During the early hours feeding of the blixhund, the dog-boy was startled to find the red-haired hero the servants were chatting about barely clinging onto consciousness in the corner.

The dog-boy had the goal of becoming a huntsman – thus his title of dog-boy, along with the relevant chores – but he knew enough of his station to act a little beyond it. The Inquisitor was paying him for information, after all.

With what teenaged strength he could muster, the dog-boy hauled the hero to their feet. The pair wobbled like a four-legged monstrosity through the narrow corridors and treacherous stairs. They were uninterrupted in the early hours of the morn; a time reserved for the servants, for cooks, maids, and errand boys.

He banged on a secluded door with the point of his toe, stumbling under the hero’s weight.

It took some time, but the Court Mage answered in a robe with staff prepared for something slightly more diabolical than a teenager and a half-dead hero. He raised his eyebrow as the dog-boy greeted him.

“Morning, Ser. I'm sorry to bother you so early, Ser, but seeing as you're in charge of the heroes, I thought you should heal this one before they keel over from a stubbed toe.”

“Bring them in,” Anton said quietly.

He hurried to pull down a cot from behind a crowded spot in his study, grunting with effort as he dragged it into a serviceable position. It hadn’t seen use in decades, but it wasn’t rotted yet.

The still-present collar on Hallvar’s neck told Anton everything he needed to know. The Court Mage was quick to unlace it and hand it back to the dog-boy.

“Put that back near the blixhund kennel before you’re discovered; there’s a hook on the wall across from the door. If you spot Maira or Donnihan, send them to me immediately.”

The dog-boy was happy to be out of this mess.

The Court Mage snagged his arm before he darted away. “And not a word of this. If threatened, say you watched me take him away personally, understood?”

After a nod, the boy left.

Hallvar was certainly near unconsciousness, but it would take a system mage to assess if they were near death. Healing and dying were complicated processes, both dictated by constitution, endurance, and the ever-vague luck.

For people like Viktor, death was easy to determine. A target running out of health with a stab wound in their chest was guaranteed to die. There was a small window for healing after health reached zero, which open wounds sliced down to a sliver, minutes if not seconds.

Someone who had no fatal wounds, no ongoing afflictions, no bleeding or other physical component that might debilitate the body – that person could survive unconscious for maybe an hour after they lost all health.

Follow through was incredibly important to death dealers of any variety. An unconscious enemy was not dead until their body could no longer support their life, be that by lack of blood or lack of head on their body.

Sarkos was a unique spirit. As far as Anton was aware, no other summoners had fulfilled the requirements to make a contract with it.

The cost of summoning Sarkos was half Anton’s magic pool, a debilitating amount in combat but worth the price. Although the rotten ruminant was primarily useful for healing, its offensive capabilities focused on damage over time, through decay and poison. Sarkos often engaged in the heat of battle sparingly, once or twice at the beginning of combat, then retreated to Anton’s side to wait.

While not the Court Mage’s oldest companion, the spirit was certainly one of his most reliable, reflecting the mage’s personality with ease.

It needed no directive when it was summoned, though Anton gave one out of politeness. Spirits began as thoughtless forms, but as they gained sentience, they gained opinions. Respect built loyalty faster than presumption.

The requested Maira arrived as the spirit lingered over a prone figure on a cot. Spirits always gave her the chills, but she bowed to Ser Morozov and the spirit in turn, just in case.

The Court Mage was paying attention to updates from Sarkos with a frown, details of Hallvar’s condition streaming through his thoughts.

“Send for a physician. I don’t require the Master Physician, but someone of rank, please. Not Kontou.” They were in the King-Consort’s pocket.

Anton’s orders continued. “Then find Donnihan to bring Commander Rask here. You should be able to rouse Ser Windhelm, if ze is not already awake.”

The servant hurried off to perform her duties, leaving the Court Mage alone with the 5th hero. He cast [ spell: sound lock ] to prevent eavesdropping before bringing a step stool to sit comfortably near the boy.

“I need you to react, Hallvar, so I know your mind still works.” The sentiment was softly spoken and barely an exaggeration.

Sarkos indicated that one of the hero’s vertebrae was fractured. Without a physician’s input, Anton had no way of understanding if the injury was major or minor, or where exactly it occurred.

That was why the Court Mage called a meeting here, in his quarters, rather than risk moving the 5th hero.

“This sucks,” came a barely audible reply.

Anton chuckled, though he had to infer the meaning of the vague complaint. He wasn’t accustomed to rural sayings.

“I agree. I would have gotten rid of the blixhund years ago, but it is not my decision to make.”

The hero didn’t try to move; the Court Mage continued in his nonchalant manner.

“I will heal you to the best of Sarkos’ ability. The physician will tend to your spinal injury. Do not move. Stay awake until after the meeting, then you may sleep until you are found. Once Cyciphos is out of bed, the day will grow more chaotic.”

Hallvar remained stationary, feeling like a corpse warmed over. They were awake, but sleep threatened the periphery of their mind, slipping nonsensical events into reality.

This entire moment reminded Hallvar of an old movie, where the hero is presumed dead – but wait! He was nearly dead, which was almost nearly alive! – and is resurrected by a crackpot magic man with a funny accent.

They felt a little better after the healing. The status bar increased rapidly to sit at roughly half-health, which Hallvar thought was more than enough for now. Anything was better than 1%; 5% would have been a blessing.

The meeting didn’t mean a lot to Hallvar, only snippets of overheard conversation and someone’s cold hands gently touching their neck.

Stress fracture. Nearly a hangman’s fracture. Pillory. Time and patience. Lucky.

What to do? Objection! Treason? Maiming a hero. Madness.

Queen. Soon. Tell me. Soon. You know. Nearing border. Days.

Move hero. Medical. Observation. King-Consort. Dead hero. Dead everyone.

Whoever voted on moving Hallvar to the medical hall won the debate. Commander Rask sent for soldiers who returned with a litter. Now that the meeting finished, Hallvar considered Anton’s orders complete. They lapsed into sleep easily without the blixhund’s interference.

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The 5th hero awoke to shouting, which put them in a daze, unsure where they were or who was speaking. Something metal was wrapped around the base of their skull, tied in place with ribbon or cloth. It felt magical; Hallvar could sense a gentle something radiating from it.

They were in a cot, a bed even. In the doorway were several people. The ones in matching outfits were physicians, right. They didn’t look like doctors but they were. A sturdy figure in full leather armor. Sounded like that commander guy. Wasn’t he wearing a robe before?

Someone sharp and cold. Fucking Cyciphos. Again.

By the time Hallvar regained their senses, there were soldiers in the room, pulling them from the bed and down another hall. They stumbled along, trying to make sense of their body.

This time, without socks. They probably had trenchfoot, and the not-doctors were doing their best to help.

Still had their trousers, that was a win.

No shirt. Meant the physicians examined their back.

Hallvar couldn’t feel too mad. They had much more health, nearly full now, and were able to sleep for a while. As far as a week of torture went, this was a few hours at a full-service day spa.

The commander was visibly seething at the end of the hall. He spared a pitying glance for the 5th hero as they were dragged through. More corridors, more narrow passages, back down to the now familiar dungeon.

The cells were obscured by the layout of the room, walls and corners blocking vision. Yet, Hallvar caught sight of a tell-tale, blue-tipped mage staff fastened to a wall.

They were dragged to a chair in a secluded room, things laid out on a table. Grim-faced guards shackled their hands and legs down before fleeing the scene. Ah, one could guess what this was for.

Was that something the royals did? Torture people? Cyciphos, obviously, but was it common among the Queen’s orders too? If she was so caring in public, was she cruel behind doors?

Hallvar was too tired to protest. They simply stared at Cyciphos as he approached, free of the cape – no, mantle? – that he usually wore. Cape sounded funnier.

Without the embellishments of office, Cyciphos really did just look like a guy. A mean old guy, but a guy, nonetheless. He left the door open, moving immediately to the table of instruments.

Hallvar watched as he picked one. Cyciphos’ fingers left trails in a layer of dust; the room was mostly unused then. It was a small relief considering future torture and probably tetanus.

The hero had no mental capacity for word games today. It seemed Cyciphos felt the same. He went into action without hesitation. It was evident Cyciphos was a military man, but to be this practiced? Hallvar didn’t know.

A gouge – a small, curved blade shaped like a chisel – was placed on the connection between Hallvar’s knuckle and left pinky. They didn’t have time to react before the dirty work was done.

Bone snapped and flesh tore under a dull, long-forgotten blade. Hallvar shouted, incoherent and unthinking as they strained to pull their hand free, to kick or move away.

“I was informed that I was too cruel to you,” Cyciphos said calmly, placing the severed finger on the nearby table. “Therefore, I will make your decision simpler. Every six hours without oathing service to me, I remove another digit.”

The man pretended to be composed, but his words were breathy. Excited. Convinced this plan would work.

“One finger, two toes remaining before it begins to affect your grip and balance. Eighteen hours. Will you choose to wait for the Queen’s arrival, still?”

The pain brought clarity. Not intelligence, not intellect, but it removed the fog from Hallvar’s mind temporarily.

“The only thing you’ve guaranteed, Cyciphos, is that I will never work for you or anyone of your bloodline.”

The royal left without another glance. The soldiers returned to move Hallvar into their original cell – did Cyciphos have a favorite dungeon cell or something? – where they sank down against the wall.

Their hand was shaking and bleeding. Finger severed; tiny fragments of bone clearly visible among the ripped flesh.

On the health bar, the injury was minor. Somewhere around 5% of their total health. But functionally, it was a finger that Hallvar would never get back.

They put pressure just below the cut, trying to stop the flow of blood. It didn’t help.

Checking their health did alert them to several system messages, pressed into their thoughts while they were trapped with the blixhund or half-dead at the mercy of the advisors.

new proficiency: resistance, elemental (electricity)

attribute increased: endurance +1

new proficiency: resistance, panic

attribute increased: endurance +1

Hallvar scoffed as their [ final wish ] came to mind. That all bad things had a good side. Well, this was it, wasn’t it? So much suffering earned them a solid endurance 20 and some resistances.

It felt like a cheap, unearned reward, as endurance was supposedly the easiest attribute for Hallvar to increase. They were the Endurance Hero or some shit.

They started to question [ unique skill: bad luck boon ] before realizing that this wasn’t bad luck. Tripping and knocking over a vase was bad luck. Having a bird poop on your hotdog was bad luck.

This was targeted, intentional cruelty.

Fuck.

The King-Consort made a mistake, however.

He failed to catch Hallvar before they had something worth living for.

Stella was waiting at her house. She would be there for Hallvar, they knew it. Maybe they would be broken and damaged, but she would be there.

Pipkin needed Hallvar to take care of her. She was their pet only for a few hours but a pet nonetheless. They would rather die than see her hurt.

And Viktor. A weird relationship. He was family, that was certain. A strange uncle, a replacement dad. Someone. He was someone to Hallvar.

The 5th hero had things to live for.

All they needed was an opportunity. They needed to change, to grow, to get more power. Companion beasts couldn’t be the only option; Hallvar needed personal power, something that couldn’t be stolen away or caged.

The system responded.

beastmaster subclass unlocked: beastshaper

requirements:

- attributes 10+

- luck 1+

- endurance 20

- tamed one or more companion beasts

- motive: desire to change

forms:

travel

- development cost: 1 day

offense

- development cost: 10 days

defense

- development cost: 30 days

magic

- development cost: 90 days

warning: subclass produces physical changes that are permanent and irreversible, even if subclass is removed by a system mage.

select subclass: yes | no

Hallvar did not hesitate this time, responding yes with confidence. The system knew what it was doing. It knew what Hallvar needed.

A new screen pressed into their mind. Select travel form from known beasts. A list of beast names scrolled on the screen, some recognizable, others completely unknown.

The hero made a query, requesting that the beasts be shown with images or drawings from the books or from Hallvar’s memory.

That helped. The beasts were all dog-sized or smaller. There were a few canines on the list, but most of the beasts were flighted. It seemed travel meant flight or speed.

The system let Hallvar remove options they didn’t want, which was a great convenience. None of the akergryphs were appealing. Too flashy, too cute, too distracting.

That left cats, dogs, and birds, or their equivalents.

Hallvar glanced up at the cell window, thinking about how simple it would be to escape if they could just fly. They asked the system for help – narrow the list to only flighted beasts that could fit through those bars.

The list was short. The pond heron was out. Any songbird would be useless if attacked.

That left one category of flighted beasts, three listed options on the screen.

Hallvar picked the largest.

The sparkle of system approval shined at the edges of their thoughts.

Assume travel form? The system asked.

“Hey, Anton?” They called out through the dungeon, their voice painful from the yell earlier. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” He didn’t sound distressed, just unhappy about his situation. Anton didn’t ask about Hallvar’s screams either; he knew what they meant.

“I’m going to find the Queen, but I’ll see you later, okay? She’s on the road to the desert, right?”

“…what? Yes, but what do you mean?”

“I’m leaving. But I’ll be back. That’s all I wanted to say.”

“Is your head injured? What do you mean, you’re leaving?”

There was no further reply from the 5th hero, just odd sounds from the other end of the dungeon.

“Hallvar?”

The dungeon was silent as Anton strained to hear any shifting motion that indicated he was not alone.

“Hallvar?”