-related implements. The lights were still on in here, and it was very bright with the white tile walls and all the polished surfaces.

The strangers, who Gwil had deduced were servants of the manor, sat huddled on the floor, surrounded by the escapees. They had not been bound or beaten, so that was good.

“What’s going on?” Gwil said as he entered. “You guys know there’s a big fire out there, yeah?”

Limmy stepped forward. She had an array of kitchen knives slotted into an apron that she wore over her jumpsuit.

“Aye, we know it,” she said. “But we found these folks hiding in here.”

“We’re liberating them,” a man called.

“Shut up, Jerruh,” Limmy hissed. “You were tryna kill them at first.”

Jerruh grinned a nasty grin. “Oh, come on, we were just getting acquainted. And that was before I knew they were slaves, too.”

“I stopped anyone from getting violent, Gwil,” Limmy said, hands on her hips. “After seeing what you did for that little bitch lordling, I thought you’d be mad if we hurt them.”

“Nice,” Gwil said. “Yeah, I’m glad you didn’t kill them.”

“They kind of look like hostages,” Leira said, pointing with her cake-covered hand.

A mushroom-hatted lady cried out, “We’re scared! You’re all about to get killed. You blew up the Kaia for fuck’s sake! The sheriff is going to flay all of us in the town square.”

“Ooh! You guys cooked all the food! Thanks!” Gwil said.

Leira sucked some icing off her thumb and gave the kitchen staff a thumbs up.

“Earned ‘em some points with me,” Jerruh said.

“Damn,” Gwil said. “I was hoping the robots cooked it.”

“Gwil, they don’t even have arms,” Leira said.

“You guys are free though,” Gwil said to the cooks. “Chateau Podunk is no more.”

“Is Burgermeister Jaqlov dead?” one of them asked.

Gwil scratched his head. “It looks like it’s headed that way.”

“Who cares?” Leira called over her shoulder. She was washing her hands off in a sink. “This kitchen is literally about to go up in flames.”

“Yeah, if you stay here, you’ll just die, so don’t be so wimpy.” Gwil stepped into their huddle and pulled two people up onto their feet. He gestured for the others to stand. “Limmy, take care of these people—no matter what.”

Limmy cracked her knuckles. “You can count on me.”

Leira came back to the group, now wearing a pair of oven mitts. “What other parts of the manor can we get to from here?”

“Just about everywhere,” a chef said. “There’re service hallways that go throughout the whole manor.”

“Even to the caves with the throne room?” Leira asked.

The chef nodded.

“Go find the others,” Gwil told Limmy. “I think a lot of them went outside, but they could be anywhere.”

“We can help you find your way,” said a tuxedoed waiter.

Gwil placed his hands on Limmy’s shoulders. “You can’t let anyone die.”

“I know it,” she said. She broke away from him and barked, “Follow me, people! If anyone dies, you’ll have me to answer to, so don’t.” She grabbed the servant who’d spoken up and shoved him out in front.

They all fell in line behind Limmy and marched through a different set of doors at the far end of the kitchen. Gwil and Leira brought up the rear.

“The cave is at the other end?” Gwil asked.

Leira nodded. “But we should check on Cort and Ansoir.”

They entered the service halls—empty, with rough stone walls and intermittent Kaia lights hanging from the ceiling. Black bits of dust flitted about the glowing globes, playing tricks with tiny shadows.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Their comrades went off to the right. Gwil and Leira went left, back toward the entrance hall.

“The sheriff’s the one to get, Gwil,” Leira said. “I’m not sure if Ansoir’s father even knows what decade it is.”

“He built this place, Leira. To me, that’s unforgivable. But it doesn’t matter what I think.”

***

After getting only a little bit lost, Gwil and Leira made it back to the manor’s entrance hall, finding it heaped with ruin. The marble staircase lay in broken chunks and the balcony to which it led had collapsed.

The fire hadn’t spread here yet, but it still stank of smoke. Dust hung thick in the air, and their feet crunched over bits of glass and wooden splinters as they crossed the room.

Ansoir nearly jumped to the ceiling upon hearing their approach.

“What the bloody hell happened?” he squealed. “I thought you’d all gone for dinner. My manor is on fire! I almost got crushed by the chandelier.”

The crystalline absurdity had crashed down and shattered into a million glittering pieces. Its bent framework was tragic in the way it clung to its last few jewels.

“It was an eyesore anyway,” Leira said.

Gwil handed Ansoir the tray of hors d'oeuvres and then went to kneel beside the fallen Talus. “Alright, Brock?”

He managed a nod.

“Good,” Gwil said. “We’ll be back soon. Come on, Ansler. We need to hurry.

Ansoir whimpered in response. He had set the tray down to chew on his fingernails.

“Where’s Cortemius gone?” Leira said, looking around as if he might pop out from a pile of rubble.

“That insolent scumbag abandoned me here! I haven’t a clue where he went. More importantly, have you two seen Diom? We got separated when the Taluses came. I thought he must have gone with you to your little banquet, but…” He resumed biting his fingernail.

Gwil and Leira exchanged a look. Diom hadn’t been in the dining hall with them.

Leira picked up a deviled egg—which had some small splinters of wood in its filling—and stuffed it into Ansoir’s mouth. Then she clapped him on the back and said, “I’m sure he’s fine. Can you tell us how to get to the throne room through those service halls?”

Ansoir sneered with such disgust that it pulled him out of his fretting. “The service halls? I’ve never stepped foot in that maze. It’s filthy.”

“You’re coming with us,” Gwil said.

“What?” Leira said. “Uh, Gwil?”

“You’re not just gonna keep hiding here,” Gwil said. “This is your home, Antler. You won’t be able to live with yourself.”

“It’s Ansoir, you imbecile. Ansoir. I’d spell it for you if I believed there was even a chance that you’re literate.”

Leira cackled.

“There, see?” Gwil said. “You’re all fired up. Let’s go.”

“I-I don’t want to leave Brock,” Ansoir said. “And I need to find Diom. He must be a hundred years old. He can’t be wandering around on his own. The fire…”

“You’re crazy if you think they want you to sit here and chew your fingers off,” Gwil said. “Right, Brock?”

Brock nodded again.

“Alright, yeah,” Leira said. “It’s time for a brand-new Ansoir.” She grabbed Ansoir’s shoulders with her mittened hands and steered him toward the service hall.

Gwil followed and called to Brock, “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

Leira shoved Ansoir through the door and then slammed it shut, closing him inside. He started pounding on the door, shouting things like, “You dirty-blooded slaves!”

“Gwil!” Leira hissed. “He’s gonna get killed.” She pointed at her withered eyeflower. “Remember, I can’t fight or do anything to protect him. You were supposed to be protecting me!”

“Cort will be there,” Gwil said. “If Ansoir doesn’t do this, he’ll be whiny and broken forever. And I’m gonna trash the sheriff this time, so it doesn’t matter. I know his tricks, and I think I have a good one of my own.”

“And you’re gonna make Ansoir watch you kill his father?”

“I hope not.”

“Whatever you say…” Leira opened the door. “Sorry, Ansoir, I slipped. The door got stuck.” She held up her oven mitts. “I’m injured.”

***

Cort hawked up some rancid phlegm and spat as he jogged around to the back of the manor, his great hammer resting on his shoulder. There was an equipment yard back there, and a big warehouse. He reckoned he might find something interesting. They sure as hell needed it.

He knew Gwil would just run in—headfirst and blind as a bat. That was the height of foolishness. Anyone with half a brain would’ve recognized that they were playing right into the sheriff’s hand.

Scratch that—if any of them had any brains at all, they would’ve been satisfied with getting free and destroying the Kaia. They would’ve taken the win and gotten the hell out. And they sure as shit wouldn’t have gone double or nothing.

Yet here we are. They didn’t really have a choice, did they? You don’t maim a beast and then give it time to lick its wounds. Not a beast that had made you watch as it massacred your brothers and sisters. The debt was far from paid.

Dammit. Cort spat again. This is madness. He didn’t know what Isca saw in those two, but he felt it.

That idiot just kept marching forward, and they’d all fallen in behind him without a second thought.

Isca. She didn’t have a choice either. Everyone is a puppet, pulled by strings they can’t feel, dancing to music they can’t hear.

Cort tried to take the World for what it was: a shitstorm of chaos. It wasn’t enough to just tip the scales. He’d smash them, and the table they stood on, too. What else was a big hammer good for?

He heard voices and slowed down.

Cort spotted them through the trees. A few of the escapees were messing around with a fountain in the gardens. He shook his head. They were swimming in the pool. They were goddamn frolicking.

What a shitshow. His comrades were running wild all over the place, with no direction at all. Half the manor had burst into flames, for fuck’s sake.

Cort came to the unfinished half of the manor that housed the throne room and ran his hand along the rough stone as he made his way around. There were no windows, just a few sturdy, garage-style doors made of thick metal. But he had an idea brewing. He intended to make quite an entrance.

When he reached the edge of the manor, the warehouse came into view. He hurried along, but as he crossed the clearing, Cort got the sense that he was being watched.

He whipped around and glimpsed movement within a cluster of hedges.

Definitely a Podexian. A prisoner wouldn’t hide from him. Cort hoisted his hammer and barreled toward the bushes.

“Good heavens, stop! It’s me!”

Cort stuttered to a halt and pulled the branches back. “Diom! What the hell are you doing? Get out of there.”

Cort helped the old man extract himself from the thicket. He was covered in leaves and little scratches.

“Leave me be, Cortemius,” Diom said. “I must speak with Burgermeister Stondemaier. I must honor the wishes of my dead friends.”

“Argh! My name’s not fu-” Cort grabbed Diom and threw him over his other shoulder. “This is the second time I’ve had to stop you from killing yourself, you stupid old man.”

Cort grimaced at how frail Diom felt, like an empty grain sack. The old man pounded his weak fists against Cort’s back and flailed like a fish on a hook.

“You’re too young to understand,” Diom wheezed. “I am glad to die for this cause.”

“Shut up,” Cort said. “You’re not allowed to die yet. Get a taste of freedom before you keel over.”

“I will never be free!” Diom cried.

That was a knife in the gut. Cort stopped and set Diom down on the ground. “Dammit, would you calm down? I’m gonna bring you to Jaqlov.”

“You are?” Diom asked.

“That’s where I was headed. But I’m not stupid enough to walk in there with nothing but hope and a plucky attitude. Fucking hell. I’m surrounded by lunatics.”