Zac slumped out of the library, his fiery passion for righteous vengeance having lasted approximately ten minutes before he was doodling again. The war against Heaven was important, yes, but so was capturing the perfect musculature of a demonic wendigo.

  He held up his double-sided parchment, examining his handiwork. On one side was the misunderstood masterpiece of Marchosias. On the other was a new ink sketch of Skarg, sitting shirtless by a bonfire, looking quite swole. It was only his upper half. Zac had learned the hard way not to draw anything below the belt while in public. There had been… consequences in the past...

  He sighed, following Bune toward the kitchen for lunch. Bune had glanced at the new drawing and declared it to be a lovely rendition of "some trees by a pond." Zac really sucked with the quill. It was so hard to use.

  “So, Zachary, what were you most surprised to learn?” Bune’s Left Head asked curiously, turning to face the leopard pajama-wearing demon-slave. “Was it the fact that God and Lucifer tried to maintain their relationship for a century after Lucifer moved out? The long-distance thing never works.”

  “Or was it that Lucifer has a strange fixation on God’s sons?” the Right Head added, sounding gossipy. “And that is why God has not sent another one down? That bastard God knows Lucifer has his tastes and is denying everyone the second coming because of it!”

  “Well, it is a bit weird,” Zac said, trying to keep up. “To hit on your ex’s kids.”

  “They are not children!” Bune’s Left Head said, sounding almost defensive. “Adam was a fully formed adult! And Lucifer just wanted to show him that bitches are unfaithful too, so it wouldn’t be totally bad if they fooled around a little. Which, of course… had its results.”

  Zac sighed. “Didn’t we do enough history lessons? I’m hungry again. All this learning is burning calories.”

  Bune chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. “We are nearly there.”

  As they walked, Zac couldn’t help himself. A genuine, strategic thought bubbled to the surface of his hormone-addled brain. “So, why do I need to know all this? Wouldn’t it be odd if I just roll into the Holy City knowing the secret, universe-altering truth about God’s messy divorce? Seems like a dead giveaway.”

  Bune snorted, a puff of smoke from each nostril. “Many universes know about this. It’s common historical knowledge in most civilized dimensions. But for some reason,” Bune pulled out his clipboard and scanned it with his Right Head, “Earth 3c88XT0o seems to have been running under the assumption that they should just be ‘living good lives’ and ‘being nice to each other.’ Such a quaint, inefficient system.”

  Zac looked up. “But… isn’t that what Jesus said to do?”

  Bune laughed, a loud, incredulous sound. “No! He wanted people to work out and be strong instead of fighting amongst themselves! There is an eternal war going on that needs fodder! Do you know how hard it is to train a soul that’s spent its mortal life ‘turning the other cheek’? Their core strength is abysmal.”

  “Oh,” Zac said. He didn’t have much to add to that. It wasn’t like he could refute anything the demonic dragon said. He did feel a bit glad, however, that bench presses hadn't been part of the service when he was forced to go to church as a kid.

  “Lucifer tried to help him, you know,” Bune shook his heads sadly. “He told him, ‘It’s not healthy to dehydrate for forty days just to look extra shredded to inspire the humans. God is making you hurt yourself for the gains.’ But he wouldn’t listen.” The Right Head sighed wistfully. “Oh, how Lucifer fell for that human. Such a twunk... So much potential...”

  Zac thought back to the images of Jesus he remembered from his childhood. ‘Yeah,’ he mused, ‘he did usually have washboard abs. But he also usually looked a bit… crucified. Which is not a great look. Maybe he did have a killer physique under all those shepherd’s robes he wore.’

  ‘Good on you, Jesus,’ Zac thought, a newfound respect blooming in his chest. ‘You’ve got way more discipline than I do. Working out is for tops.’

  “How your world’s interpretation of his message about eating protein, curing sickness, and self-improvement got lost to history is a mystery,” Bune said, pushing open the dining room door. “Frankly, it’s embarrassing.”

  “I kind of don’t remember the protein thing,” Zac said as he walked in. His train of thought then crashed off a bridge, plunged into the ocean, and was devoured by a kraken.

  Sir Nock was there.

  The lion was lazily lounging in a high-backed chair, a golden silk robe draped over his powerful frame, open enough to reveal the expanse of his sculpted chest. His large foot-paws were propped up on a stool, where the rodent demon was meticulously massaging his beans. At his shoulder, the warthog demon was carefully brushing his magnificent, newly-conditioned mane.

  And Nock was eating an ice cream cone.

  He was sensually, aggressively lapping at a scoop of blood-red ice cream, his long, rough tongue swirling around the treat. His muzzle was dripping with red. Strawberry, Zac hoped. Probably not strawberry.

  “-and of course, fish is very high in protein,” Bune said, walking past the stun-locked human.

  Zac’s eyes went wide. The lion man looked so… ferocious. He looked a bit silly with a waffle cone, yes, but the bloody muzzle, the hungry, predatory look in his eyes as he devoured the sweet… maybe the poetic knight was romantic, but right now, he just looked like a king. Zac shivered as he watched the lion’s tongue make another slow, deliberate pass around the icy blood-pop.

  ‘Hnggggg,’ Zac’s brain short-circuited. ‘That lion man really could do crazy things to me.’

  “Avatar!” Bune called.

  Zac looked over. The butler was standing by what was now Zac’s assigned seat, a plate of sad, human waffle food already waiting.

  But Zac couldn’t be bothered by processed junk food. Nock had spotted them. Their eyes had locked.

  Normally, Zac would have gotten nervous and looked away, breaking eye contact with the apex predator. But Ose’s fear-epidural had short-circuited that reflex, too. He just stared, his gaze unwavering, drinking in the sight of the lion. ‘Holy shit,’ he thought. ‘He looks like the fucking king of the jungle. All hail the king, baby.’

  Nock, caught in the intensity of Zac’s gaze, froze. His jaw went slack. The blood-red ice cream blob, deprived of its structural integrity, detached from the cone. It fell.

  It landed with a wet splat and immediately collapsed down the front lion’s golden robe, right at the crotch.

  “Argh! Cold, cold, cold!” Nock yelped, jumping to his feet.

  In his panicked flailing, he kicked out. His foot connected squarely with the face of the rodent demon, who had been diligently massaging his pads. The meerkat-like creature went sprawling backward with a pained squeak.

  The warthog demon, startled, looked up from his brushing, his eyes widening in surprise as they landed on Zac. The pig-man’s jaw dropped. He immediately averted his eyes, bowing his head in terrified reverence.

  “P-President Ose! Sir!” the warthog sputtered. “Welcome! You’re looking… uh…” He looked flustered, refusing to make eye contact. “I’ll… I’ll be quiet now.”

  The dining room was a scene of pure chaos. Nock was frantically trying to fish the melting ice treat out of his crotch, the rodent was rolling on the floor groaning and holding his face, and the warthog was standing stock-still, eyes squeezed shut in terror.

  Zac just stood there, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. This uniform was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  “Ose?” Bune’s Left Head questioned, looking from the terrified warthog to the leopard-print human. “That is not-”

  “Yes!” Zac said loudly, cutting him off. He spread his arms wide, striking what he hoped was a commanding, presidential pose. “It is I! The bad kitty man, Ose! And you, my demon minion, must go and fetch me a soda! A diet pepsi, if you have one. The President is thirsty!”

  The warthog peeked one eye open, his expression one of pure, porcine confusion. “What?”

  Meanwhile, Nock, who had nearly composed himself and extricated the last of the frozen treat, took a confident step forward. Unfortunately, that step landed directly on the slick, melted blob of ice cream on the floor.

  His feet went out from under him. He flailed, arms pinwheeling, and crashed backward directly into the warthog. The pig-man grunted as the lion took him down, the two of them collapsing into a tangled heap of gold silk, leather, and wounded pride.

  Zac lowered his arms, a look of profound disappointment on his face. ‘Really, Nock?’ he thought, shaking his head. ‘Aren’t felines supposed to be agile and smooth? That was just embarrassing.’

  “You are going to stain the floors!” Bune wailed, his voice full of exasperation as he began to walk around the long table toward the slapstick trio. “And where did you even get that blood-pop, Sabnock? Did you steal that from the pantry?” The Left Head sniffed the air. “That was type and grade-A first born blood! That was for the red sauce with the soul-pasta on Wednesday! It was medical grade!”

  The Right Head nodded vigorously. “Do you know how hard it is to source ethically-questionable-but-still-technically-non-slave-farmed blood in this economy? It costs a fortune!”

  Zac just stood there, watching the chaos unfold, a single, sad waffle still clutched in his hand. Somehow it was half burnt and half frozen, not down the middle, just, bite to bite, which made it weird.

  By the time Zac had finished his lunch, Bune had finally finished reprimanding the Hakuna Matata trio. Nock had been glancing over at him the whole time, a strange, contemplative look in his eyes. Zac was a bit conflicted that he was stuffing his face with Eggos during what should have been a seductive moment, but oh well. Nock's entourage, meanwhile, was very obviously trying not to look at him at all, keeping their eyes fixed on the floor.

  Marchosias was right, the lesser demons really did think he was Ose at a glance. Zac frowned. ‘What the hell did that bastard leopard do to make them so scared of him?’ The rodent had been aggressive toward Andras, not fearful, and Andras had killed him dead.

  Also… it was convenient that they were back alive already. After being so utterly decapitated when he last saw them, he should have been more shocked to see them pampering Nock again. It made a vague, video-gamey sort of sense that if a demon died, they’d just respawn in Hell. But he should probably get some more concrete information in those regards. Regards. Regar. Gar gar ga ga…

  Zac’s mind stuttered to a halt. A warm, lace handkerchief was gently wiping his lips. Nock was leaning over him, his golden eyes filled with a soft, romantic light.

  Zac wanted to lick the lion’s hands so badly. So, so badly. But that wouldn’t be very maiden-like. He had to play the part. He held himself back, his fingers curling into. He was so close to the half-robed, blood-dripping, golden eyed, perfect-maned lion Adonis. Oh, I just can't wait to be with the king.

  “Little Avatar,” Nock prosed, his voice a low, rumbling purr. “You're glowing, ever more beautiful you grow. You must know this exquisite outfit… causes new things to flow in my undertow. A pantera like you would look good below… my purrfect cargo.”

  Nock looked quite pleased with himself, a smug, poetic grin on his muzzle.

  Zac couldn’t help it. He giggled, the sound light and airy. “Purrfect cargo? That was terrible. I love it.”

  “You’ve got a bit on you, too,” Zac whispered, his eyes looking over the lion-man's red muzzle. “I can clean it off for you. But I don’t have a handkerchief. Do you mind if I… lick?”

  “Oh!” Nock’s romantic demeanor shattered. He suddenly realized his look wasn’t one hundred percent on point. He straightened up, pulling a small, ornate hand mirror from a pocket in his robe. “A smudge! Unacceptable!” He whirled around to face his minions.

  “Timon! Pumbaa! What is the meaning of this?! You were supposed to ensure I was immaculate!”

  ‘Wait,’ Zac thought, his brain buffering. ‘Their names are actually Timon and Pumbaa? That’s… uh. Well, at least I won’t have to learn new names.’

  The sidekicks rushed over, scrambling to stand at attention in front of Nock, who was now standing tall, hands on his hips, looking quite haughty and regal.

  “S-s-sorry, Master!” Pumbaa said thickly, bowing his head. “We didn’t know President Ose would be here.”

  “We can get you cleaned up right away!” Timon added eagerly. “I managed to salvage your mane scrunchies from the ceiling collapse yesterday! Only three were crushed!”

  “This isn’t Ose,” Nock said with an exasperated sigh, waving a dismissive paw. “This is Zac. The Avatar I was telling you about. The one whom I have been tasked with keeping safe from those ill-mannered charlatans.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Timon and Pumbaa finally, hesitantly, looked more closely at Zac. Their expressions shifted from terror to disbelief, then to pure, unadulterated rage.

  Zac laughed nervously, giving a little wave. “Hey guys. Funny seeing you here. Alive.”

  “HIM?!” Timon yelled, pointing a spindly, accusing finger. “He’s the human?!”

  “He dive-bombed me!” Pumbaa squealed in agreement, pointing at his own bruised forehead.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa there,” Zac said, putting his hands up and taking a step back. “I’m just a cute little avatar. I didn’t do anything to you. That was the owl’s fault. Mostly.”

  “Yes, listen to him,” Nock chuckled, placing a proprietary hand on Zac’s shoulder. “The Avatar is like a lost fawn whose mother was ravaged and brutally eaten alive in front of him by a pack of ferocious carnivores.”

  Zac frowned. ‘Wow, that’s… graphic. But okay, I guess.’

  “Oh, how weak and traumatized and starved he was,” Nock continued, his voice taking on a theatrical, storytelling cadence, “as he watched those heartless beasts rip and tear into his screaming deer-mother’s flesh, making sure to eat her from the legs up because they thought the screams of pain made their bloody meal taste better.”

  Zac rolled his eyes. ‘Okay, any time now, Nock. Get to the point.’

  “Then they slowly ripped out his mother’s organs and ate them one at a time while her little deer cries grew softer and softer,” Nock went on, a tear forming in his eye. “Then, finally, as she died, they grew bored and didn’t even finish eating her, leaving him to cry and cry over her mangled body.”

  Zac put his face in his hands. ‘What the fuck is he even talking about now? Is this from a book? Who writes this shit?’

  Nock continued on for another few minutes, the story becoming increasingly detailed and gruesome, involving maggots and scavenger birds and the fawn’s desperate, horrifying first acts of survival. The gist of the story was that, for some reason, the warband, the high demons, were the hungry carnivores who were now taking in the orphan fawn.

  By the end of it, Zac felt very dirty and uncomfortable for having listened to the story of his poor, poor, entirely fictional deer-mom being eaten by wolves.

  The lion could have just said Zac was a weak bitch and needed to be protected from meanies. But no. Of course not. It had to be a whole goddamn production.

  Nock stood there, looking quite pleased with his bardic powers, a single, perfect tear rolling down his fur as he concluded his gruesome tale. He had, in his mind, painted a masterpiece of tragic vulnerability.

  Timon, however, was not impressed. He crossed his spindly arms, his beady eyes narrowed. “That human stole your conditioner.”

  Nock’s eyes flew open. “HE WHAT?!”

  Before the lion could spin, before Zac could lie, before Timon could hiss in triumph, before Bune could finish trying to scrub a stubbornly pink stain from the apparently very-stainable floor, something happened.

  It was a sound, first. A deep, groaning crack from high above.

  Zac wasn't exactly sure why things kept happening around him. Was it just that he was in Hell? Was it because he was roommates with violent, emotionally unstable demons? Was it just a big coincidence? Or maybe, just maybe, the castle’s architect had gotten some numbers messed up, because the fucking ceilings in this place were an insurance nightmare.

  The ceiling of the dining hall exploded downward.

  A storm of plaster, stone, and splintered wood rained down as two massive, fighting forms crashed through.

  Marchosias and Skarg, locked in ferocious combat, slammed onto the long dining table. The ancient wood, which had withstood centuries of demonic feasts, shattered like kindling under their combined weight. Food, silverware, and candelabras went flying.

  They were a whirlwind of violence. Marchosias, armored and snarling, was on top, blasting Skarg point-blank with his silver, annihilating fire breath. Skarg, on his back, was frantically throwing up walls of jagged ice to block the flames, the ice hissing and sublimating into thick clouds of steam on impact.

  Skarg managed to get a hand free and slammed it onto the Captain's face, instantly encasing Marchosias’s head in a thick mask of ice.

  The ice mask held for a split second, then steam-exploded outward with a deafening crack. Shards of superheated ice flew like shrapnel. One massive piece caught Pumbaa, who had been standing there gawking, directly in the chest. The warthog’s entire upper half simply vanished in a pink mist, his legs standing for a moment before collapsing in a heap.

  The force of the blast was enough. Skarg, seizing the opportunity, kicked out with both powerful legs, sending Marchosias flying off the ruined table. They rolled away from each other in opposite directions, coming to a stop amidst the wreckage, both breathing hard, both ready to kill.

  The dining room, once a place of quiet, gothic elegance, was now a disaster zone. And Zac was standing right in the middle of it, a half-eaten waffle still in his hand, wondering if "ceiling collapse" was covered under his new, non-existent health plan.

  Marchosias rose from the wreckage, his movements fluid and deadly. He pulled his sword from the scabbard at his hip. It wasn’t a flashy weapon. It was a one-handed longsword, plain and brutally functional, its blade a dark, unadorned steel. The only ornamentation was the pommel, which was carved into the shape of a snarling wolf’s head, its amber eyes seeming to glow with a faint, internal light.

  He pointed the sword at Skarg. “You,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You think this is a game?”

  Skarg shook his massive head, his mane flying. He let out a bellowing roar that was pure defiance. The temperature in the room plummeted, frost forming on the shattered remains of the table, the air chilling to the bone. “I’ll do it again!” the wendigo roared. “Just because you deny yourself doesn’t mean we all have to!”

  Marchosias howled and dove, his sword a silver blur aimed at Skarg’s throat.

  Skarg didn’t flinch. He reached up, grabbed one of the prongs of his own massive antlers, and with a sickening crack, broke it off. The jagged piece of bone instantly frosted over, a hilt of pure, solid ice forming in his grip. He brought the antler-bone sword up just in time to block Marchosias’s swing.

  The clash of steel on demonic bone rang through the room like a death knell.

  What followed was a storm of violence. Zac watched in absolute awe, rooted to the spot. The wind from their swings whipped his fleece ears around his head. The percussive thud of their blows vibrated in his chest. Marchosias was a master of precision and fury, his every strike aimed to kill. Skarg was a force of nature, his antler-sword a whirlwind of brutal, desperate defense.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Zac thought, a string of drool forming at the corner of his mouth. ‘Look how strong they are. They’re both so good with a big sword in their hands. God, please let me sword-fight with Marchosias someday. I bet he’s a great teacher. Very hands-on.’

  His fantasy of Marchosias teaching him how to properly grip and unsheathe his greatsword was interrupted by a firm tug on the back of his onesie.

  Bune, his face a mask of grim determination, yanked Zac backward, pulling him out of the line of fire and pressing him against the far wall.

  It happened just in time.

  Marchosias’s blade locked with Skarg’s. The silver fire of the Captain’s power met the raw frost of the wendigo’s. The result was a massive explosion of steam and ice shards that shot directly through the space where Zac had been standing.

  Timon was not so lucky. The rodent demon, who had been scrambling to his feet, was caught full in the blast. Most of his left side simply vanished in an instant, erased by the superheated ice projectile. He collapsed in a heap, another casualty of the lieutenants' domestic disputes.

  Zac stared at the spot where he'd been, then at the half-vanished Timon, then back at the dueling alphas. His heart wasn’t pounding with fear, but with a terrifying, exhilarating thrill. This was the most awesome thing he had ever seen.

  “You defied my order!” Marchosias roared, putting his full weight behind a two-handed overhand swing that drove Skarg to one knee.

  “You said we couldn’t defile his body!” Skarg yelled back, his muscles straining as he struggled to hold back the Captain’s furious blow. “You said nothing about his dreams!”

  “They’re destroying the room!” Bune wailed, running frantically around the dueling behemoths. “And dinner is in only four and a half hours! Stop! Stop! Or hurry up! Not the new high-chair! That just came in! Noooo!” The butler waved all four of his arms, trying to herd the brawling hellions away from the more expensive furniture.

  ‘Aww, fighting over me,’ Zac thought, a giddy warmth spreading through his chest. ‘This is so romantic.’ He looked around the wreckage. ‘Where did Nock put that handkerchief? Princesses give knights their favor before a duel, right? A snotty napkin is basically the same thing.’

  Completely oblivious to the demonic death match still raging, Zac began looking for the lion. He spotted him huddled in a corner, hunched over the bisected remains of Pumbaa.

  ‘Oh, he must be mourning his underling’s death,’ Zac thought, his heart melting. ‘He’s not just a vain poet; he has a soft, compassionate side.’

  In the background, Marchosias and Skarg roared as they rolled across the floor, crashing through a serving cart.

  Zac walked over to Nock and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “He was a brave man, Nock. Are you okay?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Nock said, his voice muffled and choked with emotion.

  Zac felt all warm and fuzzy for the lion man. ‘Oh, he can be compassionate, not just fuckable. This adds layers.’ “There, there,” Zac cooed, patting his shoulder. “You shouldn’t feel too bad. Timon got blasted, too. They’re probably being reconstructed together right now.”

  “I don’t care about that!” Nock snapped, still not looking up. “Just… just give me a moment, Avatar.”

  Zac stepped back, frowning. ‘Rude. I was being supportive.’

  Another explosion of steaming ice rocked the room. “No more silver fire!” Bune’s voice shrieked from across the hall. “That was a load-bearing wall! Just accept your punishment, Furfur! It will be less destructive!”

  Zac sighed. The drama was really killing his romantic mood.

  Nock finally stood. It took a minute, but at least Zac had the fight to watch. It was quite intense. Marchosias clearly had the upper hand, but Skarg was defending himself admirably. The caribou man had started to freeze everything around the Captain as they fought, coating the floor and walls in a spreading layer of rime. The wolf was reprimanded by Bune every time he tried to blast it away with his fire breath.

  Nock turned, a dramatic swirl of gold silk, his mane flowing and bouncing as he faced Zac. The lion’s muzzle was clean now, and Zac noticed a small, neat pile of bloody napkins sitting on the legs of the bisected Pumbaa.

  “Now,” the lion man said, fixing his robe and giving Zac a cheeky smile. “Where were we? You had found my special conditioner. Saved it from that bastard Andras’s trickery and my own clumsiness. A true hero’s act-”

  Zac’s leopard-print tail flapped in the sudden wind as Nock was unceremoniously sucked into the fight. He had strayed too close, and a backswing from Skarg’s antler-sword caught him in the ribs, sending him stumbling directly into a spinning elbow from Marchosias.

  “I will-oof-repay you for-argh-your kindness!” Nock yelled, before getting hit twice more and being flung bodily out of the superhuman beatdown, crashing into a pile of ruined chairs.

  Marchosias finally overpowered the wendigo. He got behind Skarg, grabbing him by the antlers and yanking his head back, his sword at the caribou’s throat.

  “He is already broken and insane like the rest of you fucking demons,” Marchosias growled, his voice a low, guttural snarl. “And you torture him? You give him nightmares for your own amusement?”

  “Fuck you!” Skarg shouted, his legs scrambling for purchase, his arms reaching back helplessly for the wolf. “You just make the fucking rules up as you go because of how you feel! Huh?! Why don’t you go flagellate yourself some more, you fucking pussy! Go get off, go feel in a way that your rules say is ok!”

  “You little shit,” Marchosias howled, pulling the antlers tighter. “I’ll-”

  “Just because you’re scared of fucking doesn’t mean he is!” Skarg bellowed, his voice raw and desperate. “Why don’t we send you to the Holy City?! You've been a virgin sense the fall!”

  The room went deadly silent.

  The clash of steel, the roar of rage, the wails of the butler… it all stopped. The only sound was the faint, spectral crackle of Skarg's ice spreading across the floor.

  Marchosias froze, his grip on Skarg’s antlers tightening. Nock, half-risen from the pile of chairs, stopped moving. Bune, who had been trying to reassemble Timon, went still.

  And Zac stood there, watching, as the one unspeakable truth of the Captain’s existence was laid bare for all to see.

  “YOU DARE?!”

  Marchosias roared. With a surge of pure, unrestrained fury, he twisted Skarg’s antlers. There was a sound like a tree splitting in a thunderstorm. He ripped the massive rack of bone and ice clean from the wendigo’s skull, then, in one fluid, brutal motion, plunged the jagged base of both antlers deep into Skarg’s back.

  Skarg howled, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. “They were the perfect length, you sterile bitch!” he screamed, writhing on the floor.

  Marchosias stomped a heavy, armored boot onto Skarg’s neck, pinning him to the stone. He clenched his teeth, his muzzle wrinkled in a snarl of absolute hatred. A silver light, the annihilating fire of his angelic past, began to glow from his opening mouth, aimed directly at the back of Skarg’s head.

  “Ahem.”

  A small, delicate cough. Followed by another. Cough, cough.

  “WHO THE FUCK HAS ALLERGIES?!” Marchosias bellowed, turning his furious, silver-lit gaze on the source of the interruption.

  It was Zac.

  The Captain’s eyes went wide. The silver light in his mouth sputtered and died. His ears, which had been pinned back in rage, flattened in a completely different kind of panic.

  “Oh, sorry,” Zac said, giving another little fake cough and waving a hand in front of his face. “I just have a little tickle in my throat from all the dust. Maybe… you could itch it? With your dick?”

  Marchosias went completely rigid. “How… how much of that did you hear?” he growled, his voice strained.

  Zac slowly reached forward, ignoring the sword, the armor, the palpable aura of murder, and gently placed his hand on Marchosias’s shoulder. “We don’t have to talk about it now, in front of these… breeders,” he said, his voice soft and full of a sympathy that was far more terrifying to the wolf than any threat. “But I had no idea. You’ve been in so much pain this whole time.”

  Tears, genuine and glistening, began to fall from Zac’s eyes as he looked up at the Captain. “How long?” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “You’ve been in this hot, perfect wolf body, and you really haven’t… you haven’t fucked anyone?”

  Marchosias’s fur stood straight on end. His tail tucked so hard it practically disappeared. A dark, visible blush spread across his muzzle. He began to back away, completely forgetting he was standing on Skarg’s neck.

  “ARGH!” Skarg wheezed as the Captain’s full weight ground down on his throat.

  “I knew I felt a connection with you,” Zac continued, his voice full of dawning, tragic understanding. He stepped forward, right onto Skarg’s back, to keep his hand on the retreating wolf’s shoulder. “A bond. A kinship of the unfucked. Please, don’t be scared. You can talk to me.”

  Marchosias tried to swat Zac’s hand away, his movements frantic and clumsy. “Bad kitty! I am not scared of fucking! Give me some space! Personal boundaries!”

  Zac just tightened his grip, his eyes full of a terrible, unwavering empathy. “It’s okay,” he cooed. “We can take it slow.”

  “Bune!” Marchosias nearly cried, his voice cracking with desperation. “Get the Avatar! Get him now!”

  Zac had nearly pinned the Captain against the wall, his hands on the wolf’s chest, his eyes full of a terrible, unwavering empathy. “It’s okay,” he was cooing. “We can take it slow.”

  Just as he was leaning in, Bune finally intervened. The butler’s clawed hands snagged Zac by the scruff of his leopard onesie, hoisting him into the air like a disobedient kitten.

  Marchosias didn’t hesitate. He crouched, ducking under the flailing human, and scrambled away. He only stopped to frantically flatten his ruffled fur after he was a safe, multi-armlengths distance away.

  “You are supposed to be learning right now!” Marchosias snapped, trying to regain his composure and puffing out his chest. “Bune! Why are you here?!”

  “It was lunch time, Captain,” Bune replied calmly, still holding a squirming Zac. “The human body is so fragile. It consumes calories just by sitting and listening.”

  A low growl emanated from the floor. Skarg was pushing himself up, the broken bases of his antlers bleeding black ichor down his back. “Hey… you K-9 cock-sucker… I’m not done with you yet…”

  Zac looked over and sighed. Skarg looked very much like he had been hit by a train, and then someone had tried to reassemble his body parts from memory. “Hey Skarg!” Zac smiled and waved.

  “Ose…?” Skarg questioned, his eyes unfocused. “Why are you… oh. Oh, wait.” He shook his massive head, the world snapping back into focus. He saw the leopard-print onesie. He saw Zac. “AVATAR!”

  With a roar, Skarg bolted toward Zac, his arms outstretched, intent on sweeping the human up and claiming his prize.

  He didn't make it. Marchosias stuck out an arm, clotheslining the charging wendigo. Skarg, moving at full speed, flipped head over heels over the Captain’s arm and landed flat on his back with a resounding thump that shook the room.

  “You’re still in deep shit,” Marchosias growled, looking down at the groaning caribou.

  “You know,” Zac said thoughtfully while dangling in Bune’s grip, “instead of punishing him, why don’t we just accept it?” He crossed his arms, looking down at the two panting and spent alphas. “All demons want to fuck virgins. It’s a law of reality. I don’t blame any of you. And,” he paused for dramatic effect, “I know this is going to be hard to believe, but I’m a real team player.”

  He looked directly at Skarg. “So, I’m willing to submit myself to your nightly dream-torture. It’s for the good of the warband. Morale. Synergy.”

  He then turned, his leopard-kitten eyes locking onto Marchosias. “Or maybe… you could torture me, Captain. For… discipline. To make sure I follow orders.”

  Marchosias’s tail, which had been tucked in tight, gave a single, involuntary thump-thump against his leg.

  “No,” the wolf said, his voice strained. “That is a terrible idea.”

  But his tail wagged again.