With Dragon Duties to attend to, Radu was forced to return to Drachenheim for the day, leaving only Momo and her straight-jacket of a bard to anxiously chart the course towards Nam’Dal. Luckily, leaving Refuge’s End was far more straightforward than arriving, so it wasn’t long until Momo saw the familiar silhouette of the island city.

“Can you loosen your grip? You’re suffocating me,” Momo pleaded with Grimli as they approached the northern gate. His distaste for horses was manifesting in his hands, which were gripping Momo’s stomach like he was performing a heimlich maneuver.

“Oh dear! My strongest apologies, my Queen,” he squeaked. He loosened his grip a bit, but quickly regretted it, nearly falling halfway off the horse. “By Kyros, I’m not used to traveling on these creatures. They’re so long and tall.”

His hands resuming their stomach-chokehold, Momo grimaced. “But aren’t you always traveling? How do you get around without a horse?” she asked.

“Dwarven engineering, my royal highness. Dwarves travel by only the finest of contraptions.”

“I see,” Momo said, trying and failing to imagine such a device. “And where exactly is yours?”

Grimli stilled, and he cleared his throat.

“Stolen from me on the roads,” he said miserably. “A true travesty. By some good-for-nothing grimy thief. That’s why I was forced to join up with the Holy Resistance. I had no other means of transportation, and my money had run thin as a wafer.”

Momo hummed. “Well, if it was a thief, you might just find them inside here,” she theorized. “I can ask Teddy about it. Maybe we can get your… contraption back.”

Grimli's eyes went glazy and he gripped her stomach even tighter.

“Oh Queen Momo, you are simply the best.”

“You’rechokingme.”

—

Awaiting them at the northern gates were two highly unusual specimens, at least for the city of Nam’Dal. They looked to be monks, with bright yellow robes draped over their chests. They wore feathery cowls, with white, birdly plumes sticking out of every side of their head like juts of uneven hair.

“Bu-cuawk! Welcome to Mole City, traveler, Home of the Holiest Chicken,” the leftmost monk greeted. “I am Brother Hencrest, and this is Brother Cluckfeather. We humbly welcome you to Alois’s most magnificent aviary metropolis.”

“I’m sorry – what?” Momo said, losing all grasp of reality as she stared at their feathered caps. “The last time I checked, this place was called Nam’Dal.”

“Ah, bu-cuawk, I see you have been gone for a long time, traveler,” said Brother Cluckfeather. “Nam’Dal is the former name of this holiest of cities, from the Before Time when The Holy Chicken Baryte had not yet evolved.”

Baryte? Momo’s jaw dropped. Oh god.

The chicken.

A flash of memory crossed her mind as she recounted the days before she left for the Oblivion Quest. Viktor’s chicken. She remembered how it was floating around the room and acting oddly; it had eaten some genuine baryte out of Viktor’s stash, and Viktor offhandedly mentioned it might be evolving into something.

Brother Hencrest offered her a pamphlet, which included a map and a legend for each of Mole City’s most popular landmarks. Momo grimaced, not enjoying the way his feathery mittens dragged along her skin as he placed it in her hand.

“May I recommend a few popular attractions for new visitors?” he said. Without waiting for a response, he continued, pointing his talons at different landmarks, “at the center of the city you’ll find the Hen House of Worship. Then, take a stroll through the Old Town towards the Sacred Coop, the Avian Altar, and the Feathered Hall of Reverence.”

The map looked nothing like Momo remembered it. The raven district was completely gone, Dumpling Hall had been refurbished into Mole Headquarters, and the Thieves’ Guild's central operations had been minimized and siloed into a small corner of the city, labeled Old Nam’Dal.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“And remember,” Brother Hencrest said, leaning so close to Momo that she could feel his hot, earthy breath on her face. “Sir Mole is always watching.”

—

“Oh, wow,” Momo mumbled. “Viktor has truly lost it.”

Momo’s mouth remained agape the entire time as they walked into the city, stepping slowly and cautiously so as not to squash any wandering chickens. The place was no longer a city – it had become an absolute farm. It smelled intensely of wheat and barley and oats, seeds and grains and small insects. Chicken food.

Momo had heard plenty of jokes growing up about how Ohio had more cows than people, but this was another thing entirely; the abundance of cows were instead an invasive army of chickens, and the people were ravens and lizards and dwarves; the townspeople were no longer cloaked in dark loins and violent mystique, but instead grass and dirt and feathers. It was jolting and revolting all at once.

“Spare change for a poor piece of poultry?” a raven-headed woman asked. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground near what used to be the raven district. Even the Third Street Inn hadn’t survived the Chickening; it was pulled apart for pieces, converted into various coops and chicken stalls.

“Here you are,” Momo said quietly, squatting down to offer her a bundle of coins. The woman bowed thankfully, coughing up a white feather. “What happened to this place?”

“This place?” she wheezed, her voice chalky like an old smoker. “Damnation is what happened here. Colonization. The ravens have lost everything. He has taken all.”

Momo furrowed her eyebrows.

“He?”

She raised a trembling finger towards the horizon. Momo followed her gaze backwards, and that's when she saw it – a tower, as thin and tall as a giant needle, with a marble chicken placed atop it like a pencil eraser. A sole window sat at the tippity top, the shades drawn. It was the only visible entrance to the entire thing.

Whoever lives there obviously doesn’t want visitors, Momo thought.

“Him,” the woman confirmed. “The destroyer of raven-kind. Mole man.”

Oh.

—

When someone shows you who they are, believe them.

That was Justin Kennedy’s high school yearbook quote. Momo hadn’t thought about it once since graduating; not until this very moment, gazing upon the base of the world’s gaudiest tower. Morgana had warned her about Viktor; the Goddess of Creation herself had gone out of her way to say yeah, this guy is bad news, and yet she didn’t listen.

Her stupid, impossibly naive everybody deserves three chances attitude had gotten her here – and now she had to deal with the foul, err, fowl, consequences.

“Alright, Mole Man. I’m coming up,” Momo grumbled.

“Boss,” Grimli said quietly. “Not that I ever want to question your ways, as they are always fabulous and never wrong, but how do you intend to climb this tower, exactly?”

“I don’t,” Momo said. “But if Viktor comes flying out the window, can you make sure to catch him? I want to teach him a lesson, not kill him.”

Grimli stared at her like one might stare at monkey juggling at the circus.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she sighed. She looked upwards, towards the tower's infinite height. “Alright, let’s try this bad boy out. I suggest you look away. I doubt this looks cute from an outside perspective.”

“Sure thing, boss, sure thing.”

He clapped his hands over her eyes. She inhaled.

“[Polymorph – Nether Imp].”

The contortions were of a familiar kind; her limbs shortened, her body squashed. What felt different was the sensation exploding from her palms. An intense warmth. Like she was hovering her hand gently over a fire. Distant enough not to burn, but still hot to the touch.

Next came the wings, short and stubby but fluttering as fast as a rocket. Then the tail, a whip she could fire back and forth at will. Fun. She practiced doing just that for a second, giggling as she twirled around.

She felt, for a brief second, like a kid again. Knees bathed in dirt, playing fairies with her classmates on the playground.

Back then it had only been fantasy. Now she wasn't just throwing pebbles and waving her fingers around and calling it magic. It was magic. She could shoot real, genuine fire out of her hands, and she was ruling an entire nation. A whole queendom.

“I wish Alois had therapists,” she mumbled. “I have so much to process.”

–

She fluttered casually up towards the window ledge, taking in the view of Nam’Dal below her. She refused to refer to it as its new, bastardized name. The city held too much sentimental value to her; it contained so many firsts – her first proper friend in Alois, her first government revolution. It twisted her gut to see it in such a state.

She arrived at the window and drew the drapes. To her surprise, there was no window pane shielding the inside. She flew in with the wind, smelling the chamber before she could see it. Bird food. It was the same scent as the outside, only intensely concentrated.

Inside was a small study, cluttered with equal amounts of books as grains. At the center of it, bent over a large table, was a short, hooded figure. An overgrown gray beard poked out of the cloaked man’s cowl, untamed locks of hair fleeing from his head.

That has to be Viktor, Momo thought, landing on a stack of books. God. He looks terrible.

“Oh, Baryte, what have I done…” Viktor groaned.

Is he talking to the bird?

Unbeknownst to him, Momo floated up behind him and peeked over his shoulder.

And, oh no.

Laying on the table was a very, very undead chicken.